Paige nodded briefly. “Hi.” She felt like an idiot. Why couldn’t she at least sound more friendly to this woman?
Bailey seemed not to notice her terseness. “What can I get for you?”
“A biggie double latte. It’s for Sarah.”
“Ah, of course, that’s Sarah’s drink.” Bailey raised her eyebrows. “Anything for you?”
Paige slid her palms together, lacing her fingers, unlacing them. “No, thank you, I . . . not right now.”
She tried to smile and knew the gesture looked insincere. She could feel the man next to her continue to ogle.
Please just hurry up and let me get out of here.
Bailey poured milk into a metal container and began making the drink. As the machine shush-gurgled the milk into froth, the woman glanced toward her. “Have you met these folks, Paige? They’re some of my regulars.”
Paige shook her head in one quick movement.
For a moment Bailey focused on the machine, then shut it down and pulled the steaming drink away. She reached for a biggie cup and poured the latte into it. Slid a cardboard holder onto the cup and set it before Paige. “That’s Wilbur next to you. Then Pastor Hank, and Jake. And Carla on the end. She’s a real estate agent. Just returned from showing a piece of property to some folks.”
The foursome chimed in tandem with various forms of “Hi, Paige, nice to meet you.”
Paige’s heart skipped. Why couldn’t the floor just open and swallow her whole? She didn’t want to meet anyone, didn’t want people looking into her face, her eyes. Surely her fear and guilt were written all over her as clearly as Magic Marker on paper. Was it only yesterday she’d longed for relationships here, wanted to learn how to reach out? Now all she wanted was to run and hide. Flee this town, f lee her fledgling new life. She’d find another one, somehow, somewhere. Teach herself not to need people. She didn’t want friends, didn’t want to be loved, didn’t need anyone. Not even a sister.
She pressed her lips into another tight smile. “Hi.” Her gaze fixed on the latte. “Oh. Here. And keep the change.” She held the four dollars out to Bailey, shocked to see them crinkled and wadded in her hand. “Oh, sorry.” She laid them on the counter, ran her hand across the bills to smooth them out.
“No problem.” Bailey picked up the money and slipped it into the cash register. “Tell Sarah I said hi. And come on back for your lunch break if you can. I’ll fix you a free drink. God bless you, Paige.”
God bless me? If this woman only knew all the times in her life that defied blessing, especially last night. Still, something deep inside her panged at the words.
“Hey, you never offer me anything free.” Wilbur scratched his scruffy cheek.
“That’s because you don’t deserve it,” Carla shot back.
“And she does?” Wilbur’s voice rose in protest.
“Hush, Wilbur, leave her alone.” Bailey frowned at him, then shook her head with a sigh, looking to Paige. “He’s harmless, really. We all are. I hope you’ll come back.”
Paige reached for the latte, unbearably anxious to leave. Wilbur faced her on his stool. “I am harmless, but see that guy over there?” He pointed to a thirtysomething man typing away at a computer, one leg in a white cast protruding from beneath his table. If the man heard the comment, he paid them no attention. His brows angled together in concentration, his mouth moving silently. “Watch out for him. He’s crazy.”
“Okay.” The word popped from Paige’s mouth sounding far too serious, as if she’d just promised to steer clear of a dangerous animal. Hank, Jake, and Carla laughed. Paige knew their good-natured chuckles were aimed more toward the man at the computer than at her. Still, she felt herself blush. She picked up the drink and turned toward the door. Spotted a man in perhaps his forties, blond and tanned, entering the café. His eyes fastened on her — and held.
Heat gushed through her chest. Was it him?
Paige, get out of here!
“Thank you,” she mumbled to Bailey and, with a final glance at the counter foursome, fled from the shop.
THIRTY-ONE
His breath is hot on her neck.
Suddenly the truck, parked on a side road under cover of night, feels claustrophobic. Devon’s hands paw Rachel. She pushes them off as she always does, and as always they return.
“What’s the matter, Rachel? Come on.”
She tries to take a breath, but his body is pressed so closely to hers that she can’t find air. The heat, his selfishness, the darkness close in on her, and her lungs balloon with panic. Rachel smacks Devon’s hands and jerks away. “I said get off me!”
“Hey, what — ”
“Just leave me alone, okay?” She scoots back toward the door, presses against it. Tears form in her eyes and she hates that. She hates looking weak to anybody. “Isn’t it clear to you I don’t want to do this? Why can’t you just hear no?”
He breathes hard, one hand hanging in the air, fingers spread. “Why do you keep saying no? I love you, Rachel; don’t you understand?”
Her throat tightens. She wants to believe his words so badly. “Devon, if you loved me, you’d listen when I tell you to stop.”
“No, no.” His voice softens and he slides close to her. In the darkness Rachel can barely see the caring warmth he has painted on his face. “It’s because I love you that I want you so badly. I don’t mean to not listen; I just get carried away.” He reaches out, gently strokes the back of her hair. “I’m sorry. Really.”
The familiar ache throbs through Rachel. She closes her eyes, revels in his touch. What a change he has brought to her lonely life in the past six months. Last year the two girls she hung out with most moved away. Both of them. What kind of odds are that? What crazy parents change jobs when their daughters are juniors in high school? Now Devon is here, always Devon. Driving her to school, taking her home after she gets off work at the pizza parlor. Someone to be with, someone to talk to. Only Devon knows what she faces at home.
Rachel cannot live without him.
She lays her head on his shoulder, wipes her eyes, hoping he won’t notice. He leans over her to crack open the window, then puts his arm around her. Fresh air rushes in, clearing Rachel’s head.
“Forgive me?” Devon presses his fingers into her arm.
“Yeah.”
She lays a palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat.
What is wrong with me? Why don’t I just say yes? She has no clear answer, even for herself. Only a vague weariness that all her life people have taken from her instead of given. Rosa, with her warped sense of motherhood. Make that no sense of motherhood. And Rosa’s string of boyfriends, who beat Rachel when she was little and now look at her with lust in their eyes.
It’s a wonder no one has gotten to her yet.
“Come here,” Devon whispers gruffly, as if she is not close enough. He raises her head to kiss her, and she knows it will start all over again. As she feels his lips on hers, for the millionth time she tells herself he really does love her. That once she graduates from high school in two months, he’ll marry her like he’s promised. So what if it’s a civil ceremony at the courthouse? At least they’ll be together — committed to each other. Devon is twenty and has a steady job as a construction worker. Financially they’ll make it. And she’ll be forever away from Rosa and her “business.” Away from the remodeled house, where every wall and every new piece of fur niture screams drug money. Rachel can get pregnant in a year or two. Just thinking of a baby in her arms makes her chest constrict. She will love and cherish a baby with all her soul and mind, all her being. She will never, ever treat her child with anything other than patience and love.
Devon’s hand slips down from her shoulder.
Rachel pulls away, the ache in her heart swelling up her throat.“Devon, please take me home.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t swear and yell. Devon does something far worse — he turns cold. Without a word he slides across the seat to the steering wheel. Rachel
barely has time to straighten her clothing before he is gunning the motor. They don’t speak until he turns onto her street five minutes later.
He pulls up to the curb, casts a disinterested look at the back of a man heading up the front steps of her expanded, freshly painted porch. The man is tall and stocky, wearing a red T-shirt, the porch’s dim light casting a pale sheen on his shaved head. After one o’clock in the morning and people are still coming by. Rachel knows it will be that way most of the night.
Devon turns toward her, face partially lit from a nearby streetlamp. “If you loved me, Rachel, you wouldn’t put me through this every time. I just want you to know — I can’t take it much longer. There are lots of girls who wouldn’t do this to me.”
Heat surges through her. No, he doesn’t mean it. He won’t leave me. “Devon, two months, that’s all. Don’t you think it will mean more when we’re married?”
When you’ve pledged yourself to me and me alone?
His mouth firms and his gaze drifts out the windshield. Slowly he shakes his head. “I don’t know if I can wait that long, Rachel. I just don’t know.”
The words filter through her like anesthetic. She feels her heart go numb, then her soul. A tiny voice in her head cries, Don’t get out! Drive away with him, do anything he wants, just keep him!
Rachel waits for him to look at her once more, to come to his senses and take the words back. Instead he turns toward the steering wheel, puts his hand on the gearshift, waiting for her to leave.
“Devon — ”
“Just go.”
She reaches out to him, fingers brushing his arm. Don’t leave me, please! The words totter on the tip of her tongue, ready to fall. But Rachel can’t say them. Because if she does, if she shows her weakness, and he still makes good on his veiled threat, what will be left of her? She can only guard what broken pieces of herself life has allowed her to keep.
Devon stares straight ahead.
Rachel pulls her hand away. For a moment she stares unseeing at the dashboard. Her eyes scratch and she blinks hard.
She gets out of the truck.
As Devon drives away, she stands on the sidewalk, watching his taillights. The dull yellow of the streetlamp washes his blue vehicle a muddied green. Something about that chameleon change whispers to Rachel a warning, but she flings up a wall of denial.
He doesn’t mean it. Everything will be all right. He loves me.
Her steps toward Rosa’s drug haven are slow.
In the house Barry, Rosa’s boyfriend of the past year, is perched on the edge of the couch, watching TV. One hand is buried in a bowl of chips; the other plays drums on his knee. Two men Rachel doesn’t know are also on the couch, one dozing, the other flipping impatiently through a magazine. The TV is going, as is rap music on the stereo.
With a mere glance Rachel can tell the three men are high. Barry likes speed; apparently, so does one of his friends. The other man — who knows? He could be coming down from it.
Rachel slips by them into the kitchen for a glass of water. There Rosa is pacing, talking loudly to the man in the red T-shirt, gesticulating with both hands. The man leans against the table, muscular arms folded, cynicism twisting his hard mouth as her mother continues a diatribe about some payment.
“Hey.” The man jerks his chin toward Rachel as if warning Rosa to shut up.
Rosa looks around. Rachel catches a glimpse of her mascara-smeared eyes, the overblushed cheeks. “Oh.” Rosa shrugs and turns back to the man. “Don’t worry about her.”
Like anybody ever does.
Rachel goes to the cabinet, fetches a glass. As she turns water on at the sink, The Feeling sinks around her like a noxious cloud. That dirty, fear-tinged sense that she first experienced at age twelve, when her figure began to fill out. Without moving her head, she slides a sideways glance toward Red Shirt.
He is staring at her.
Rachel looks back toward the sink, pushes off the faucet. Her glass is too full and she splashes out some of the water. Her spine stiffens, her muscles coil, and she prays he doesn’t see it. For some animalistic reason, when they sniff her fear, they only leer all the more.
She turns her back on him, hurries down the hall. In her room she locks the door, knowing how flimsy such a lock can be. Hasn’t her own mother burst through it on more than one occasion? Agitation kicks up Rachel’s back. She can’t pinpoint why she feels more frightened of Red Shirt than the others, but something . . .
Rachel, chill out. It’s okay.
She sinks into her desk chair and gazes out the window, thoughts returning to Devon. What can she say to him tomorrow to whisk away the words he said tonight? She will find a way to keep him. She has to. Even if it means giving in to sex. Somehow she’ll manage to sleep with him and not feel like a slut. Like her mother. Because she and Devon plan to get married. That makes all the difference, right? Besides, he does love her. Surely if she gives that last remaining bit of herself to someone for love, she won’t be left with nothing.
Through the walls Rachel can hear the TV — someone has turned it up louder. A minute later the rap music volume increases. She hears bursts of laughter, hollow and frenetic. How long until everyone crashes? She has learned to sleep through the noise.
Rachel’s door rattles.
She swivels toward it.
The knob moves a fraction back and forth. Once. Twice.
Rachel rises from her chair. It’s probably just Rosa, wanting to borrow something. Mascara maybe.
The knob jiggles again.
Why doesn’t Rosa just bang on the door?
Deep in the recesses of Rachel’s mind, she knows. A tiny voice speaks that she is lucky to have escaped for so long, and now what little she has left of herself will be taken.
No. It’s only Rosa.
The TV and radio battle each other. Rachel hears no more laughter, no more voices. What are they doing out there?
She swallows hard. No more sound from her door.
Then — a metallic click. The lock has released.
The bedroom door slowly swings open.
THIRTY-TWO
In strained silence Bailey and the others at her counter watched Paige give a wide berth to a customer just entering Java Joint, then hustle out the door. Bailey bit her cheek. Poor Paige. Something was really getting to that girl.
The customer headed straight for the counter.
“Good afternoon. What would you like?” Bailey took the man’s order — an iced coffee drink and a roast beef sandwich. As she prepared his lunch, Bailey cast knowing glances at her friends. Before Paige came in, they’d been talking with grim animation about what could have happened to Edna San. They’d heard the chopper and ran out to the sidewalk to see it for themselves. But now, solemnized by Paige’s nervousness and in the presence of a T, they engaged in small talk, their voices low.
The customer paid for his order, dropped a fifty-cent tip in her jar, and left. Bailey waited until he was out of earshot, then frowned at the locals, one hand on her hip. “You all ran Paige off.”
“We didn’t run her off. He did.” Carla pointed a red-nailed finger at Wilbur.
The man drew back with all innocence. “I didn’t — ”
“We shouldn’t have laughed.” Pastor Hank gazed across the street toward Simple Pleasures. “I think she took it personally.” He turned to Bailey. “You know her very well?”
She shook her head. “No. She’s come in here maybe three times. Always seemed kind of shy, but never out and out nervous like she was today.” Bailey fingered her cross necklace. “I just feel bad for her. She obviously could use a friend.”
Jake rapped the counter with his palms. “That’s our Bailey, always mothering.”
She turned away, for some silly reason her throat tightening at the comment. Goodness, she was on edge today. John’s seizure last night, Edna San missing, now this lost-looking girl. Worse, Bailey felt helpless to ease the problems of any of them.
She picked up a
sponge and wiped down the espresso machine with focused intent, angling her back to her friends.
A few minutes later a group of four tourists entered the café and headed to the counter, eyes fixed on the menu written upon the wallboard above Bailey’s head. Behind them, some locals filtered in. She greeted Sam Beltz from the leather goods store up the street; Henry Ikes, who worked at the gas station around the corner; and Bart Goodlet, the postal worker with the slight build of a jockey. Lunchtime was here. Bailey would soon be flying around like mad. For the hundredth time she wished she could afford to hire help. But her part-time employee had quit a few weeks ago, and Bailey had been grateful for the extra savings. That’s just the way it would have to be for now.
As she hurried to take orders, Pastor Hank rose. “I’ve sat here like a lazy fool long enough. Time to get moving.” He leaned toward Bailey. “I’ll look in on John and report back to you, okay?”
Bailey’s vision blurred. “Thank you so much.”
Soon Carla, Jake, and Wilbur wandered off as well. Wilbur was going home for a nap. And at the end of the afternoon, when the sun was a little less hot, he aimed to go fishing.
Among the locals in the shop, only S-Man remained, tapping away at his keyboard.
By the time the flurry of customers died down, Bailey’s feet ached. She dragged a chair behind the counter and sank into it, feeling sweaty and heavyhearted. How on earth was she supposed to write a post for tomorrow’s blog? What to say? She didn’t want to talk about Edna’s disappearance, but neither could she ignore it as if she didn’t care.
When the phone rang, Bailey jumped. It was Hank, calling from her house. Reporting that John looked fine, that they’d had a good visit, talking mostly about the stunning news of Edna San, and now Hank was leaving to go home. He said good-bye to Bailey, and then she heard him hand the phone to her husband.
“Hey, doll, you send him over here to check on me?” John’s voice held that familiar tease, the same tone he’d used when he asked her out on their first date nearly forty years ago.
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