by Carolina Mac
“Keep your gun handy. You should really have a shotgun up there for varmints. Look around, see if your old man had one.”
“I will. Anything new?”
“Looked around for the fucker last night, wasn’t at any of his usual spots. Probably heard I’m gunnin’ for him and he’s crawled under a rock somewhere.”
“Maybe he won’t do anything else, George. That could have been a one-time thing with the bike.”
“You believe that, sweet cheeks, then I’m a male model.” He laughed until he started coughing.
“You’re right out of GQ, George.”
“What the fuck’s that?”
“Never mind.”
“Stay away from the bears and call me tomorrow.”
“I will.”
The remainder of the day, I amused myself snooping around the cabin, looking in drawers and cupboards, searching for treasures. As long as we were married, I had never known Matthew to go hunting, but I found several hunting knives and boxes of ammunition in various kitchen drawers. Under the bed I found a Browning shotgun. Maybe everything came with the property when Matthew bought the place. Maybe not. The existence of the cabin and the purpose it served raised a lot of questions that would never be answered.
The bathroom and the kitchen needed a thorough cleaning after months of neglect. My search of the closets for a vacuum came up empty, but I discovered an old push-broom and swept all of the floors. Satisfied with my efforts, I took a little break. I grabbed the camera I had unearthed in one of the drawers and walked down the hill to the dock with Angel.
The sunset the previous night had been amazing, and I had been wishing for a camera. After finding a digital model that I knew how to operate, I was anxious to see if I could capture some of the colors I missed the evening before. I kicked my sandals off, rolled up my pant legs, and dangled my feet in the water while I waited for the sun to go down.
Angel paddled around the edge of the shore, snapping at dragonflies and frogs as they jumped off the lily pads. As I stared off into the distance the sun dropped considerably, leaving the sky wrapped in ribbons of pink, orange and crimson. If my limited photography skills captured the breathtaking display over the water—even in a small way—the pictures would be worth keeping.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
GEORGE was having a quiet day at the gun shop. Wednesdays usually were a gun cleaning day. Nothing else to do.
Thoughts of Portia filled his head when he should have been thinking of other things. With each passing day, thinking of her and wanting her in his life, occupied more and more of his waking hours. He could still smell her perfume faintly, from the last time she’d been in the shop. He could close his eyes and picture her beautiful face, her long black hair and her perfect twenty-something body.
George counted the float, made up the bank deposit, locked up and left. Part of the day—a small part—when he wasn’t thinking about Portia, he planned what he was going to do about Kenny, and how he was going to keep her safe.
His feelings for Portia had resurrected memories from the past—memories that had been buried and better forgotten. Twenty years before, George had been in love with a girl belonging to another biker in the club, and he knew from the beginning he was letting himself in for heartache. Years later he still felt the pain when he thought about her. After that, he vowed he wouldn’t let anyone get close to him again, and no one had until Portia. He wasn’t about to let scum like Kenny Portsmith hurt her. She was way too good for that little shit anyway.
He finished his smoke as he reached the Screamin’ Eagle, parked on a patch of dirt behind the store. He admired the skulls that Rusty had recently air brushed on the Black Crimson, and double checked his saddlebag for the tools he needed for later. Yep, he was gonna fix Kenny good. He threw his massive right leg over the leather seat and turned the key. The noise from the big Harley engine ratcheted through the warm spring night like machinegun fire. George smiled and squeezed the gas.
The parking lot at Buck’s was half full. George lumbered to his regular booth in the back by the pool tables and raised a hand to Buck behind the bar. Buck poured a pitcher, picked up two glasses, ambled over and sat down across from George.
“What’s new?” he asked, pouring a glass for George and filling one up for himself.
“Not much. Seen Kenny?”
Buck raised his eyebrows. “Not today, but it’s early. He’ll be in, shoot a couple of games, push some chicks around, get drunk and start a fight. What do you want with that punk?”
George shrugged and lit up a smoke. “Might as well make some cash while I’m waiting. Who wants a game?” he hollered—trying to be heard over Miranda Lambert belting out ‘Fastest Girl in Town.’
“I'll kick your ass for twenty.” Jimmie, one of the regulars shouted.
“We’ll fuckin’ see,” George said slamming his twenty down on the corner of the table.
Five games later he picked up his hundred bucks and waved at Buck for another pitcher. “Made some tip money.” He laughed and laid a twenty on Buck.
George returned to his booth and lit up a smoke.
“Hey Kenny, how’s it hangin’?” one of the hopefuls yelled.
George turned his head. Kenny settled into in a booth with three girls. The one Kenny had hit at the range the week before, still sporting her black eye, and two others.
Don’t them bitches ever learn?
George waved to Buck, took a walk down the hall to use the facilities, and slipped out the fire door at the back. There was only one security light over the exit, leaving most of the parking lot in the shadows. Nobody would dare touch the bikes, unless they had a death wish. Bikers were their own best security.
Kenny’s baby girl was parked near the brick wall of the building next door. George easily spotted the red and orange flames on the black paint. He sauntered over to his Screamin’ Eagle, pulled on leather gloves and picked a pair of side cutters out of the saddle bag. A couple of quick adjustments later and he called it a night.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A crash of thunder woke me, and I rolled over to see big brown eyes staring at me a few inches from my face. Angel rested her head on the edge of the bed, whining.
“It’s okay, girl. Storms don’t last long. It will be over before you know it.” I gave her a pat on the head. However, that proved to be wishful thinking on my part. Rain poured down in torrents all morning, while Angel paced from the front door to the back and I consumed a whole pot of coffee.
I put in my daily call to George at the shop after I finished breakfast.
“Hey, little girl, what’s happening in the far fuckin’ north?”
“Pouring rain today, pretty boring.”
He chuckled. “Long as you’re safe. Suck it up.”
“I found a shotgun under the bed. You were right, Matthew did have one. Says Browning on it and there’s little ducks etched on the magazine.”
“Expensive gun, load ‘er up in case that bear comes a knockin’. If a bear or a porky shows up, don’t let Angel out.”
“I won’t. How are you making out?”
“Makin’ progress. Gotta’ go. Got a customer. Call me tomorrow.” He hung up.
Making progress?
I wondered what that meant.
The rain slowed down a little in the afternoon and turned into an all-day drizzle-fest. I stared out the kitchen window until cabin fever got the best of me. Donning a yellow slicker, I found in the closet, I jumped into the Jeep, drove into town and searched for a photo shop. Not noticing one on my first pass down the main drag, I asked the bank teller, while I was withdrawing cash, if she knew of one in town.
“Sure,” she said. “Go back to the hair salon. The hairdresser’s husband, Wilbur, has a photo shop in the back of her salon. Does good work, too.”
“Thanks, I’ll try there,” I said, stifling the urge to laugh.
On the back wall of Hair Works, I spotted a sign that said Photo Shop, with a crook
ed arrow pointing through the door. Walking past all the ladies having their hair cut and colored, I approached the counter in the back room, and handed the memory card to a man I believed to be Wilbur, the hairdresser’s husband. His hair hung long and stringy over his shirt collar. She definitely wasn’t wasting any of her talents close to home.
“Which ones do you want prints of?” he asked.
“I don’t have any idea what’s on the card before my pictures, and I’m not familiar with the camera, so just print all of them and I’ll pick them up tomorrow.”
“Okay, be ready by noon at the latest.”
“Thanks,” I said and retraced my steps through the salon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
GEORGE locked up the store and headed for Buck’s. A couple of guys had snagged his regular booth, so he grabbed a bar stool and nodded to Buck.
“What’s up, big guy?” Buck said pouring a draught.
“Nothin’, slow day at the store. Trout season’s open and everybody’s fishing, so unless the assholes start fishing with guns, I’m fucked till the fall.”
Buck hooted and slapped his belly. “Too bad for that. You should close up for a couple weeks and take a holiday.”
“What the fuck would I do on a holiday?”
“Jesus, George. You could ride across the states or ride up to Alaska. Something big.”
“The only big thing I’d get outta that would be a big sore ass,” he roared.
Buck laughed and went to serve another customer. When he returned, he said, “Hear what happened to Kenny?”
“Nope, what did the little shit do now?” George took a long drag on his smoke.
“He was riding home last night from here, took a corner too fast and drove head first into a ravine. Heard he banged up his pretty face real good.”
“Always a smart ass, that one. Rides like he’s Evil Knievel. Guess he got off lucky. Could have been killed.”
“Yep, could’ve been worse, all right. He ain’t dead. Just in the hospital. Some of the girls been in to see him. Cryin’ n all that shit. OPP saw a light down in the ditch and called 911.”
“Lucky for him.” George scowled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
“YOU can come home today, if you want.” George said, “Should be safe for a while.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
Did I really want to know?
“Kenny got wasted and dumped his fuckin’ bike. He’s in the hospital.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“Don’t know, little girl. For your sake, I sure as hell hope he is,” George grumbled.
“I’ll pack up and come down this morning. Talk to you later.”
I packed my clothes, locked up, closed the barn door and Angel and I were homeward bound, but first I stopped in town to pick up the pictures from the photo shop. All the chairs were full in the salon—ladies with standing Friday appointments, I guessed. As I passed their chairs, I gave a smile and a wave. Most didn’t even acknowledge my presence—apparently used to the through traffic.
My pictures were sitting on the counter in a brown envelope with an invoice attached. The hairdresser’s husband gave me an odd look as he fumbled in the cash drawer for my change. I smiled and thanked him.
The weather had brightened considerably, and I fished in my purse for my sunglasses. Approaching the city, there was a marked increase in humidity, and by the time I pulled into the driveway, my shirt was sticking to me and Angel’s tongue was hanging out.
Tossing my stuff into the front hall, I noticed that the house smelled fresh and piny. It was Friday. Homeshine had been and gone. I loved those girls.
Angel went straight to the patio door and stood wagging her stubby little tail, waiting for me to unlock it. I filled her bowl with cold water and put it outside the door, then grabbed a cold beer from the fridge and joined her outside.
I called George. “I just got home. If you’re busy, I won’t keep you on the phone.”
“Nope, store’s fuckin’ dead right now. Drive a sane man nuts.”
“Maybe you should have a sale or something to boost your cash flow.”
“Fuck. I could do that.” He chuckled. “Want you to call this guy and get him to pick up your bike. He’s gonna’ repaint it in HiFi Turquoise, an old Harley color. Be better than new when you get it back.”
“Thanks, George. It makes me crazy when I think about my bike. Such a mess and I haven’t even ridden it yet.” I wrote down the number on a scrap of paper.
“Ask for Rusty. I’m gonna’ look around the shop and see what I can put on sale without losing my shirt.”
After George hung up, I called the paint shop and had an interesting conversation with Rusty. He assured me, because I was the boss’ old lady, he would move my paint job to the top of the list and pick my bike up on Monday morning. I laughed out loud.
The boss’ old lady? What the hell did that mean?
I wandered back into the kitchen. The fridge door beeped, and I realized how long I’d been staring at the empty shelves. My mind kept wandering back to Kenny and his accident.
Was this my fault?
I showered and changed into a short denim skirt and a lime green tank top for a trip to the bank and market. As I entered the bank, I could see Jim Timberman in his glass cubicle with a customer. He seemed totally engrossed in whatever he was doing, so it took me by surprise when he looked up, grinned and winked at me. I forced a smile and proceeded to the teller.
After withdrawing the cash I needed, I asked for access to my safety deposit box. I emptied the entire contents into my purse, told the teller to cancel the box and left the bank.
Down the block at the competition, I opened all new accounts and signed the paperwork to transfer all funds to my new bank. They gave me an access card and a new safety deposit box. In private, I stuffed all the gold certificates into the box and locked it up.
Fuck you, Jim Timberman. Whatever your game is, you can play it alone.
At the market, I stocked up on steaks and potatoes. No telling when Kenny would get out of the hospital and George would insist on being my bodyguard again. I popped into Home Outfitters and picked up a replacement for my broken coffeemaker and then headed home. Bring on the weekend.
I set up my new appliance and brewed a pot. I poured myself a cup, picked up the brown envelope from the photo shop and plopped down at the patio table. Tipping up the envelope by the corner, the glossy contents slid out. Focusing on finding my sunset pictures, initially I didn’t absorb the images in the other photographs. It was the glimpse of Matthew that caught my attention. I took a good look at what was going on in the picture, my stomach turned. I leaned over and vomited on the grass.
When I returned from splashing water on my face in the bathroom, I took a deep breath, spread the pictures out and took a second look. Matthew was naked in bed, in various poses, with numerous women in different hotel rooms. In the photos where I could see his face, he had that same controlling gleam in his eye that he always had in the bedroom. There was one exception. In the half dozen pictures where he was coupled with a tall lanky blonde, he appeared to be genuinely happy. Happiness was never a commodity he shared with me.
There were also dozens of revolting pictures of Bob in living color, with different women. The photos were taken in the same hotel rooms as the ones of Matthew.
Maybe Bob had been after the pictures all along. Another question I'd never be able to answer.
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I piled the photos on the patio slab and ignited them with the barbeque lighter. As I watched them incinerate, I recalled Matthew’s many ‘business trips’ during our marriage and again I berated myself for being such a longsuffering idiot. My four sunset pictures were amazing. I shoved them back into the envelope and returned to the kitchen.
CHAPTER FORTY
I showered and dressed before dawn, trying to ready myself for the torturous day ahead on the Provincial motorcycle training course. I
force-fed myself a bagel and washed it down with orange juice. No amount of makeup could cover my blood-shot, red-rimmed eyes. My grief for Marcy had not subsided one iota and if Bob hadn’t died of his own accord, I would have killed him for what he did.
Thankfully, my helmet would hide my face most of the day. I tugged on my Harley boots, picked up my gloves, helmet, jacket and purse and then tossed it all into the Jeep and departed for Centennial College parking lot.
Surprisingly, despite my trepidation and foul mood of the morning, the day was fun. Being out of doors in the sun on the bikes and navigating through the pylons with the other students lifted my spirits.
The instructors were patient, thorough and not too critical. By the end of the day, with only one small burn on the calf of my leg from the exhaust, I was riding like a pro—more or less—well, riding in any case. Mission accomplished.
When I left the training course, my depression, brought on after discovering more of Matthew’s infidelity, hung over me like a heavy black cloud. The rest of the day was looming long and empty in front of me. I changed into a pair of jeans and drove over to the gun shop.
George’s face lit up when I walked through the door. “Hey, little girl, didn’t expect to see you. What’s up?”
“First day done.” I said, “I’ll finish it up tomorrow morning.”
He grinned, “Oh, shit, now you’ll be following me everywhere—I won’t have a minute’s fuckin’ peace.”
“You got that right,” I smiled. “Didn’t want to go home and hang around by myself—thought maybe you could use a little help getting ready for your sale.”
“Sure, I can. I’m putting these red tags on all the boxes of ammo. You want to do that?” He handed me the pricing gun.
“I do,” I said with a smile.
“Think I’ll put an ad in the paper. Maybe you could write the ad and make a sign for the window. Your English has gotta’ be better n’ mine.” He chuckled.
We worked together the rest of the afternoon. I dusted the shelves, swept the floor, and Windexed the display window inside and out. The store took on a festive air, decorated with the signs and banners. The highlight of the front window was my kindergarten artwork reading ‘Summer Sale’ in red letters.
