by Billie Dale
Choo-Choo...chugga, chugga...hear it? It’s the karma train running over my ass.
The wheel on the cart wobbles with my slow steps. Wait where did Mazzy say she was going?
“She’s so pathetic. Sammy Lee is an example of —”
“Asia!” Mazzy exclaims, and I hear her tiny feet pick up speed.
“Mazilynn Jae Gentry,” Asia cheers with a grunt, telling me MJ hit her target. “Hey, pretty girl, how is my favorite four-year-old?”
My daughter won the hearts of the entire town of Seven Mile Forge even the frosty, judgmental frozen chunk inside Asia DeMarco’s chest. The woman talks smack behind my back, but she thinks the world of Mazzy.
I hate to admit it but Asia made a good life for herself without her dad’s money. She went to school for cosmetology, passed her licensing exam with flying colors, and spent two years working with Anna May at Clip and Clop, our local beauty salon.
Anna May and her husband, Buck, share the building. What started as a farm store split when Jasmine closed Dye-N-Style. Enter the front door for hair and nails, head around back and find the multipurpose animal store, offering everything from feed to dog grooming and horseshoeing. God love these small towns and their double duty businesses.
Rumor has it, Mayor DeMarco offered to build Asia her own place but she refused. Two years under Anna’s tutelage and she saved enough to buy half of the half. She and Anna are now co-owners of the clip part. Mazzy gained my dark springing curls, and rather than keep it wrangled in ponytails, Carrie took her to Clip and Clop for advice on the best way to handle the long black unruly strands.
My daughter hasn’t met a person she doesn’t like, and when she watches you with eyes the shade of sunshine beaming through maple syrup, you’re powerless to her charm. Asia recommended several useful tips on handling Mazzy’s wild mane, many I use myself. Despite my dislike of the woman, she knows hair.
For the first year after Mazzy was born, I avoided town. As suspected when the news broke about me being pregnant, with speculation about my baby’s paternity, the gossips had a field day. But having to travel over thirty minutes to grab a simple loaf of bread got old quick, and once I got the things on the farm rolling, I had to stop avoiding and face the beast. Carrie Lynn came home many times raging from listening to the haters hate. She calmed the storm by marching into a town meeting with Mazzy in tow. At the podium she drew the line in the sand, daring anyone to say one more defacing comment about my baby or me. My girl blinked her honey eyes, tilted her dimpled smile, and wrapped them around her tiny chubby finger.
If a four-year-old could be mayor, she’d give Asia’s dad a run for his money. They tolerate me with sneered fake smiles, but I put Seven Mile on the map with the success of Double V’s crops. It’s a proverbial middle finger to their holier than thou attitudes. No matter how much they dislike how my daughter came to existence, they’re suckers for a big-eyed little girl.
Mazzy steps around Asia, moving to the shelves of coloring and workbooks. “What are you looking for, Mazzy Jae? Wanting new princesses to color?” Brooklyn asks, seeming friendly but trouble hangs on her words.
“I thought children and animals knew to steer clear of monsters,” a voice from the past whispers from over my shoulder.
I turn to find a short sassy woman with silver pixie cut hair. “Dallas Evans, as I live and breathe. When did you get to town?”
She pulls me into a hug. “Passing through, knew if I wanted to see anyone, Poole’s Market is the place to go. Went out by the ranch, y’all got that place locked up tighter than Fort Knox.” She nods to MJ, who’s telling Brooklyn how inconsequential coloring books are and how she’s looking for something more challenging. She does it in the nicest sugary way, but has this ability to make you feel as dumb as a stump with just a raise of her dark brows. After a lengthy explanation on the last workbook she finished being too easy, Asia shoots Brooklyn a dirty look, lifting MJ to see the one’s aimed at sixth graders.
“Holy shit, she has to be yours.” Dallas laughs.
“That she is. Mazzy Jae hit the DNA lottery. My hair, cheekbones, and brains with her father’s charisma, dimples, and eyes.”
She tugs on the short strands at her nape. “Huh, last I looked Hendrix Carmichael had blue eyes and I don’t remember seeing any dimples.”
“Ah hell,” I groan, knowing I shit and stepped in it. “Dallas, I...”
Her lips twist up on one side, with a hand on my forearm. “Relax, your secret’s safe with me. But be careful or this town will squash you like a junk car at a monster truck rally.”
“Secrets? Oooh, girls. Give me the 411.” Hendrix pokes his head between our shoulders. He’s back early from visiting Preslee and working with a production company on the score for a new action movie. My stress melts comforted by his warmth and scent, but underneath all things Hendrix I detect a hint of cheap vanilla body spray.
“Welcome home. How was your flight?” I ask. He steps around us, hugs Dallas, which increases the stink coming from his clothes.
“The stewardess was very accommodating. Add another punch to my mile-high club membership card.” His stubble-lined lips split into a cheeky grin.
“Uncle Hendi,” Mazzy squeals, squirming from Asia’s hold, running the second her feet meet the floor. Hendrix’s grin pulls to a full, loving toothy smile. In three large steps they collide. He sweeps her up and her legs wrap his ribs.
“Hey, Peanut,” he says around kisses to her head. Hendrix hates nicknames. He has never once referred to me as Sammy Lee, but he despises my daughter’s namesake more, so she’s Peanut. The book in her hand hits his head. “What ya got there?”
“I wanted a word search, but Asia showed me these.” She waves the Learning Essentials book. “She asked Mr. Poole to order them just for me. Look, they go all the way through high school.”
Hendrix smile fades as he looks over her head at all the covers with Mazric’s face. Mazzy follows his glower. “That’s Granny Carrie’s son. She has pictures of him in the living room and shows me photo albums. Mommy watches him on the television. Someday I’ll get to meet him.”
My face flushes hot from the busted raised brow Hendrix turns my way and the sad tight smile from Asia.
“Well, if she wasn’t such a ho—” Brooklyn jeers.
“Homebody,” Asia interjects, turning a death glare to her friend, “If Mommy wasn’t such a homebody; she wouldn’t spend her nights watching boring basketball.” A hard shoulder check to Brooklyn sends the waif-like woman stumbling backward. Asia joins Hendrix, rubbing a hand down my daughter’s back. “She needs a girls’ only daytrip right, Mazzy? Hair, nails, massage. She just needs to come visit the salon.”
Asia DeMarco should be head of the I Hate Sammy Lee parade after all my barbs sent her way during our verbal sparring years ago. I predicted she’d be living my life, and if she were the lesser person I accused her of, she’d be all over my folly. Yes, she spews venom when she thinks I’m not listening and what she did there wasn’t for my benefit. If Mazzy hadn’t been the target of Brooklyn’s vileness, she wouldn’t have said anything, but no one hurts Mazilynn.
My phone pings with a message from Carrie Lynn, wondering why I’m not back with the milk yet. Saved by obligation. “MJ, Granny needs us to get home.”
“Come on, Peanut.” Hendrix turns, lugging her toward the checkout line; he hesitates next to Dallas. “Need a ride? Look behind the curtain at the farm?” They walk together out of earshot.
My cart rattles as I push away but stop when Asia’s hand lays over mine. “I was serious. Bring her in next week and we’ll do the works.”
I swallow hard unable to respond, nodding instead. Guilt and shame tie my tongue but anger keeps my words at bay. Headed to the cashier, I hear Asia going off on Brooklyn about what’s acceptable to say in front of Mazzy. My spine straightens and I hold my head high. It’s my decision to stay in Seven Mile Forge to raise my kid, and Brooklyn Cates can stick her opinion up her bony ass.
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Forty-Six
SAMANTHA
“WHY CAN’T I GO TOO?” Mazzy flops on my bed holding her ragged stuffed pig, Mister Oink, close to her chest. He’s missing an ear, I had to draw on an eye with a Sharpie, and I’ve stitched him in every place imaginable, but she’s loved that damn toy since Carrie Lynn brought it back from a visit with Mazric. Carrie said she picked it up at the airport gift store, but with its resemblance to Princess Glitter Piggle, I suspect she’s lying. Couldn’t pry it out of two-year-old Mazzy’s hands, and after PGP II passed away a year later, I stopped trying. He’s a stitched up tatty mess but she loves him.
I pause my packing, joining her on the mattress. “We discussed this. I need to see an old friend and there are adult things Momma needs to take care of. But if the trip goes well, I promise to take you next time.”
She huffs, burying her nose in Oink’s threadbare fluff. I pull her to my side kissing her hair. Footsteps clomp up the stairs preceding Hendrix standing in the open door. “How are my ladies today?” His eyes narrow to slits when he sees my suitcase. A deep inhale expands his broad chest, on the exhale he coughs and sputters, “What’s that smell?”
Nose in the air, I sniff but can’t detect anything. “It’s Mommy’s new perfume,” Mazzy responds. “She says it’s a cheaper version of one this pretty girl in a magazine wears, because it’s stupid to pay over a thousand dollars for a few ounces of stinky spray.”
He notices my newly highlighted hair and sweeping cat-eye makeup. To avoid his gawk, I return to packing the cosmetics Asia said work with my complexion. I stick the imitation Passion de L’amour in a plastic bag, adding it to my makeup tote. Hendrix stops my hand. “Samantha, if you take that he’ll smell you long before he sees you. You reek of dead foliage and wet hay. And since Miss October’s profile says she loves the saffron, raspberry, and caramel scent of the $485 per ounce parfum, I’m guessing the cheap knock off you bought doesn’t mingle with your body chemistry.”
“You stink, Momma. I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings,” Mazzy mumbles, breathing through Mr. Oink.
“Peanut, Granny’s got fresh cinnamon rolls. I saw her taking them out of the oven. How about you go help her frost them?”
“If you want to talk to Mom alone, just say it, Uncle Hendi,” she huffs, stomping out the door.
“Jesus, she’s four going on forty.” He runs a hand through his shaggy blond strands, watching Mazzy until she’s gone. “Samantha,” he sighs, flopping in the vacated spot, he pats the quilted comforter.
I shake my head, speeding my steps around the room to pack. Arms burdened with more clothes than I’ll need for three days in Arkansas, I startle when he grabs my wrists. “Samantha, sit.” He takes the garments, drops them in my open suitcase, returning to steer me to the bed.
“Fine,” I sulk, dropping on the edge.
“This girl crush you’ve got going needs to stop. The hair, makeup, and now awful perfume isn’t you. All the blonde streaks, caked-on products, and funk won’t turn you into Meloni Tate.”
My hands twist in my lap. “I know, but he’s in all the magazines with her and she’s a Playboy centerfold for fuck’s sake. Imitation is the truest form of flattery. Right?”
He’s everywhere I look: the market checkout, online, and all over the TV. Car commercials, cologne, billboards, everyone wants his face to sell their products. When he announced his official relationship, the gossipers went batty. Paparazzi stalk his house in Little Rock, clamoring for pictures of the new ‘It’ couple. Meloni Tate and Mazric Vortex. “I can’t hold a candle to a former Playboy supermodel. Can’t hurt to make him see I can be beautiful too.”
“You’re forgetting he loved you first. Fresh-faced, wild hair, and smelling like summer. Samantha, you don’t need to be her, she should want to be you. Why are you doing this?”
I remind him of my promise to Carrie Lynn before Mazzy was born. We agreed to keep her parentage under wraps until he had his feet planted in the NBA. He’s at the top of his career, soaring through the stars with the most points scored per game, drowning in cash, and working his way through all the gorgeous women. It’s time he learns about Mazilynn, and a small piece of me hopes—after the initial shock—perhaps he and I can be what we once were.
“You don’t have to drown in her brand of perfume or fry your hair, Samantha. Be you. You’re dropping one hell of a bomb on the man; don’t think he’ll give a damn what you look like when you do it.”
He’s right. Deep down, thanks to a drunken phone call, Mazric knows about Mazzy but his brain refuses to acknowledge it. If I don’t get on that plane, Carrie Lynn will tell him and this needs to come from me.
After my run-in with Asia at the market, Carrie informed me it was time. She bought my ticket and set me up to meet with his personal assistant when I land in Little Rock. He’ll escort me to his game, then return me to the hotel, where I’ll wait for Mazric to arrive. I faced down some of the most influential people in the food industry getting Home Vittles off the ground. Adding security to the farm and holding my patents in an iron fist I made millions of dollars for Double V before the age of twenty. At twenty-one, I’m working to move the testing facility from the ranch to a private, more secure lab. Intimidation from terrible men and lawyers doesn’t scare me, but meeting the whiskey eyes of the man I’ve loved most my life and telling him we share a daughter terrifies me.
“Granny says you need to hurry.” Mazzy Jae stops in the doorway, her pink lips painted white with frosting. “And Pappy said he wants to talk to you when you get back.”
“Want me to go with you?” Hendrix offers.
Tempted, I consider his offer. If telling Mazric goes south, I could use his support but Hendrix’s part in the lie would acerbate the situation. I zip up my bag, grab the handle, and drag it to where he stands. “Thanks, but no. Keep your phone close though?”
He grabs my shoulders, ringing his arms around my back he plasters me to his chest. “I’ll glue it to my palm. Now change your clothes and get rid of the stink.” A soft kiss ghosts over my hair. “See ya when you get back.” He releases his hold, shoves an outfit in my hands, and pushes me to the bathroom.
BY THE TIME THE PLANE lands at Clinton National Airport, I’m a stomach-churning ball of stress. A dapper man dressed in an impeccable suit stands waving. I search beside and behind me before realizing he’s looking at me.
He’s classy with his dark hair and gray eyes. The type of man who’d never get his hands dirty on the farm and who I can’t see Mazric hanging around. “Hello, Miss Gentry. I’m Cardinal, Mr. Vortex’s PA. Your flight was good?”
“Hi, and yes, it was great.” He ushers me through throngs of travelers and families, out the electric doors to a waiting black sedan.
“Good, good. Are you ready to head to the fieldhouse or do you need to freshen up and change clothes?” he asks, but his eyes stay on his cellphone and his thumb moves at the speed of light on the screen.
I glance at my jean wrapped legs and hooded sweatshirt hearing Hendrix’s words in my head. A steely breath in, I straighten in my seat. “I’m set.”
His chest expands with a deep inhale, he lowers his phone and turns to face me. “You remind me of fresh cut grass and a carnival-scented summer breeze. Genuine and real. Refreshing. You, Samantha Gentry, are the type of woman I thought Mr. Vortex would gravitate toward.”
I don’t know whether to say thank you or stay silent. My face heats. “Oh, I can see your cheeks turning pink. How cute! Tell me, this big talk between you and Mr. V, will it ruin his career? Should I cue up the number for his PR representative?”
A leak to the press would start a feeding frenzy, creating a public relations nightmare and putting Mazzy, me, and the farm in jeopardy, not to mention what it would do to the success of my company. A scandal screws us all but if we’re discreet, we’ll be fine. I assure him the news is good. It’s not a total lie; in time we’ll be okay. I think.
The arena thumps with popular music
and the crowd roars. He leads me to my seat at half-court, four rows from the floor. Minutes before tipoff, he slips away to handle his blaring phone alerts. Halftime passes and Cardinal hasn’t returned. Watching Mazric own the basket is a dream come true. Seeing all the hours we spent perfecting his shot pay off swells pride in my heart. He’s magic out there finessing the ball, enacting our equations. With each swish of the net the crowd chants his name, the stadium rocks with cheers, and love for their favorite player.
I never miss watching his televised games. But the live version sends chills down my spine. It takes two defenders from the other team to keep him blocked, leaving other players free to take the shot. They dance around each other like a well-choreographed production wearing squeaky shoes. At the start of the fourth period the fans roar, calling for the Vortex Variable. Telecasted games don’t show this part, instead using the breaks to advertise. Sweat dripping from his hair and face splotched from exertion, Mazric jogs to the center circle as a microphone lowers from the ceiling. His dimpled smile lights up on the Jumbotron and my arms yearn to hold him.
“Hello, Little Rock!” The sound system echoing his gravel voice raises goosebumps on my arms. “If you’re new, let me explain. There’s this friend back home who loves numbers and adores math.” The crowd groans, pulling a laugh from Maz but my heart climbs up my throat. “Yeah, yeah, the subject we all hated but had to get through, but this friend was special and without the equations I wouldn’t be standing here. So while I grab a drink, enjoy the next edition of the Vortex Variable.” He waves, pulling another ear shattering cheer before heading to the bench. The screen lights up with a prerecorded video where Mazric explains the science behind a layup. Animated letters and numbers appear, dancing and partying between clips of him showing how to put the math in play.
