Bahama Mama

by Tricia Leedom

  Molly had just put two slices of toast in the toaster when the house phone rang. Picking up the cordless receiver, she glanced at the number but didn’t recognize it. She answered anyway. “Hello?”

  “Molly?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “It’s Trevor.”

  Molly almost dropped the phone. She fumbled with it for a moment before she stopped and took a deep breath. “Wow. It’s been awhile, Trev.”

  Thirteen years and six months to be exact.

  Trevor Schaffer had walked out on Molly when Cheyenne was eighteen months old. He’d never paid a dime of child support, even when he’d finished law school and went on to become a hotshot entertainment attorney in Los Angeles. No surprise to Molly who’d supported him through his undergraduate program. When he entered Stanford law school, he decided having a baby around the house was too much of a distraction so he moved into a dorm on campus and abandoned them. Molly gave up her regular gig with a local house band, sold everything she owned including her car, and joined a touring band that took her away from LA and her husband. They divorced soon after and she hadn’t heard from him since.

  “Yeah, it has been awhile.” His voice was both so familiar and so foreign.

  She rubbed the burning spot in the center of her chest with the flat of her hand. “What do you want?”

  “As you know, Cheyenne’s birthday is coming up—”

  “Wait right there. You haven’t acknowledged your daughter in almost fourteen years and you have the balls to call this house and mention her name to me?”

  “Molly. Please.” His condescending tone singed the freckles on her cheekbones.

  “Don’t patronize me, Trevor Schaffer. I’m not your wife anymore and haven’t been for a very long time.” She paced between the kitchen island and the only window on the front wall. “I’m the woman who raised your daughter by herself and helped her to become the smart, beautiful, compassionate young woman she is today.”

  “I agree. Cheyenne is all those things and more, thanks to you.”

  Molly was about to tell him to go to hell, but his words derailed her. She stared at the linoleum floor as her brain processed what he said. Screwing up her face in confusion, she demanded, “How would you know?”

  “She didn’t tell you? We’ve been communicating on Facebook for several months now.”

  “Liar!”

  “Come on, Molly. Why would I lie to you when you can simply ask Cheyenne for yourself?”

  This entire day was turning out to be one big fat nightmare that just wouldn’t quit. She needed to wake up and everything would be back to normal. Except the floor beneath her feet felt way too solid. Molly paced to her second-floor apartment window and gazed down at the parking lot below taking in the low-hanging power lines, the half-dead palm tree, and the crumbling pink stone wall that separated the complex from the thrift store/laundromat duplex next door. Her death grip on the telephone receiver tightened another notch as the air-conditioner kicked on and the vent above her head blasted her with cold air.

  Trevor’s voice was muffled as if it came from the other end of a very long tunnel. “I’d like for her to come to Los Angeles to spend a couple weeks with Michelle and me. Michelle’s my wife. She’s a family attorney. She’s as eager as I am to meet Cheyenne.”

  Molly snapped out of it and forced herself to face facts. This was really happening. “You have to be lying. Cheyenne would’ve told me if you tried to contact her on Facebook.”

  “Actually, she contacted me.”

  Doubt bore down on Molly like a pile of boulders. Could he be telling the truth? What if Cheyenne had contacted him? It might explain her sudden interest in playing matchmaker. Maybe she was thinking about going to live with her father and felt guilty about leaving Molly alone. The possibility of this being true was unfathomable, and yet, Trevor was on the other end of the phone waiting for Molly’s approval.

  Like hell, she’d give it.

  “Cheyenne is not flying to Los Angeles for her birthday. You can’t believe for a second I’d be okay with that.”

  “Cheyenne was right. You are too overprotective.”

  “Excuse me?” Molly squeezed the phone, wishing it was Trevor’s neck.

  “She told me you won’t let her go to a science fiction convention in Miami for the day. She’s growing up. If you truly believe you raised her right, you should trust her judgment.”

  Molly’s chest tightened and her head felt like it was about to pop off. Speaking was impossible for several seconds, but when the words did come, her voice was low and hoarse. “No. You don’t get to tell me how to parent my daughter. You gave up your right to be her father a very long time ago.”

  “Actually, no papers were ever signed. I technically still have legal custody of Cheyenne. If we were to take this to court—”

  “They would see what a deadbeat dad you are, you son of a bitch!” Molly gripped the back of the kitchen chair and squeezed her eyes closed, trembling in her effort to compose herself.

  The calmness in Trevor’s voice concerned her more than any outburst would have. It made her feel like an erratic, irrational, unfit mother. He was pushing her buttons on purpose.

  “I’ve made mistakes,” he said quietly. “I regret not being there for you and Cheyenne, but you’ve done all right without my financial support.”

  Molly looked at the threadbare carpet, the dated furniture that wasn’t hers, and the lumpy white walls that had been spackled and painted over too many times. She could barely afford this place. Could barely make ends meet at the bookstore. She performed two nights a week because it helped put food on the table. She wanted to hire a full-time employee so she could pick up a few more gigs in town and maybe go back to teaching acoustic guitar. Music paid a hell of a lot better than the small salary she gave herself out of the store budget. She kept the bookstore for Cheyenne’s sake, to give her some stability while she was in high school. Everything Molly did, she did for Cheyenne.

  Trevor had no idea what kind of struggle she’d been through or the things she’d had to sacrifice for her daughter, but then, he had no idea what those two words meant. Molly’s life hadn’t been easy, but she was damn sure she wouldn’t have changed a thing if it meant having to be married to the self-centered bastard for another second longer.

  “You know what.” Molly pulled out a kitchen chair and flopped down on it. “I don’t think any judge in this country would give you visitation rights after they find out you owe almost fourteen years of child support payments.”

  “Did you ever file for support?”

  “You know I didn’t.”

  “No judge will fault me for not being in my daughter’s life when I didn’t know where she was. You took her and disappeared. I looked everywhere for her for years and never gave up hope that one day I’d find her again.”

  Fear and frustration curdled Molly’s stomach. She swiped at a tear. “God, you have no shame, do you?”

  “Perhaps,” he said matter-of-factly. “But it’s your word against mine, and let’s be honest here. Who’s the judge going to believe?”

  Chapter Six

  Anders was reluctant to return to the penthouse condo he was renting in Old Town for no other reason than because his son was there. After spending the better part of a week trying to figure out how to be a dad to a kid who wouldn’t even look at him, let alone answer a simple question, he needed a break and time to regroup. He’d changed into his workout clothes in the office at Dixie’s after that unfortunate fan encounter and gone for a run in Old Town. He passed the Southernmost house, Hemingway’s place, and the Key West lighthouse before pausing at a street vendor who was selling ice-cold coconuts. He’d drilled the hole for the straw while Anders waited. Fresh coconut water was so much better than the store-bought stuff, and he needed the electrolytes on a hot-as-hellfire afternoon.

  He kept walking while he polished off his beverage.

  Maybe he should just send Obie back to Gre
er’s house in California. At least he’d be in a familiar environment. Guilt prickled the back of Anders’ neck. What kind of life had the boy been living? Boarding school during the school year, handed off to nannies and servants or grandma’s house during summer break and the holidays. Greer used to tell stories about how un-motherly Martha Mell was to her when she was growing up. It was one of the few things they’d had in common. Shitty parents. Before Obie was born, they’d both vowed they wouldn’t make the same mistakes their parents had made. And they hadn’t. They’d made new ones that were just as bad.

  Anders stopped in front of a two-story Old-Key-West-style home. The yellow building was real pretty with its white trim and wrap-around porches on its upper and lower floors. It reminded him of the big house up the road from the trailer park where he grew up. His momma loved that house. She used to say it was a lot like the one she was raised in back in New Orleans. When Anders was about eleven, he made a vow to his momma that he would buy that house for her one day. She’d died a year later and the house was bulldozed two years after that. He could buy ten of those houses now. Funny how he didn’t own a single home of his own.

  The house in Old Town was for sale, but he had no need for it. He preferred to rent whenever he was in one place long enough. Otherwise, he lived in hotels. Still, he found himself reaching into the mailbox for a brochure. Out of curiosity, he told himself. But it was his dumb luck the real estate broker came out the front door and spotted him.

  Rebecca Stein was very good at her job. She insisted he had to see the place because it was the perfect house for him. Before he knew it, he was getting the grand tour. Turned out, she was right. He liked what he saw, but he just wasn’t in the market for real estate. He wasn’t planning on staying in Key West any longer than he needed to.

  Anders dropped his room key on the foyer table as he entered the air-conditioned condo. The blast of cool air that greeted him was so welcomed, he was almost glad to be home. Off to his right, Selena Fry, his publicist, was making herself at home in the galley kitchen. Wearing an apron she’d gotten from God-knows-where over a sleek black pantsuit, she was hand washing the dishes he’d left in the sink.

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “You realize the dishwasher works just fine.”

  She rinsed a glass under the running faucet and didn’t glance over at him. “Washing dishes relaxes me.”

  Anders snorted, doubtful anything relaxed the woman.

  She’d flown to Vegas as promised and had insisted on sticking close to him, especially when he announced his plans to fly to Key West for his brother’s wedding. She’d wanted him to go to Casey’s funeral and make himself as visible as possible, but she’d lost that battle. He’d had his son to consider and being in the limelight was the last thing the shy kid needed, so Anders had brought Obie here to live in a Parrot Head’s idea of paradise.

  The condo was furnished with rattan furniture and gaudy hibiscus prints. The view of the Gulf of Mexico from the lanai was a knockout though. There was a fully stocked kitchen and two bedrooms situated on opposite sides of the living space.

  Through the sliding glass door, Anders spotted Obie curled up on a lounge chair on the lanai reading a comic book. How many did the kid have? Or was he reading the same one over and over again? That got him in the gut. Was the kid afraid to ask for another book to read? Hell, Obie was scared of him, period. Anders didn’t know how to deal with that. Kids usually loved him. He never had to try too hard to coax a smile out of one of them. How ironic. His own son was the one kid who couldn’t stand to look at him. A hollowness inside his chest ached at the thought, but he had nobody to blame for it but himself.

  “Thought you’d be home sooner,” Selena said, drawing his gaze away from Obie. The woman always reminded him of a tenacious pug with her turned-up nose and round, bulgy brown eyes. She’d cut her hair recently. Her dark brown locks used to hang limply to her elbows whenever she let her hair out of its bun. Now it was brushed back off of her face in a short, sleek bob. The style suited her better. She didn’t smile or laugh very often, but that was just her way. She had a no-nonsense, businesslike demeanor that was as tidy and efficient as her whip slender figure and the conservative pantsuits she liked to wear. She worked hard though and was always there for him when he needed her.

  “Sorry about that, I got sidetracked on my run. Thanks for watching him. I know it’s not in your job description.”

  “Oh, I don’t mind.” Selena waved off his gratitude as she dried her hands with a hand towel and then reached into the drawer for a butter knife. “He’s been out there reading since he got up.”

  Anders took his rental car keys and the house brochure out of his pockets and set them on the kitchen counter.

  “What’s that?” Selena gestured to the brochure with the knife.

  “Nothing. Just something I picked up.”

  “Oh.”

  Anders studied the boy again. “He say anything to you?”

  “No.”

  Obie hadn’t spoken a word to him or to anyone else since his grandmother had shown up out of the blue and left him on Anders’ doorstep four days ago. The kid ate like a bird, if he ate at all, and he’d rather be in his room than in the hotel pool or outside playing. Finding him on the lanai was an unexpected surprise—one Anders hoped was a step in the right direction.

  It wasn’t enough though. A kid needed exercise. A friend to toss a ball around with once in a while. At least, that was all he ever wanted when he was a kid. And he’d had it with his brother, Jimmy. Only a year younger, he was Anders’ best friend and partner in crime. The only reason they’d survived their nightmare of a father was because they had each other. Obie needed someone like that. Someone who always had his back. A thought struck him. Maybe he did have someone back home in Sacramento. Maybe he was just missing his best friend.

  “I gave him a bowl of cereal for breakfast but he didn’t eat it. I thought maybe he’d want peanut butter and jelly for lunch.” She cut the sandwich in half and then handed the plate to Anders.

  He looked down at her pug face and smiled. “Thanks, Fry. That was very thoughtful of you.”

  She didn’t smile nor did she release the plate when he tried to take it from her. “I still think coming here was a mistake. You should’ve gone to LA or even Nashville. Just because you’ve been cleared as a suspect in the murder doesn’t mean the press is going to let this go. You were the last person to see Casey Conway alive. People are going to think you disappeared because you’re hiding something.”

  “About that.” He tugged a little harder and she released the plate.

  “What? I don’t like that look. What’s happened?”

  “The press. They found me. A paparazzo snapped a picture of me at Dixie’s.”

  Selena sighed and went back into the kitchen to clean up. “Is that all? You had me worried for a moment.”

  “I was caught in a compromising position.”

  She dropped the knife she was about to wash off in the sink. Metal clattered against metal. “With who?”

  “Nobody important. It was a misunderstanding. She tripped and I caught her. It was bad timing.”

  “Who was she, Anders?”

  “It doesn’t matter. It was an accident. She was very embarrassed by the whole thing.”

  Selena started pacing the length of the galley kitchen, finger and thumb tugging her bottom lip as the wheels turned in her brain. “She’s probably out to sell her phony story about your secret romance to the highest bidder. We need to do some damage control. Was she ugly? If she was ugly, no one will believe you’re dating her.”

  “She—” Anders stopped and took a moment to recall the woman he’d met at the bar. Molly MacBain. She’d looked like a drowned orange cat, but she’d cleaned up pretty well after her shower. She had an all-American, girl-next-door look to her. Freckled rosy skin, big blue eyes, and a heart-shaped face. He hadn’t seen her smile, but he’d caught a glimpse of dimples. That long red-gold curly
mane was something else. He didn’t usually go for redheads, but he had to admit she had nice hair. The rest of her was nice too. His left hand suddenly tingled with the memory of the firm full breast planted against his palm. The nipple had peaked, responding to his touch despite all the craziness. She was way too short though. At 6’ 2” his cutoff was 5’4”. The redhead was five foot nothing in her bare feet. She was pretty but not in the same league as the company he usually kept. So, no, there was no chance anyone would believe he was dating her. “She’s a fan,” he finished his statement at last.

  Selena stopped pacing. It was no secret he had a strict rule about dating fans and he didn’t allow his bandmates to mix with them either. The blank stare she gave him melted into laughter. “Fans.” She rolled her eyes. “Was she one of the batshit crazy ones hoping to be your best friend, or worse, your girlfriend? Do we need to file a restraining order?”

  “Nah. Molly is harmless.”

  “Molly?” Selena raised her eyebrows skeptically. “What’s her last name?” When Anders didn’t immediately respond, Selena said, “For the press, if they contact us for a statement. The overzealous fan excuse is a perfect explanation. We’ll say she threw herself at you for the benefit of the camera.”

  “No. We won’t.” Anders headed for the lanai with the sandwich. “No need to embarrass Molly like that. She didn’t do it on purpose. She tripped. That’s all. It was bad timing.”

  “Tripped.” The muttered scoff made Anders pause by the sliding glass door.

  Selena’s thin eyebrows were raised with skepticism. She meant well, but sometimes she was a bit too intense.

  “There’s really no need for you to stick around Key West, Fry. I’ve got a call out to a local nanny service, so I’ll have someone to look after Obie before the week is out. There’s really nothing else for you to do here.”

  Selena stared at him unblinkingly. Her dark eyes hard and penetrating. He couldn’t read her expression, but the tension coming off of her made it clear she wasn’t happy with his suggestion.