Desert Places

by Erica Abbott

  Her friend tapped the tines of her fork against the rim of her plate. “Send it to me,” Maryke said at length. “I have a couple of thoughts.”

  “You don’t have to deal with him.”

  “Are you serious? It would be my pleasure.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Who’s that idiot minister at that cult he goes to?”

  “Pastor Johns. He’s the guy who has deemed my lesbian soul unfit for heaven.”

  Maryke nodded. “Leave it to me. You know, I wish I’d had anything remotely so juicy on either of my ex-husbands.”

  Jean’s Cobb salad was delicious, the ratio of meat and cheese perfectly balanced with the lettuce. The dressing was housemade buttermilk ranch, fresh and tangy. She told herself once again that it was time to start eating better and cooking at home.

  “So, which of the prospects you mentioned in your last email are you actually dating?” she asked Maryke.

  “Dating, hmm. The word is so passé at my age. Rather, you should ask if I’m getting any.”

  Jean tried not to choke on the piece of hard-boiled egg halfway down her throat. “Okay then. Are you getting any?”

  Maryke sighed. “Not nearly enough. I’m seeing the guy who works as a programmer for NovaComp. He’s twenty-eight so I thought he’d be a little more focused about getting some action between the sheets, but he’s some kind of workaholic.”

  “Just like somebody else I could name,” Jean interjected.

  “Very funny. Half the time he seems more interested in his computer monitor than my tits.”

  This time Jean avoided the choking hazard by continuing to chew. “Not to say ‘what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,’ but—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Maryke said good-naturedly. “If he doesn’t start generating a little more gusto in the bedroom, I’m going to have to trade him in on a younger model. I’ll find some guy still in the throes of hormonal enthusiasm.”

  “Great. Just make sure he’s over age eighteen.”

  “You’re always such a lawyer. How about I find a twenty-one-year-old? Then I can say with complete truth that I’m dating a man half my age.”

  “Something I know you always aspired to do.”

  “So true.” Maryke placed fork and knife across her nearly empty plate and a waiter immediately appeared to whisk it away. “So what about you, Jean?”

  Jean drank iced tea. “What about me?”

  “Oh, stop being coy. You haven’t mentioned anyone. Are you dating yet?”

  She hesitated over the answer and saw Maryke’s eyes narrow. “Does that moment of silence mean yes?” Maryke demanded.

  “No.”

  “Does that ‘no’ mean you’re not dating?”

  “Not really.”

  “Stop stalling and tell me all.”

  Jean began slowly, “There’s a woman—”

  “Yes,” Maryke said dryly, “I figured that part out. I’ve known you liked girls since the seventh grade.”

  “What?” Jean interrupted her own story. “I didn’t come out to you until we were juniors in high school.”

  “Honey, by that time you were just telling me what I knew already, believe me. And believe this too, I was very happy about it. It meant there was less competition for the limited number of guys who were both smart enough to date and didn’t wear pocket protectors. I always figured we’d have the same type. Imagine my relief and delight when you seemed to prefer various members of the girls’ field hockey team. Now, come on. Out with it. Who is this woman you’re not really dating?”

  Jean cleared her throat and tried to decide what to say. “I met her at work.”

  “Oh, jeez, not another lawyer, I hope.”

  “No. She’s the sheriff.”

  Maryke rubbed her hands together. “Well, that sounds promising. A woman in uniform. Let me guess, she’s the strong and silent sort?”

  “Why would you say that?” Jean’s curiosity sparked.

  Maryke snorted. “Honey, apparently it’s my task today to enlighten you. Here’s more news for you. You do definitely have a type.”

  “Charlotte wasn’t like that,” Jean defended herself.

  Giving her an assessing look for a moment, Maryke said, “Are we far enough away from Charlotte that I can tell you what I really want to say?”

  Jean looked at her in surprise. “Maryke, when did you ever hesitate to say what you really wanted to say?”

  “Well, there was no point in my telling you anything about Charlotte. You were determined to save her from herself and nothing I could have said to you would have convinced you otherwise.”

  Jean’s surprise deepened. Was that really true? Had she been so swept up in her life with Charlotte that she’d been unable to see what she really had been doing?

  “She was never what you needed, Jean,” Maryke continued. “You need someone as strong as you are yourself and Charlotte was never even close.”

  “I’m not strong,” Jean demurred.

  “Bullshit,” Maryke rejoined quickly. “You actually survived a chaotic childhood with your brains and heart intact. I always thought—” She stopped abruptly, hesitating.

  “Go on,” Jean said bravely.

  Maryke sighed. “I always thought that was the attraction for you. With Charlotte, I mean. She was an emotional mess and that was what you were used to, after all.”

  Jean stared at her friend for a minute or two. Finally she said, “Are you saying I fell for someone just like my mother?”

  Maryke laughed and Jean could sense relief in her tone. “In a way. Don’t worry, we all do it. Derek was about as close to my father as I could have found in a man forty years younger.”

  “That explains husband number one. What was your excuse for Remy?” Jean asked.

  “What do you think? You saw him, the man was gorgeous and the sex was amazing. You cannot imagine what that man could do in bed.”

  “You’re right,” Jean acknowledged. “I can’t imagine and if I could, I wouldn’t be interested in it.”

  Maryke tilted her head to one side. “You know, it’s funny. I can certainly imagine having sex with another woman. I can even imagine enjoying it, as a sort of change of pace. But lesbians can’t see themselves with a guy?”

  “I speak only for myself when I say definitively, ick,” Jean answered promptly. “One attempted kiss from Stevie Carter in seventh grade was plenty of heterosexual experience for me.”

  “This trip down the memory lane of our love lives is all very interesting, but could we get back to the sheriff, please?” Maryke said. “Perhaps you could explain how you’re dating but not dating her?”

  Jean glanced away and sighed again. “We’ve been out a few times, but it was never really an official date. A couple of lunches, mostly about work. A dinner once with some other people. A horseback ride. And a dance.”

  Maryke’s eyebrows drew together in a gentle frown. “Really. You’ve been dancing with her but you’re not dating her? What in the hell is the matter with you? Is she a moron or something? Or doesn’t she do anything for your libido?”

  Jean cleared her throat. “She’s as smart as I am. Which makes her much smarter than you.”

  “You are just hysterically funny today. And you failed to answer the question about your libido. Aren’t you attracted to her?”

  Jean fiddled with her unused knife on the tablecloth. “Okay, yes. Very much attracted.”

  “Then what the hell is the problem? Oh shit, she’s not single. God, you lesbians pair up like you were getting on Noah’s ark. Not that you would have been invited onto Noah’s ark, of course.”

  “No, she’s single, several years out of a relationship,” Jean admitted.

  “Okay, I give up. Single, smart and she rings your bell. What on earth is the problem?”

  “It’s me, Maryke,” Jean confessed. “I’m afraid I just don’t have anything left to give to anybody. I told her I don’t have what it takes anymore to be in a relationship. Charlotte t
ook it all.” After a moment she added, “The nightmares are back sometimes. It’s guilt, I think, because I couldn’t save her.”

  They were quiet for a minute, the soft sounds of conversation and the muted clattering of plates and silverware flowing around them. At length Maryke said, “You’re giving up on this because of Charlotte?”

  Jean nodded.

  “That’s the biggest load of bullshit I’ve ever heard from you, Jean, and believe me that’s going some.”

  Jean looked up at her in shock. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean just what I said. That’s plain and simple crap. You get to grieve for Charlotte but what are you going to do, live the rest of your life like a nun?”

  “That’s what Lea said,” Jean admitted. “Although she was a lot more tactful about it than you were.”

  “Well, no shit. A bulldozer is more tactful than I am. Now stop being such a coward. Go home and tell this Lea person you were wrong and give it try. For Pete’s sake, what have you got to lose?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Jean said softly.

  “You know what?” Maryke responded sharply. “You’re wrong. It is just that simple. Here’s a news bulletin for you. You can’t change the past, kiddo, and you can’t control the future. All you can do is make today the best you can. Don’t be an idiot, Jean.”

  “And carpe diem to you too,” Jean muttered.

  “Hey, it’s a cliché because it’s true. I’m not telling you to run off to Canada and marry the woman. But give her a chance. Give yourself a chance.”

  “What is it with you?” Jean asked in bewilderment. “Why the hard sell all of a sudden?”

  “Because I haven’t heard you talk about anyone in all this time since Charlotte died. And because I love you, you moron, and I want you to be happy.”

  “Maryke, I don’t think I can have my heart broken again.”

  “I hope to God she won’t do that, but you know what? You’ll survive. I’ve had mine broken more than once and I’m still here, still in there fighting. You can do anything you want except give up on love. End of speech.”

  Jean sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Keep me on your Christmas card list, so when you start sending out family photos of you and the sheriff and your lovely household of dogs or cats or parakeets or whatever the hell you lesbians collect, I can laugh smugly and say I told you so. Oh and you can pay for lunch too.”

  Chapter Ten

  On the plane ride back from Dallas Saturday morning, Jean spent the flight staring out the window at Kansas thousands of feet below, thinking about Maryke’s advice. Not really advice as much as marching orders, Jean thought ruefully.

  When she left Colorado to return to Texas, Jean had been uncertain whether she could be with Lea. She was afraid. It might not be fair to Lea, she told herself. Lea deserved someone better, someone whole, someone whose heart hadn’t been shattered. It would be like asking Lea to pay full price for a broken vase that had been glued back together.

  But Maryke’s words had gotten her attention and Jean was even more shaken by the sight of her stricken mother. Life could be short and you never knew when it might end. She wondered again if Charlotte had really intended for that night to be her last on earth.

  Maybe she should take a chance. God knew Lea was everything she thought she might want in a woman. Wasn’t it worth a try? Even if it ended badly, how could she be much more miserable than she’d been in the dark days after Charlotte’s death? And perhaps this time she could find someone to love the way she longed to love.

  Lunch, she decided. She’d call Lea as soon as she got back and invite her to lunch. She would tell Lea she had been wrong, she was willing to go out, to see if they might be compatible. Trepidation the size of monarch butterflies fluttered up from her belly as she thought about seeing Lea again. This had to be the right decision. They could go slowly, take their time. She didn’t have to commit to anything before she was ready. It would be better this time. It would be good between them. The promise of the kiss on the little mesa had to mean something, didn’t it?

  She retrieved her car from the long-term parking lot at Denver International and began the hour-and-a-half drive south on the Valley Highway. As she neared the downtown exit for her condo, she checked the time and considered. If she stopped by the office now to check her messages and mail, it would save her time on Monday morning and make her feel better about taking Sunday completely off. Maybe she didn’t have to wait until Monday to call Lea. If she called her this evening, perhaps they could see each other tomorrow.

  The thought cheered her up and she decided an hour or so at the office was worth it.

  The elected officials, department heads and a few select other employees had reserved parking spaces in the basement of the main county building. Del had managed to get reserved spots for all the attorneys in his office, though the paralegals and support staff had to park in the county-leased parking lot half a block down the street. Jean found her access card in her purse and got in through the parking garage gate. Her parking spot was next to Del’s space.

  As she pulled in she noticed a car two spaces away. All the parking spaces in this section were for the county attorney’s office. Jean wondered who was working on Saturday afternoon. One of the advantages of being a lawyer in the public sector instead of private practice, she had found, was that the hours were more humane. Big law firms expected weekend work but government offices nearly always worked regular eight to four thirty, five days a week.

  As she passed by the parked car—a small Toyota, she noted—she saw that the passenger-side window was rolled down.

  Jean frowned. It wasn’t hot enough to justify leaving a window down. The lighting was poor in the garage, so she leaned into the open window to see if the driver had left his or her keys in the ignition.

  Todd Moorman was sitting in the driver’s seat, leaning forward on the steering wheel as if he were sleeping.

  “Todd?”

  She reached across to touch his shoulder. He shifted slightly. Then Jean saw that his eyes were closed, but not in sleep. Because of the large, dark hole in his temple. Dried blood caked his cheek and jaw and beyond him on the closed driver’s-side window, Jean could see streaks of more blood. Bits of white bone and pale pink-gray smears that had to be bits of brain.

  Nausea seized her. The picture of Todd’s body blurred before her eyes until all she could see was Charlotte lying pale across their ivory duvet with scarlet rivulets of blood marring her arms and the silk beneath her.

  Jean jerked out of the car. She managed a few steps before bending over to empty whatever breakfast was left in her stomach.

  * * *

  The nondescript detective whose name she couldn’t quite remember—Morton? Miller?—asked her, “Do you have your ticket with you?”

  For a confused moment Jean thought he meant a parking receipt, then realized he was referring to her airplane ticket. She dug the e-ticket receipt out of her purse.

  She was sitting in the back of a Tesóro police car while the crime scene processing swirled on around them. A technician, justifiably unhappy with the lighting, had set up a couple of bright white lights that made the underground parking lot look bright as the middle of an afternoon on the Fourth of July. They’d finally started to remove Todd’s body from his car and Jean quickly looked away.

  She had already given them permission to search her car and her purse. They’d found her suitcase in the trunk and now the detective was carefully examining her e-ticket receipt.

  “May I keep this for a while?” he asked. “I need to confirm you were on the flight.”

  “Of course,” Jean said automatically. Somewhere among telling her story four times she’d finally figured out that her flight gave her an alibi. Todd had certainly been dead more than just a couple of hours and if she was in Dallas, she couldn’t have killed him. The police were obviously trying to eliminate her, the person
who found him, as a suspect.

  “Detective…”

  “It’s Munson.”

  “Yes, Detective Munson. What happened? I mean, I know you can’t be certain, but although I’ve only known Todd a few months, he was the most innocuous man I’ve ever met. The last person I thought would have been a murder victim. I don’t suppose it could have been suicide?”

  He shook his head. “We haven’t recovered the gun. It’s hard to get rid of one after you shoot yourself in the head.”

  “I just can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill him.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t personal.”

  “A robbery?”

  “Yeah. Or I’m thinking attempted carjacking.”

  “On a weekend afternoon?” Jean asked skeptically.

  “He probably died last night sometime. Gotta wait for the coroner’s report.”

  That made more sense to Jean than a deliberate murder aimed at Todd, but she was so emotionally drained from the week she didn’t ask any other questions.

  The afternoon faded into evening before she got home after questions, searches and signing her statement. Despite her exhaustion, sleep was a long time coming. The replay of finding Todd’s body seemed merged inextricably with Charlotte’s death. Faint gray streaks of impending dawn were rimming her window blinds before she finally fell into troubled sleep.

  The moment she stepped into the reception area of the county attorney’s office Monday morning she realized that someone had spread the news of Todd’s death. Everyone was clustered around Rita’s desk. A couple of the women were crying and the men looked shell-shocked. Jean moved toward them swiftly.

  Rita stood up so that she could see Jean. Her eyes were rimmed in red and she used a tissue to wipe her cheeks. “We just heard about Todd,” she answered. “Do you—”

  “I know,” Jean interrupted. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here early enough to tell all of you myself.”

  Rita said, “I heard it on the radio driving in this morning. I couldn’t believe it.”

  One of the women began crying louder, saying, “But he was so young!” Someone led her away. The others hovered around Rita’s desk, reluctant to stay but unable to make themselves leave.