Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  “Who’s grown? Me?” A curly brown head came level with the countertop. Abigayle Thackeray-Greenwood smoothed her son’s hair with French manicured fingers. He hopped on a stool and let his backpack slip to the floor with practiced ease.

  His mother frowned. “Planning on picking that up?”

  “If you get me some…” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling in thought. “Freshly baked chocolate chip cookies.” He grinned.

  His mother smiled. “What gave you that idea?”

  The boy spun the knife like a pinwheel on the cool marble. “Toshi’s mom bakes cookies.”

  “Toshi’s mom doesn’t have a law practice.”

  The boy jumped from the stool and walked to the built-in stainless steel refrigerator. “We can’t eat your legal briefs. So I think Toshi’s mom has a better job.” He returned to the counter carrying a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a container of organic, low-fat buttery spread.

  His mother poured him a glass of sparkling water and handed him a porcelain plate. “No eating off the counter.”

  When he finished making his first sandwich, he handed her the thick, gooey slices. “You need a snack too.”

  She had just taken a bite when her phone rang again.

  The boy wagged a reprimanding finger. “No talking with your mouth full.”

  She peered at the screen, hastily swallowed the sandwich bite, and motioned at him to pick up his backpack. She stepped over it and strolled into the next room.

  “Hold on.” With her hand cupped around the phone, she marched up the long flight of carpeted stairs. At the top, a wide hallway diverged. She ambled across the shiny wooden floorboards and turned the handle of a door at the end of the corridor. Something blocked it from the inside. She leaned her shoulder into it. The solid wood resisted. She thumped her hip against it rhythmically and it yielded slightly.

  “I’m listening.” Jamming the phone between her shoulder and ear with a practiced gesture, she squeezed through the opening. On the other side, she squatted to tug a stuffed elephant from under the door. The toy trumpeted its objection when she tossed it into a corner. “Just a little playroom cleanup.”

  One wall of the room comprised large bay floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of a grassy park across the street. The three other walls contained shelves and drawers that spilled over with toys and pastel coloring books. The floor was littered with the detritus of children’s play. Abigayle held the phone to one ear and used her other hand to throw stuffed animals into a wooden footlocker, while her feet shoved plastic building blocks and miniature metal cars to the side of the room. “Uh-huh. That really stinks.”

  After bringing some order to the chaos, she fell with a sigh into an oblong suede beanbag facing the windows. Her body slid into the royal blue puff until her feet splayed out in front of her in a large V, her black A-line skirt riding up to mid-thigh, patent leather pumps pointing to the corners of the high ceiling. “Sure. Every board member has her own agenda.”

  She ran her fingers through her short curls and turned away from the outside glare. She scanned the thin spines of the bookshelf to her left, with titles that conjured images of children’s bedtime, then let her gaze drift to the higher shelves, where the volumes thickened and titles grew longer, until, at adult eye height, the genres metamorphosed from trains and animals that talked into biography, outer space exploration, and simple engineering principles.

  “Not tonight.” She pushed a stray strand of hair behind an ear. “Griff’s on one of his mysterious product searches.” Her thumb absentmindedly spun the large diamond encircling her ring finger. “Don’t feel like showing up by myself again.”

  She ended the call and closed her eyes, thinking of when she and Griff first designed the room, when she was eight months pregnant with their daughter. She remembered how his eyes sparkled as he spoke of their children having a space all to themselves, a hide-away from the world. It was no use her pointing out it would be years before their unborn daughter would be old enough to appreciate a playroom.

  He patted her belly and leaned down, as he often did, talking to the child in her womb. “Little one, I’ll make the world safe for you. Fun for you. Easy for you.” He gazed up at Abigayle with the look of a young, lost boy. “We have to do this right.”

  That was the Griff she’d fallen in love with, the one whose love was fiercely protective. The one who reveled in pitting himself against the world. The one who supported her ambitions while at the same time smoothing the way toward motherhood. When she told him she might be pregnant, he came home the next day and handed her a “Baby On Board” T-shirt with a large yellow arrow pointing to her stomach. She laughed as though it were a joke. But the look on his face made her bite the smile from her lips.

  Griff was the proudest father she knew. Even though he valued neatness above almost all else, the trunk of his car was crammed with the children’s play gear. Even though he devoted almost all his waking hours to work, he sometimes missed meetings to watch the children’s games. Even when she hadn’t seen or spoken to him in days, he would burst into the kitchen with a photo on his phone of the kids by the pool or in the yard. Maybe, she thought, it happened like this to all couples. They grew apart. They had different interests. They didn’t feel comfortable with each other anymore. But their children kept them together.

  A gentle smile lit her face as she rolled ungracefully from the yielding suede ball to the floor, landing on her hands and knees, her face inches from a bookshelf, where the just visible edge of a magazine fluttered. She reached behind a pile of volumes detailing the adventures of a caterpillar in the Amazon and pulled out the worn magazine, with its creased cover and well-thumbed pages. Her lips hardened. A muscular young man with one leg on the first rung of a ranch fence and the brim of a cowboy hat held over his privates, smiled up at her. Other than the hat, he wore nothing.

  “Again?” She dropped the magazine and looked around the room, as though someone had put the offending periodical there while she was talking on the phone. Then she yanked the entire caterpillar series from the shelf. It tumbled to the floor. In the space it left, she found a tight roll of magazines held together by rubber band. Her brow furrowed. She stood and pulled a tuft of tissues from a box nearby and used them to lift the roll and the stray magazine. Carrying them in front of her like dirty diapers, she left the playroom and tramped down the hallway to an office, where she removed a key from under a laptop docking station, unlocked a set of polished wooden filing cabinets, and dropped the magazines inside.

  After re-locking the cabinet and replacing the key, she bounced on the edge of the mesh office chair, her legs twitching restlessly. She bit her lip, her gaze riveted on a family photo in a steel frame on her desk. For minutes, she didn’t move. Then her hand picked up the cell phone and scrolled through the contacts.

  “Griff, we’ve got a problem. I found some more of…” Her free hand twisted the heavy gold necklace around her throat, tightening it gradually. “Those things.” She held the necklace from her and let it spin freely. “You convinced me last time. But now I’m taking charge. It can’t go on.”

  She hung up and straightened the papers on the desk, pushing the family photo to the side and edging the individual ones of her children forward.

  “What can’t go on?”

  The voice made her jump. “Justin, honey, you scared Mommy.” She spun in the chair to face him. “Mommy’s going to…hire a new cleaning company. The one we’re using leaves too much garbage around.”

  Chapter 9

  Mal, his grandmother, and Bree reclined on an iron bench licking gelato from spoons in an alcove of the hotel where sunlight streamed from skylights three stories above and a six-foot cherub splashed water from a trumpet into a glittering silver fountain. Juli was sandwiched between the young couple, her short legs barely touching the travertine tiles. She put down her cup and rubbed her hands together.

  Bree felt her fingers. “Maybe ice cream in air conditioning
was a bad idea after all.”

  Juli patted Bree’s knee. “When I was growing up in India, things were hot or room temperature only.”

  Bree licked the remainder from her cup and got to her feet. “Give me your room key. I’ll run up and get you a shawl.”

  Juli tugged at her hand. “Don’t be troubling yourself about me.”

  Mal transferred Juli’s purse to his lap and began rummaging through it. “Grandma, why do you carry all this stuff with you?” He held up a small sewing kit. Next a mini screwdriver dangled between his fingers.

  “You are never knowing when something might break.” She pulled it from him and reached in an outside pocket. She handed Bree a plastic card.

  Bree nodded. “I’ll be back in a flash.” She gave Mal a quick kiss on the lips.

  She strode past the numerous shops that lined the main pathway to the hotel, avoiding the eyes of attendants who stood outside the stores with tempting free wares designed to lure customers through their doors. She fought a tide of people heading toward the sunlit piazza and aimed for a bank of elevators, where she found herself alone. The lights above the eight sparkling doors indicated floor numbers and she watched with crossed fingers, hoping her elevator would face the outside of the hotel. She loved the dizzying sensation of rising above the city, watching it disappear through the glass beneath her feet as she was conveyed into the heights. A door slid open with a bing. Bree stepped into the box. The floor was polished black marble, the ceiling a mosaic of mirrors, and the only thing separating her from the outside world was a round glass encasement with a golden bar at its middle.

  She pushed the button for the twenty-sixth floor. Before the doors closed, an arm stuck itself between the steel. The doors froze for an instant and then reopened.

  “You almost lost your arm.” Bree stared at the slim, tall African-American woman who slipped into the elevator.

  The woman grinned, her eyes sparkling. “No hotel in Vegas would give you a reason to sue.” She tapped the button for the thirtieth floor and stood with her back to the door, like Bree, ready to watch the city slip away.

  As the elevator whisked them upward, Bree’s eyes fixed on a young girl and her mother on the sidewalk outside. The mother was kneeling and listening intently to a story the girl told with much animation of her arms. The two figures rapidly shrunk as the elevator rose in stillness. A moment later, Bree and her elevator companion grabbed the golden bar in unison as their conveyance lurched, shook, and groaned. It dropped. They screeched. After a few feet, it shuddered. Bree whimpered. Then it stopped moving.

  Bree glanced at the woman next to her. She wanted to speak but found herself unable. Her mouth was clamped as tightly shut as her hands were clamped around the bar. The other woman spoke first.

  “Should we let someone know?” She peered at the elevator’s number panel and the emergency call box beneath it.

  Bree was closer to the panel and edged toward it, never releasing the bar. When she reached the corner, she pried one hand free, punched the red emergency button, and whipped the hand back to the bar. She smiled sheepishly. “I feel like this bar is the only thing between me and the ground.”

  The other woman nodded. “You and me both, sister.” She moved one hand to her stomach. “I really wish I hadn’t eaten the crab dip for lunch.”

  Bree gave her a halfhearted smile. She looked at the panel again. “Isn’t the bell supposed to ring?”

  The woman shrugged by lifting her shoulders without letting her hands leave the bar. “Can’t speak from experience.”

  Bree looked down at the ground. The mother and daughter had disappeared into the crowds that thronged the afternoon Vegas strip. “How high do you think we are?” Her voice cracked. She felt a clammy, cold sensation spread from her chest through her limbs. Her head felt light. Her stomach protested against its shaken contents.

  Her companion edged toward her until they were standing together. She released one hand from the bar and turned to face the doors. “Let’s pretend we’re on the first floor.”

  “More like the twenty-first.” But Bree turned and then sunk to the ground, her hands still on the bar above her head.

  The woman smiled. “You look like you just scored a touchdown.” She stomped her foot.

  Bree glared at her. “What are you doing?”

  “Testing.” She released her grip on the bar. She stepped to the elevator panel and pressed the button under the speaker labeled, “Push for help.”

  After a few seconds, a woman’s voice with a thick Midwestern accent crackled through the speaker. “How can I help you?”

  Bree yelled from the floor. “We’re stuck in an elevator. Hundreds of feet up.”

  The Midwestern woman replied. “Please stand next to the microphone so that I can hear you.”

  Bree’s companion bent at the waist, revealing a Chinese character tattoo on her lower back. Before the young woman spoke, she turned with a grin to Bree. “While I have her on the phone, want to order takeout?”

  Bree could not control the giggle that followed. She released one hand from the bar to hold her shaking stomach. “Double cheeseburger.”

  The woman turned back to the holes in the panel. “We’re stuck in an elevator. I hope you know where.”

  “Information is transmitted automatically. Someone will be there soon.” The crackling stopped.

  Bree’s elevator buddy folded her arms. “So I guess we wait.”

  From her position on the floor, Bree admired first the woman’s open toed violet pumps, then her short magenta skirt and finally the sleeveless, untucked flowing top. She look at her own utilitarian shoes, gray slacks, and clinging white blouse. She pushed herself off the floor, released her grip on the bar, and stuck out her hand. “Bree.”

  “Celine.” Celine’s grip was firm. “What brings you to Vegas?”

  Bree massaged her shoulders. “What brought me was a car.” She shut one eye to stop herself from peeking out the window behind her. She focused on the other woman’s face. “Because I’m afraid of flying.”

  “And heights?”

  “After today, pretty much.”

  Celine tilted her head and paused. “I’m here for my best friend’s wedding.”

  Bree’s face brightened. “I’m here for my engagement party.”

  Celine’s eyes flew to Bree’s left hand and she reached out. “What kind of rock did he get you?”

  Bree showed off the deep blue sapphire set flat in a circle of tiny diamonds. She chuckled. “Blew the down payment for a condo in San Francisco. At this rate, we’ll be eighty before we can afford anything.”

  Celine let her hand drop and pursed her lips. “I feel you.” She looked around the elevator. “Wish we had chairs. This skirt wasn’t meant for sitting down.”

  Bree dug through her purse. “Use this.” She handed Celine a napkin from the Tex-Mex restaurant that had somehow ended up inside.

  “It’s the getting down that’s the problem.” With her knees locked together and the help of the bar, she maneuvered herself to the black tile and sat with her legs straight out in front of her, her back resting against the glass.

  Bree joined her, sitting a few feet away and playing with a loose thread hanging from the seam of a buttonhole on her blouse. “When’s the wedding?”

  “Tomorrow. They’re out scoping the location now.”

  Bree shifted to a cross legged position and tugged harder on the thread, watching the buttonhole slowly unravel. “Don’t they know where it’s going to be?”

  Celine raised an eyebrow. “In the desert. They’re just not sure exactly where.”

  “Because everything in the city was booked?”

  “Because they’re crazy.” Celine laughed. “Long story. The short version is that they’re thru-hikers.”

  Bree stopped fiddling. “What hikers?”

  “Thru.” Celine stretched her arms wide. “They hike thousands of miles to get through from point A to point B.”

 
Bree examined her companion’s footwear. “Do you?”

  Celine brushed a piece of lint from her skirt. “Darling, do I look like I’d put myself through that?” She raised one eyebrow. “They met on a trail, so they want a trail wedding.” Her eyes rolled. “I convinced them to have it near airports and bars. So here we are, in Vegas. Tonight, we party. Tomorrow, Red Rock Canyon.”

  Bree stared and thought of the desert walk with Ryder in the dark, the crisp air, the clear sky, the silence. In the confines of the elevator, it sounded delightful.

  Celine shuddered. “Cacti, scorpions, and rattlesnakes. I hiked once. Saw a man fall down a mountainside to his death. Never again.”

  Bree’s gaze turned to the floor. “Sounds like why I hate flying.”

  Celine’s fingers tapped a rhythm on her thighs. “You mind pushing the button again to ask what’s taking them so long?” She pointed at her skirt.

  Bree got to her feet. A different but still Midwest-accented operator informed her that the call center responsible for their elevator’s operations was in Nebraska. The woman said her company had notified the Las Vegas contractors, who had dispatched a technician to the site.

  “In other words,” Celine laid her head back against the glass and closed her eyes, “this could take hours.”

  “Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” Bree lifted her purse from the floor and fumbled in it. She lifted her phone above her head in triumph. “I can call 911.”

  On the floor, Celine crossed her arms. “You think Vegas police are going to care about a stuck elevator?”

  Bree’s face fell. “I can call my fiancé. He can let the hotel know.”

  “What does this fiancé do for a living?”

  “Runs a dog wash.”

  Celine groaned and reached out her hand. “Give me the phone. My boyfriend’s a cop.”

  Twenty minutes and a lot of wedding conversation later, the golden doors of their cage squeaked open and a gloved hand reached in from five feet up and wiggled its fingers. “You ladies okay in there?”