by Cecy Robson
“If she was smart, really smart, I could have hired her to play the new girlfriend and Charlie Sheened the shit out of all of it.”
“Oh, don’t go bringing Charlie into this. That boy’s been through enough.”
Becca is not laughing. Not even a polite chuckle. She’s pissed. I grin, thankful she’s not pissed at me.
“Charlie Sheen has made mistakes. Lots of them. But you know what? He owns his mistakes and all his crazy antics. So, instead of the world coming down on him, they excuse it away as part of his entitled Hollywood upbringing. Every last indiscretion Charlie was a part of never touched his father. Martin Sheen continued on as a well-respected and revered actor.”
“I get it,” I say. “So, if the prostitute had sense, she would have made big money. Denver would be able to embrace his inner bad boy without consequence, thereby permitting his father to keep his good name. In time, the elderly folks that Denver exposed his genitals to would forget the scandalous and cringe-worthy incident and chalk it up to another sordid tale of youth gone wild.”
“Exactly. Damn, Hale, you’re getting pretty good at this.”
“But nothing went according to plan,” I say. “So, what now?”
“Now, I have to try and make Denver look like the victim,” she mutters.
I rinse my plate, not loving where this is going. “A victim of a broken heart, because you dumped him?”
“Yes.”
“This doesn’t make him look good, Becks. It makes you look bad.”
“I know.”
“Then, why do it?” I ask. “It’s not like he’s going to give up snorting his daddy’s money up his nose and sign up for the priesthood.”
“You’re right, but . . .”
“But what, Becks?”
“Hale, I shouldn’t be talking about this, but I’m so tired of looking bad.”
“What are you talking about?”
I pad outside with a fresh glass of water. The dogs follow. Sam rests dutifully at my feet. Rosie jumps onto my lap, something I’m sure she wouldn’t do if Becca was here. I stroke her ears, wishing like this pooch that Becca was far away from everything Singleton.
“Becca, what did you mean by what you said? From everything you told me, the public adores you.”
“The public associated with the Cougars does.”
“What?” I ask. “Becks, you have to tell me a lot more than this if I’m going to help.” Becca makes this little sound. I barely hear it over the fuss the gulls are making and the increasing sound of crashing waves. “Are you crying?”
She doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
“Baby,” I say. “I don’t want you sad. Come home. Be with me. I’ll make you happy.”
“I know you will,” she whimpers. “It’s just . . . being in Kiawah with you has brought up a lot of memories. The ones surrounding us, and our friends are wonderful. The others, though, the ones outside our small group, they’re just awful.”
It doesn’t take a smart man to guess what she means. “You mean the ones with your family?”
The silence that follows is deafening and so are her words. “Hale, Daddy’s dying.”
My hand stops over Rosie’s head. She looks back at me, but I barely notice.
“He has colon cancer,” Becca explains. “It spread, even with the experimental chemo he was receiving. Momma called me this morning to say he doesn’t have more than a few weeks left.”
“She wants you to come home, doesn’t she?”
“She does.”
“Is that why you’re staying in Charlotte?” I ask.
“No. I have to fix this thing with Denver, somehow. But I won’t lie. Momma telling me what she did is a good reason to stay away.”
Jesus. She can barely bring herself to speak the words.
“It took a lot for me to leave my family. As much as it brought me tremendous relief, I couldn’t just disappear. I’m the daughter of Wilton Shields, among the most revered and wealthy men of Kiawah Island. He couldn’t let me go on my terms. Not the original King of Spin.”
“What did he say about you?”
“It wasn’t just him. It was everyone who carries the Shields name and wants to keep it. They started circulating rumors about me whoring around. That I started using cocaine. Don’t you worry none, they tried to get me help. But being the spoiled, drug-addicted ingrate that I am, I refused. They tried everything to put me back on the right path. When they failed as a family and right-proper Christians, they had no choice but to let me go.”
I rub my eyes. Becca went through hell and I wasn’t there to see her through it. I drop my hand away. “Those rumors didn’t stand a chance. You made a name for yourself working in PR and with the Cougars.”
“You’re forgetting, that took years,” Becca says. “The family attributed my eventual success to their tough love tactics. It was only when word reached them how well I was doing that Momma finally contacted me.”
“She was proud of you,” I say, already knowing I’m giving her momma too much credit.
“We both know that’s not true. It was acceptable for her to reach out to only because I hadn’t screwed up like they’d expected, and because people were reaching out to her, making a big fuss. ‘We saw Becca,’ the ladies of the auxiliary gushed. ‘So good to see she turned her life around.’ They talked about me so much, Momma had no choice but to take credit and talk me up like she knew everything about my life. Like we were the best of friends, even though she never once tried to help me or see if I was okay.”
“I know, darlin’. But even if she wanted to, your daddy wouldn’t have let her.”
“She still should have tried, Hale. I’m her baby. Her only child. And she didn’t even know whether I had any food to eat.”
She breaks down. I let her. Tears, especially Becca’s tears, stab me in the heart and give a merciless twist. But those tears are needed to cleanse all the mud-slinging her family did. They’re there to heal. I only wish I was there to hold her.
“Your daddy controls your momma,” I remind her. I don’t want to defend Becca’s momma. But I also don’t want Becca to hurt as much as does. “She was being a good wife by obeying and portraying herself as a Southern lady, one of prestige who keeps her husband happy. That didn’t make her a good mother. It just made her a good wife in all the right social circles.”
“I wanted her to be a good momma,” Becca admits. “I can forgive her, to some extent, because she was an abused woman. I just wish I had one memory, just one, Hale, where she tried to protect or defend me. But she never did.”
The sound of a tissue being pulled from a box echoes on the other end of the line. “Do you remember the night Daddy withdrew from the election?”
“When he was running for mayor?” I ask, shaking the memory awake.
“He told everyone he withdrew because a business opportunity had come up in France and he wasn’t certain how available he’d be. The real reason was Momma’s cousin was running, too, and Daddy knew he wouldn’t be able to beat him.”
I didn’t know Becca’s cousin well. But he was young and eager and loved by many.
“Daddy was in a mood and looking to take his anger out on someone,” she says, continuing. “He didn’t like that someone he considered less than him could possibly be better or beat him.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing something bad is coming. “What did he do to you, Becca?”
Her voice shakes. “I’d gone out with you, Trin, and our boys to that festival in Charleston. Do you remember? It was our freshman year of high school. Landon had his license and drove us into the city.”
“Yeah, I remember.” I’d won her a giant bear. It was brown with a pink nose.
“He called me into his study the moment I came home, claiming I hadn’t done my chores. I told him I had and he smacked me, accusing me of talking back to him. He hit me so hard, I crashed into the bookshelf.”
/> “What?” I say, unable to get past the rage at hearing Becca had been attacked.
“Nana June was very frail and weak at that point in her life. But do you know what? She threw herself on Daddy’s back when he came after me, scratching at his eyes and telling me to run. I ran up to my room. I didn’t know where else to go. I heard Nana June, Daddy, and Momma going at it. Momma took Daddy’s side and yelled at Nana for interfering.” Becca sniffs. “Nana June came up to my room to check on me. She promised me Daddy would never hurt me again so long as she was around.”
Becca doesn’t remind me that her loving and feisty Nana June died a few months later. Nor does she acknowledge that when her safety net and protector was gone, she was left to defend herself. She doesn’t have to.
“Nana June could have been seriously hurt and all Momma did was blame me for upsetting my father.”
There are many words I have to describe Becca’s parents. None of them are good. I keep them to myself. Becca doesn’t deserve to hear them. No matter how bad, these people gave her life. For that I’m grateful. It’s the only reason I’ll respect them as much as I do.
“I get it,” I say.
“Sorry?” Becca asks.
Lord, she seems so lost in her thoughts. “I’m letting you know I understand. You don’t want to look bad in front of those who think so highly of you.”
“Working for the Cougars has been the one place I’ve always looked good,” she agrees quietly. “When my father goes, I’ll look bad again. Even if I go to be by his side, my family will never paint me as the devoted daughter who returned home to dutifully hold her daddy’s hand when he left the earth.”
“Does this mean you’re thinking about seeing him?” I ask. Shit. I really don’t want her to.
“Only because I think I should.”
“Why do you think you should, Becca?” It’s a lousy thing to ask someone whose father is dying. But this man shaped her into the woman she is, not with a kind hand, but with a twisted and cruel mind. Wilton Shields was never a real daddy. Not like the one Becca deserved.
“Because, no matter what, he’s still my daddy.” She swallows hard. “Do you want to know something terrible about me? Something only Trin knows?”
“I want to know everything about you,” I promise.
She makes a sound, this one more reminiscent of a choked sob. I loathe it. She doesn’t deserve this agony.
“I’ve wished my daddy dead more than once.”
Her words are final, like the door being slammed hard in a rude stranger’s face. Except, I understand why she says them.
“He is a sick man. So angry at life. A man who’s ignored all the good around him, because nothing was ever good enough. I thought his death would be the only way to free myself from this disgusting hold he has on me. But now, I don’t know what to think. It’s easier to turn my back and walk away. Goodness, Hale, it’s probably the healthiest thing to do. But now that his death is quickly approaching, I don’t think I can.”
“Then don’t. We’ll go together.”
Her breath trembles. “Baby, you know you can’t come with me.”
“I don’t know that. I want to be with you, Becca. No matter what happens, I don’t want you to go through this alone.”
“Hale, it may be too soon to tell you this, but with you at my side, I feel like I can do almost anything. But this . . . this is the one thing I can’t do with you.”
I drag my hand through my hair, wrestling with what to say. “I’m not going to push you. I won’t be that man. But I’m here for whatever you need, with your family, with all the shit out in Charlotte. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
“Thank you,” she says. “I . . . I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.” I almost say I love you. Almost. As much as I’m feeling it, I’m worried it’s too soon for us. But given the years I have with this woman, it’s not too soon to feel it.
I love Becca. I’m not sure when it happened but it did. I loved her first as friend. But I loved her as something more from that night we first kissed and our bodies fell against the sand.
I disconnect and call Mason. “How are we doing?”
“Really good,” he says. “I was just about to call you.”
“Yeah?” I stop in the middle of pacing. After my conversation with Becca, I thought I’d have to run a marathon to keep what she said from eating me alive. “How good?”
“Neesa was cleaning up some files, skimming through your contacts, that kind of thing. She saw something suspicious on an account and alerted the team. Turns out, someone broke into your system and altered your records.”
“Who?” I ask. “Don’t tell me it was the Feds.”
“It wasn’t them, because we’re the ones who brought it to their attention.” I can’t see Mason, but I can picture him smiling. “Neesa, this amazing woman you call your PA, looked back at your schedule the day the file was uploaded. You couldn’t have possibly done it. Turns out, you were attending some dinner at the Met.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“No, but Neesa is. She keeps a detailed log of all your calls to her. She’s produced copies going years back to when you first hired her.”
I grin. “I told you she’s the best. Now, tell me about the log.”
“Neesa doesn’t just write out what you say, she writes specifics surrounding the conversation. The log indicates you called her right before the sit-down dinner, complaining about all the dickheads that where there and asking her to set up a meeting with Tim Bradly from the Giants, since he was looking to invest. She wrote down the date and time and then set something up in your calendar. When we went back to look at the time you called and what you wanted—”
“It was the same time someone broke into my system,” I finish for him.
“Exactly.”
“Motherfucker,” I mutter.
“That’s right. We just have to pinpoint who the motherfucker is. My guess is that it’s that little bitch informant and that he works for, or has worked for you.”
Which narrows the playing field. “That’s my best guess, too. Make it happen, Mason.”
“Hale, we’ve got you.”
I disconnect, racking my brain for who it might be. There were a lot of new hires looking to prove themselves and none too happy about the constructive criticism I was hitting their ivy league educations with. There were also a few I’d let go, because of poor work ethics. If we can figure this out, and figure it out quickly, I can get back to my life and start my new one with Becca.
The doorbell rings. I assume it’s Trin with more food, and possibly Miss Silvie with real food for the dogs. I’m not expecting who I see.
“Hello, Hale,” Pris says, smiling. “Aren’t you going to let me in?”
What the fuck? “What are you doing here, Pris?”
I should shut the door. Right here, right now, and barricade it with furniture. I would even offer her a whole rotisserie chicken if it would make her go away. But for all Pris and me weren’t good together, or for each other, I owe her a little courtesy.
She scoots under my arm before I’ve decided whether or not our conversation should take place indoors or outside where she can’t throw anything at me. Never mind. There are decorative stones along the front yard. Besides, I’ve pretty much determined I can keep her away from the knives.
I follow her in, smirking when I see her stop dead in front of Sam and Rosie. I wouldn’t call them watch dogs. They didn’t even bark to tell me Timmy fell in the well, or even offer so much as a run for your life warning bark. Hell, with Pris here, trouble’s definitely afoot. Can’t they see that?
They scoot forward slowly. “Are you dog sitting?” Pris asks.
“Nope. They’re mine.” I almost said “ours,” but I haven’t had time to hide the knives.
“You bought a dog?” She takes a gander at Sam. She raises her eyebrows so high, they almost disappear ben
eath her mound of hair. “And then this other thing?”
She sounds pretentious, I know. Believe it or not, this is Pris at her kindest.
“Yup, two of them.” I ruffle Sam’s fur. “Isn’t that right, buddy?”
My affection and easy way earn me a tail wag that quickly fades when he glances back at Pris. Sam doesn’t strike me as the judgmental type, seeing what he’s been through. That doesn’t stop the judgmental stare he passes from the top of Pris’s platinum hair to her leopard print dress and matching shoes.
I scratch the back of his ears. “Don’t worry, boy. It’s not real leopard,” I assure him. At least, not this time.
Rosie seems to have a super power for charming the ladies. Don’t get me wrong, I can picture her suffocating Pris in her sleep if she gets the chance. But for now, she gives her a small wag. She’s not a pedigree like Pris is used to, but Rosie is damn adorable.
Pris scoops Rosie up, her Fendi purse smacking against her side as she looks around. “This is . . . cute,” she says.
It’s awesome, as far as I’m concerned, but Pris isn’t here to shoot the shit. “You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here, Pris?”
Her shoes tap against the dark floors as she makes her way in. “What are you going to do with these creatures when you’re locked up for twenty years?”
I rub my face. “Pris, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes. I. Do. I spoke to my attorney. You’re too pretty to go to prison. Some asshole with a tattoo of his mother on his face is going to make you his bitch.”
“That’s the spirit,” I mutter.
She sighs dramatically and walks away with my dog. I storm after her, visions of a new fur coat for Pris dancing eerily before me. “Pris? Where are you going with Rosie?”
“Who?”
“The dog, Pris.”
“To the living room,” she announces. She turns around, scowling just like she always does when I piss her off. “Why?”
“No reason,” I say, keeping poor Sam behind me. He whines. I don’t. I’m too busy eyeing the block of knives just a few feet away.
Pris lowers herself onto the couch, flips Rosie onto her back, and begins to rub. “You named her Rosie?”
