Callie dropped the phone and sank to her knees, feeling like she’d been buried alive.
Sabrina picked it up. “Are you okay? Do you have asthma? My sister has that. She has to carry around a geeky inhaler.”
“Call an ambulance,” she rasped. “I’m having a panic attack.”
Nonplussed, Sabrina yanked a paper sack out of her drawer. “Here. Breathe into this.”
The trick worked. She stopped hyperventilating.
“Scary, huh?” Sabrina said. “I get those a lot.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Advertising causes them.” She peeked around the cubicle. “I don’t think anyone saw. Let’s go to the ladies’ room.”
Callie gripped the sink in the bathroom while vomit swirled in her stomach. “She died?” Maybe she’d heard it wrong the first time.
Sabrina nodded. “Of cancer.” Her head tilted to the side. “You guys are still together, right?”
In the mirror, a pale ghost stared back at the account manager and whispered, “I don’t know.”
“He’s not coming back, you know? He quit.”
The walls closed in on her. She wrenched open the door and ran down the hall. Frantic stiletto taps chased her. She took the stairs.
All day she wandered around Manhattan like a zombie. Never had she felt so lost. By the time darkness fell, she looked around and realized she really was lost. Literally. And she could give a shit less if she’d used the word correctly.
She didn’t have her purse, but she still had Walker’s phone, so she used it to call Skip. Forty minutes later, a limo rolled up.
Her friend lounged in back, wearing all back and a pair of mirrored stoner shades. “Hey Blondie! How in the hell did you end up in the Bronx? Dude, how you been? Been meaning to call. Haven’t had time to jack off lately, thanks to you. We won five new clients. You believe that?” He paused and waited for the normal social pleasantries to follow—the greats, fines, not muches, and how are yous—the polite conversational lies that stuck in her throat.
“Dude, you look like shit.” He removed his shades. “Have you been crying?”
She stared out the window at a middle-eastern peddler selling knock-off designer purses to a smiling tourist with a fanny pack cinched around her huge waist. That woman is about seventy-bajallion times happier than me, Callie thought.
He tugged her chin. “Look at me. Ah, shit. You fucked Rhodes, didn’t you?” He pushed a button and slid down the partition. “Hey, Allen? Change of plans. Can you take us back to my place?” The driver nodded, and the glass slid back up.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Skip said. “Now I’m out a creative director, and the client wants to rig a fake wedding.” He flopped back on the seat and huffed. “Let’s hope Hot PR Chick can fix this debacle.” He poured brown liquor into a glass and handed it over. “Sad about his grandma.” Another beat of silence passed. “Murph?”
She turned.
“You’re looking worse than when I picked you up from LaGuardia. Should I feel guilty? I thought Rhodes was one of the good guys?”
She smiled weakly. “Skip Shimura you’re the kindest man I’ve ever met. Don’t worry though, your secret’s safe with me. That trip changed my life. Walker was the best thing that ever happened to me.” A sob escaped and let out the rest of her misery with it. “I think I lost him, Shimmy. I got scared. What should I do? I don’t know how to get ahold of him.”
“Sorry, Murph. We shut down his email when he quit last weekend. He’s still in Savannah I think. Least that’s where he arranged to have his stuff sent. Honestly though, I doubt he’s in the frame of mind to deal with relationship shit right now. Give it some time. He’s dealing with a lot of negativity.”
And she’d made it more negative. But how long should she wait? And when should she get in touch with him? And how? And what should she say when she finally did? These questions she kept to herself because Skip wasn’t exactly a relationship expert.
He dude-slapped her back and attempted a smile.
She braced herself.
“Come on, Murph. Snap out of it. What’s that old saying? You can’t be happy with someone if you’re not happy alone.”
See? His advice sucked ass. “That’s a steaming load of crap. Who the hell’s happy being alone?”
“What about this one? If you love someone, set them free. If they don’t come back, they’ve probably found a better piece of poontang.”
That earned him an I-Can’t-Even-Believe-You-Said-That-Shit-Murphy™ glare. The reminder was redundant. She was already painfully aware most women would sell their organs for a chance to date Walker.
The limo pulled in front of his building. “Nothing you can do about it now,” he said with all the tenderness of a rock. “Stay at my place tonight. We’ll eat ice cream, watch chick flicks, and chat about your man probs.”
“Are you serious?”
“Fuck no. But we can eat sushi and sit in the hot tub. I’ve got some killer weed and bunch of great corn porn. Ever seen Boy in a Plastic Bubble?”
Walker My Love,
I trudge through my days with a heavy heart. I’m not even sure I’m alive. For weeks, I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. If this letter doesn’t work, I’m hiring a skywriter to fly across country.
I wish I could have been there to comfort you after the loss of your grandmother. I also wish I had had a chance to thank her for raising such a wonderful man. Josephine was an original, that’s for sure. And evidently, she was clairvoyant too. In only an hour, she’d figured out I was in love with you.
And she was right. I am in love with you. Allow me to translate in your southern language of bad similes just exactly how much I love you.
Mr. Rhodes, my love for you is bigger than a penthouse bathtub and brighter than the Milky Way in the desert sky. It’s hotter than dirty dancing in a dive bar and more powerful than a hurricane. Around you, I feel higher than a hot-air balloon in the Grand Canyon and drunker than a tequila-soaked nudist swinger. And with you, my love, I’m happier than a giant water gun fight on the Fourth of July. And without you, I’m lost in a shoe-sucking alligator-ridden swamp.
You are my sun, my moon, my inspiration, and my color.
There’s a Hindu word for the love I’m feeling—viraag (not to be confused with Viagra)—the crushing emotional pain of being separated from someone you love. I’m viraag without you.
I didn’t mean anything I said in Seattle. I was scared. My worst fear though is that I’ve lost you forever.
I miss you desperately. If you miss me too, hurry up and come get me.
Love, Bluebell
Chapter Thirty-Five
Willin’
Tybee Island, Georgia
“I’ve never been a millionaire, but I know I’d be just darling at it.”—Dorothy Parker
Mort Howard, Josephine Rhodes’s attorney and close family friend, did things a little different from most lawyers. Reading wills was somber work, so instead of dressing up in stiff suits and ties, he donned Hawaiian shirts, long shorts, and flip-flops.
And when it came time to read Josephine’s will, he took Walker to his favorite watering hole on Tybee Island. He sat him at a wobbly plastic table on a deck overlooking the crowded beach, ordered a round of drinks and a basket of hush puppies then got down to business.
“Sorry about your grandma, son,” Mort said. “Helluva lady. Not a boring bone in her body. And a damn fine herb gardener, too.” He winked.
Walker huffed a joyless laugh. “You too, huh? Had to stop using her phone because I kept getting requests all hours of the day.”
Mort clucked his tongue. “Sharp as a tack, that woman, a regular weed-dealing Robin Hood. Not sure you if know this, but she marked up her goods for wealthy people and gave the rest to cancer victims. Called it her non-profit pot.” He held up a hand. “Well, that’s not entirely true, she earned a profit.”
“I didn’t even know she was dealing.” A gull landed on the railing and snatched an old french
fry. He threw a hush puppy at it and hit Mort’s shoulder by mistake. “Sorry, man.”
His attorney brushed off the crumbs. “You pissed Jo didn’t tell you she was sick?”
Beyond the sandcastles, the waves, and the sailboats, Walker stared at spot out in the ocean, far, far, far away from where he was sitting.
“That’s gotta hurt, I know,” Mort said. “Tried to talk her out of it, but she didn’t want to ruin your trip.”
He rubbed his chest. On and off for weeks, he’d felt like he was on the verge of having a heart attack. “Let’s get this shit over with, Mort.”
The lawyer tossed back his drink then yanked a folder out of his beat-to-shit backpack. He leafed through the first few pages and began. “I, Josephine Rhodes, being of sound mind”—he chuckled—“at least she was when she wrote this will.” He continued the reading. “Yada, yada, yada . . . will to my grandson the following . . .” He listed the Cadillac, the house, all of her assets, her investments, and a gargantuan sum of money.
Walker leaned in and cupped his ear. “Say that last part again.”
An ill-timed hearty laugh burst out of Mort. “Thought that might pique your interest. Josephine left you a nice chunk of change.”
“Jesus Christ, where’d she get that kind of money? Investments? What the hell? That can’t be hers. She didn’t have any money. Jo was so tight she squeaked when she walked.”
“Eh, she was a damn good investor, made a fortune from her”—he coughed—“post-retirement income. Also, your grandpa was loaded. He set up a trust for you and your mama before he died. She made a fortune off that interest alone. Plus, there was your mama’s life insurance and your daddy’s child support payments—”
“Child support! Since when? That man never sent me a dime.”
Mort winced. “Sent a check every month from the time he left your momma. And also paid for your college tuition—”
He slammed his fist on the table, sending the silverware clattering to the floor. A flock of old hens stopped clucking and stared.
He didn’t care.
“I paid for my own goddamn education. And I busted my ass working from the time I was ten years old. That old hag! For Christ’s sake, Mort, I taped my broken glasses together and wore them for two years because she told me we didn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“Never said your grandmother was sane, just a good investor. Bottom line, Walker my boy, you’re a wealthy man now.” He handed the will over. “Doesn’t replace your grandma though, does it?”
Had she been alive, he would have strangled the woman.
A chill passed over him. He didn’t mean that. If she’d been alive, he’d have taken care of her instead of letting her die alone
“Know what she asked me to do?” Mort said. “Dress up as that old Ed McMahon fella in eighties’ Publisher’s Clearing House TV commercials and deliver a giant check to your door. You’re lucky I have a little dignity.”
“Crazy old bat.”
“Hey, son? Do me a favor? Now that you’re rich? Buy yourself a phone. Any idea how hard it was to track you down?”
He didn’t need a damn phone. The only two people he wanted to talk to were gone.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Showin’
Trainor Gallery, Savannah, Georgia
“There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.”—Sappho
Soundtrack: Velvet Underground, “Pale Blue Eyes”
The photographers sat at the bar in the back of the gallery and drank the “good scotch” in celebration of Walker’s successful show. When most the liquor was gone, Walt asked, “How come your girlfriend’s not here?”
Walker one-eyed the bottle and filled his glass again.
“She still in the picture?” Walt pressed.
“Nah.”
“Her idea or yours?”
“Hers.”
“She know she’s your muse?” Walt asked.
“No idea what you mean.”
Walt gave him a pointed look and swept a hand around the gallery. All fifty of his framed photographs and five of his paintings featured Callie.
The Liberty Bell photo was the first to go, and the shots of the twins sold right after that. Later, a dull ache developed in his gut as a line formed at the cashier, and one-by-one his memories of Callie were sold off.
By the end of the night, it felt like she’d died right along with his grandmother.
The only remaining painting was his favorite—the one of her in the penthouse. At the last minute, he’d raised the price astronomically so it wouldn’t sell. He just couldn’t let go of it.
“You getting any work done since she left?” Walt asked.
He’d barely slept, let alone worked on anything. For six weeks he hadn’t done a damn thing except sit on his grandmother’s porch and drink.
“Wanna talk about it?”
He threw Walt a warning look over his glasses.
“You act like I just asked you how many boxes of Kotex you wanted from the store.” He held up his hands in surrender. “Fine. She’s your muse, not mine. My work’s not suffering.”
He sighed and said, “The short story is I told her I loved her, and she said it wasn’t enough.”
Walt tugged his ear. “Come again?”
“She said we had a nice fling.”
“Kiddo, as a photographer I’m somewhat of an expert on reading people’s faces, and I can tell you that’s a hundred percent bullshit. That women was gaga over you.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Tell me the long story.”
Recapping his heartbreaking saga sounded about as much fun as a poke in the eye. But he hadn’t talked to anyone since she’d left, and if anything he just wanted to get it off his chest. So he went ahead and recounted the highs and lows of the trip and everything that led up to the breakup.
“That’s it?” Walt asked. “You just walked out the door? Didn’t argue with her? You just up and left?”
Since the question was rhetorical, he poured himself another scotch.
“Hell kid, you should have stayed there and fought it out. You gotta fight for the woman you love.” He punctuated his statement with a karate chop on the bar.
“Didn’t really feel like sticking around after that.”
Walt reached for the remote and turned down the music. “Bully for you. Coulda had you some grade-A make-up sex.”
Walker hunched over his drink. “Why don’t you just take me out back and shoot me, man?”
The photographer chuckled. “I know how you feel. One time Veronica and I broke up—”
“Walt—” The man was out of his ever-loving mind if he thought he wanted to hear a cute breakup-get-back-together story.
“I swear this relates to your situation,” Walt said. “So the day Ronnie showed up with those cheekbones of hers . . .” His glazed gray eyes went heavenward. “That woman. She made me crazy. And not in a good way. Had to use reverse psychology just to get shoots done—tell her not to do something, so she’d do the opposite. A thorn in my saddle, that damn Swede.”
After a hefty swig off the bottle, Walt continued torturing him. “All my stuff you see in the museums? The best work of my life? That’s ’cause Ronny pushed me so hard”—he chuckled—“Right over the edge most days. But lord, I love that woman.” His voice cracked on the last word.
He ambled behind the bar and pulled out a bag of peanuts. “When we finally got together? Talk about sparks! Ka-boom!” His hands made an exploding bomb gesture. “I think we changed the weather pattern that night!”
“Man, I don’t want to hear about your sex life—”
Walt cut him off. “Didn’t want kids before. After her though, I wanted a whole gaggle of ’em. I kept picturing a bunch of little Veronicas running around. We sure had fun trying to make babies until it didn’t work. Fertility treatments started—jacking off in a cup and all that. Finally gave up after four years of bad news.”
�
��That sucks man. You woulda been a great dad.”
A deep frown took over his slaphappy grin. “Know what she did after that? Up and left me! Wrote me a damn sticky note that said I needed a whole woman, not someone barren.”
“A sticky note?”
“I know, right? I’m still pissed about that. The love of my life leaves me, and she can’t at least find some damned notebook paper?” He popped a few peanuts in his mouth and washed them down with a slug of scotch.
“She just up and vanished. I went crazy trying to find her.” He tore at his hair for effect. “Worst time of my life. Finally hired a private investigator and found out she’d gone to Alaska. Frigging Alaska. Want some water? These things are saltier than a deer lick.”
He shook his head.
Walt filled two glasses anyway and put one in front of him. “So I fly up to Alaska on this plane put together with toothpicks and duct tape. I frigging snowshoe to the lodge she’s staying at. Know what she does when I got there? Tells me she didn’t want to see me. You believe that?”
Walker grabbed a handful of nuts.
“She put up a helluva fight too when I wouldn’t leave. Told me she hated me.” He put his elbows on the bar. “Know what? I didn’t believe her for one goddamned second.” Walt’s peanut-encrusted spit flew everywhere as he blabbed on.
“Three days it took me! Three days in the North goddamned Pole to convince that stubborn Swede I could live without children, but I sure as hell couldn’t live without her.”
The drunken photographer gave him a burning stare. “That bullshit Callie fed you? Same thing,” he said. “Bet you money she thought she was doing you a favor by not tying you down. Bet you cold hard cash.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so, Walt.” He wasn’t buying that gift-wrapped explanation.
“I’m serious. I’ll bet you a frigging grand. Head up to New York and find out. If she blows you off, you’ll be a thousand dollars richer. No skin off your back.”
Road-Tripped Page 29