by P. Dangelico
“So technically you could catch a flight back to London tomorrow.”
“It’s not that simple, Oliver,” I respond while I open a drawer in the bathroom. A single toothbrush rolls around. A used one.
“Maren?”
I slam the drawer shut.
“Rowdy has this list,” I start again. “Stuff he wants me to do. It’s going to take time to sort that out.” I question how much to tell him because giving Oliver too much information is dangerous. He will inflict his opinions with impunity––whether asked or not. “He has a business partner and––”
“Darling,” he cuts in again. “Let the solicitors work it out. Come home and put this behind you. Don’t you want to see Bali?”
God forbid we actually ever agree on anything. “Spain.”
“Bali’s better this time of year.”
“I’m really not in the mood for a debate.” For once it would be nice if he could listen without the need to stage a hostile takeover of the situation. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Maren––” There’s a heavy pause. The inflection in his voice gives me hope that maybe he’s starting to get it, to understand that I need him to be a friend right now and not a motivational coach.
“Yes?”
He exhales. “Never mind. Talk to you tomorrow.”
As I stare at the darkened screen of my phone, I belatedly realize he didn’t say he missed me.
Then again, neither did I.
* * *
By the time I step out onto the front porch and take a seat on the swing, the sun is sinking in the west and the letter from Rowdy is burning a hole in the back pocket of the jean shorts I changed into. I push off the floor with my bare toes and rock the swing. In the distance the sweltering heat coming off the land blurs the blaze of orange lighting up the sky.
My focus shifts to the envelope in my hand. I rip it open, intent on getting this business over with.
Maren,
If you’re reading this, then I’m gone. Save your tears. I was blessed with family, friends, and work that I loved. I got to watch you girls accomplish the impossible. I was lucky enough to live life on my terms and that’s more than most people get.
I’m back where I belong now, beside your grandmother. I won’t beat around the bush, the last few years have been rough. I wasn’t made for sitting still and the cancer was killing my spirit as well as my body.
I left specific instructions with Tim Walters in regards to my will. I’m asking you to keep an open mind and don’t do it only for me, do it for yourself as well. It might not make much sense to you now but I’m betting it will later.
I know you and Noah have a lot of bad blood between you and I’m asking you to give the hostilities a rest until the terms of the will are met. He deserves your patience.
I’m so proud of you, Maren. Proud of everything you’ve accomplished and proud of who you are as a person. Both you and Annabelle have exceeded my wildest expectations. Love you, Cupcake. Keep living your life to the fullest and loving without the breaks on.
Rowdy.
Tears fall on the letter. I shake them off before his sacred words can run off the page to be lost forever.
The sound of an approaching car causes me to glance up. A red Jeep Wrangler pulls into Noah’s driveway and a woman holding a grocery bag gets out. She’s young and pretty, with sleeves of colorful tattoos that dance off her creamy white skin, a slick raven bob, and a nose piercing. Without noting me watching her, she walks into his house.
My stomach churns for reasons I refuse to examine. Rowdy asked me to have patience with Noah. I owe my grandfather, so patience he’ll get. I pull out the second page of Rowdy’s letter, the to-do list, and start reading.
Chapter Five
Maren
I may have fallen for Noah at first sight, but we became best friends gradually, between small moments and large that accumulated over the years. Each one bringing us closer until there was no daylight between us by the time we became more. It wasn’t without its ups and downs however. There was more than one occasion when he trampled my feelings.
“You wanna come over and play video games?”
I’d lost a match earlier that day and he’d found me in tears on my grandfather’s tennis court, practicing my backhand with the ball machine until my blisters were bleeding and my elbow throbbed.
I looked over my shoulder to find him hanging on the other side of the chain-link fence, face puckered in discomfort. It was an invisible SOS, something we both emitted. Whenever one of us was in distress, the other knew.
“What?” he said at my squinty stare.
He’d gotten a crew cut that summer and it was still a surprise to see him with short hair. I secretly hated it even though I’d told him it looked supercool when he asked.
It was spiky, sprouting straight up off his head, so different from the shiny black locks that used to sweep across his forehead. I was sure he was tired of constantly jerking his head to the side, to get it out of his eyes, but I loved how silky and touchable it looked. Not that I ever had the privilege of touching it.
He waited patiently for me to answer. I was a sore loser, still am. I wasn’t in the mood to talk, even to him, so I shook my head. But Noah was as stubborn as I was. Never one to be dismissed easily, he jogged over to the ball machine and turned it off.
“Hey! What are you doing?!” I yelled.
“Let’s go play.”
He came over, took the tennis racket out of my hand, and pulled me off the tennis court by my wrist. Noah was fifteen and well past a growth spurt that had him towering over my twelve-year-old self. Not to mention he’d started lifting his dad’s weights in his garage. I know this because Dr. Callahan was always hollering at him to put them back in the same order he found them in. His biceps looked like softballs bulging out from his stick-figure arms and his t-shirts didn’t hang on him anymore, filled out by the lumps on his chest which I thought looked weird at the time.
All six feet of him escorted me to the front lawn while I complained the whole way. “You can’t cry every time you lose. You’re gonna lose. Everyone does.” His voice had deepened the year prior. It was soothing and steady and always held a hint of humor.
“I’m not crying!” Face ruddy and wet, I tried to break out of his hold and he practically laughed in my face.
“Don’t you ever feel like cryin’?” I asked a few moments later. There was quite a lot of hero worship going on at that point in our friendship; every word out of Noah’s mouth was sacred and if he didn’t cry then I was to going make a concerted effort to stop as well.
I remember watching his reaction with rapt attention, how pensive he got before answering. If I could sum up what it was that called to me about Noah, pin it down, I would have to say there’s always been something profoundly noble about him. In his countenance and bearing. In how he perceived things––even when he was a kid. I think that’s part of what made his betrayal so devastating. It was so far out of character as to be inconceivable.
“I used to…when I was your age. But I don’t anymore. I just try real hard to play twice as good the next time we have a game.”
The relief I felt was overwhelming. That he was willing to admit that he had cried too made me want to hug him, throw my arms around his skinny waist and squeeze. But I was afraid to. I would’ve died a thousand deaths if he would’ve put a stop to it, or God forbid pushed me away, and I wasn’t about to risk our friendship. Outside of tennis and my family, it’s all I had.
We were crossing the street, headed to his house, when Dane and Jermaine rolled up on their dirt bikes. Jermaine was the first to speak while Dane stared weirdly at us. “Yo.”
“What are you doin’?” Dane asked, both his expression and tone implying he’d caught Noah drowning kittens, or doing something equally horrific.
I didn’t fail to notice how quickly Noah dropped my wrist, how his posture changed from relaxed to defensive. I looked up to find his expres
sion uncomfortable, eyes shifty, avoiding mine at all cost.
“We’re going to Kevin’s house to play hoops. You coming?” Jermaine asked as his attention bounced between me and Noah.
I watched Noah expectantly. It wasn’t the first time he seemed embarrassed to be caught hanging out with me and as the silent seconds ticked by my embarrassment grew.
“She’s a little kid, man. Come on,” Dane taunted.
“Catch you later,” he said as he walked past me without looking my way again.
After that he pulled his bike out of his garage and the three of them rode off while I stood in the middle of the dead-end street watching them go.
* * *
As usual, I was up at six this next morning, ready to go on my daily run, only to discover that there was absolutely no food in the refrigerator. A small oversight considering my world has been turned upside down. Which is how I now find myself at the diner in town, zero appetite notwithstanding.
Fueling my body with the right food is an essential component of being a professional athlete. Ask anybody at the top of their game and they’ll tell you that they have a stringent and exacting diet, as important if not more so than their training routine. To sustain this kind of muscle, I need to consume clean protein ideally every four hours. It’s a chore, but one that has been ingrained in me since I started training seriously.
I stare at the lifeless egg white omelet with spinach before me with ambivalence. After going through Rowdy’s letter, I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling. And now my stomach is roiling. Roiling stomach or not, I need to eat.
“Did you read it?” I’m so lost in aggrieved thoughts, I don’t notice Annabelle until she slides onto the bench across from me. She swipes the coffee mug out of my hand and takes a sip.
“Did you know about this stupid list?” I snatch the letter Walters gave me out of my purse and wave the offensive piece of paper at my sister. Because there’s no change to her expression, I answer for her. “I’m guessing that’s a yes.”
Bebe steals a couple of French fries from my dish and stuffs them in her mouth.
“Coffee and French fries? That’s gross.” Then again, self-control has never been Bebe’s strong suit.
“Dad told me.”
Of course he did. Once again I’m low man of the totem pole. “And you didn’t think to warn me before I got here? You let me walk into this ambush.”
She gives me a knowing look and scoffs. “Right, like you would’ve come if I’d told you.” Probably not. Still, that doesn’t excuse her. “How’d you get here?” she asks around a mouth full of fries.
I hook a thumb toward the window, where the vehicle is parked at the curb. Annabelle’s eyes widen.
“I don’t know what that’s about––”
I found a set of car keys in the miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen and figured it was the keys to my grandfather’s old pickup. What I found in the garage, however, was not his old truck. It was a remodeled 1951 Chevy pickup. Fully loaded with a supercharged engine and a custom paint job. Electric-blue flames curling over a black base. Between the list and this I’m convinced the man had lost his marbles.
“––but I’ve got bigger problems right now.” Smoothing the paper out on the table, I read out loud, “Learn how to operate the bar. Why the hell would I want to know how to operate a bar? Explain that one to me. I’m actually shocked he didn’t ask me to catch a falling star, or I dunno, chase a rainbow. It would imply drugs had something to do with this, which would at least make sense.”
I shake the paper in frustration. Bebe shrugs, stuffing another French fry in her mouth.
“Watch Annabelle teach a lesson,” I continue reading out loud. “Spread my ashes at the lake. With Noah is the stipulation.”
The mere thought of spending time in close proximity to Noah kills what little appetite I had left.
“What are you going to do?”
With a heavy sigh, I turn to look out the window. There’s no getting out of this. “I’ll do it for Rowdy. I’ll go to the lake to spread Grandpa’s ashes with that adulterer and then I’ll go back to London––to my life––and have my lawyer sort out the rest. I’m not going to be strong-armed by a dead man into staying here a minute longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Wow, you’re not all still bitter about what happened. You know what they say about love and hate.”
“I don’t hate him.” Bebe gives me a long look. “I don’t,” I insist. “He’s Brussels sprouts to me. I don’t hate Brussels sprouts. I don’t remember they exist most of the time. However, just because I don’t hate them doesn’t mean I want them anywhere near me.”
“He smells like farts?”
“What? Who?”
“Noah. Does he smell like farts? Because Brussels sprouts are rank. They smell like farts.”
“That’s not…stop. Or I’ll be forced to punch you.” I massage my temples where an intense throb now resides.
Bebe’s head snaps to the left. “Ugh, here comes Kindergarten Cop.”
She directs a narrow-eyed scowl over my shoulder and strokes her ponytail in a way that tells me she’s plotting someone’s demise. It’s the same look she used to get right before an important match.
“Who?”
“The PoPo. The new chief of police,” she says tight-lipped.
“The PoPo?” I turn in my seat, to check out the poor soul on the receiving end of her glare and immediately get the reference.
Standing at the entrance of the diner, surveying the breakfast crowd, the new chief of police, despite not being particularly tall, is built like a prized bull. His biceps alone would make anyone with a lick of sense second-guess whether they want to tangle with him.
He removes his Stetson and runs a hand over his short dark hair lightly threaded with silver.
“Shit––he’s coming this way. Quick hide.” Hunching down in her seat, she fiddles with her placemat and utensils.
Yeah, I’m not hiding.
The chief makes a beeline for us, even as a few patrons make an effort to catch his attention. Aviator glasses shielding his eyes, chiseled good looks and a deep suntan. He walks up to our table looking like he stepped out of an ’80s testosterone-fueled movie.
Annabelle straightens all at once. “Chief Asshat, how’s it hangin’?”
Coffee comes flying out of my mouth and nose, and while I sputter and cough, Annabelle smiles like a loon. More than a few heads turn in our direction.
In contrast, the chief’s expression is carved out of granite, a very subtle tic of his closely shaven cheek the only sign of life.
“What’s on the agenda today?” Bebe continues.
I glare at her, begging her to stop with my eyes as I clumsily try to mop up the mess I made.
“Busting up the underground bingo ring at the senior rec center? Arresting a bunch of teenagers for trafficking high-energy drinks?” Her eyes slide up and down his body. “Working a bachelorette party? Mare, you got any singles?”
I catch more than a few disapproving stares.
“Annabelle,” I grind out. My sister has always had an attitude problem. This, however, is over the top––even for her.
The chief’s attention smoothly slides to me. I muster a stiff, half smile in return. “Ha ha, umm, yeah, please excuse my sister. Crazy runs in the family.”
He gives me a curt tip of his head. “Axel Brandt, new chief of police. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”
“Maren Murphy. Nice to meet you too, Chief.”
“Lemme know if the department can be of assistance while you’re in town.”
“Thank you, but I won’t be here long.”
Bebe frowns.
The chief’s attention returns to my sister. A heavy beat of silence drops. I can feel the oppressive weight of his stare and I’m not even the object of his intense interest.
“Saw you on Route 10 yesterday.” His voice is quiet, the kind of quiet that carries indisputable force. Bebe’
s face, a face that is never at rest, goes unnaturally still. “You’re supposed to be setting an example in this community for the young lives in your care…you speed like that again and I’ll arrest you for reckless drivin’.”
I watch heat creep, creep, creep up my sister’s neck. This spells only one thing––trouble in all caps.
“Thank you!” I half-shout, intervening before this gets really out of hand. “Thank you, Chief. Nice meeting you.”
“Chief––your coffee’s waitin’ on you,” one of the waitresses, a small redhead I vaguely recognize from high school, tells him with a sexy smile and a wink. The chief takes one last look at Annabelle. Then he walks over to the counter where his travel mug awaits him.
“What was that about?” I whisper, staring at the broad back of the man in question.
“That arrogant prick’s favorite pastime is harassing the handicapped. I’m thinking about contacting the ACLU.”
In spite of the circumstance I find myself in, I cannot stop the laughter sputtering out of me. Here comes the drama. Bebe is Rowdy Ronald’s granddaughter through and through. “You’re pulling the handicapped card? Really?”
As soon as Bebe was well enough to concentrate on her studies, she insisted on getting her GED. Then blew through undergrad at University of Oklahoma in three years and got her degree to teach elementary school Phys. Ed.
When we tried to get her to slow down, she informed everyone in the family that if anyone ever used the word handicapped in her presence they would meet swift and painful punishment. Nobody was surprised. Everybody was proud.
“And I know how you drive so don’t even.”
She swipes more fries from my dish. “I may have been driving a mile, or thirty above the speed limit.” Looking off, she shrugs.
“Hey,” I say to my hellion baby sister, a smile twitching my lips.
“What?”
“I missed you.”
Her face quickly parts with a devilish grin. “I missed you too.”
