Sorta like her journals. She could go for months without reading any of them then suddenly she’d need a fix.
She stood and placed the hundred-page, blue-lined composition book faceup. The retro cover sported big neon-pink and yellow flowers. She couldn’t imagine why she’d choose something so gaudy. Possibly one of her aunts had given it to her. Her mother had been involved with Devon at the time, and the aunts had provided most of the things their sixteen-year-old niece needed.
Except birth control. Nobody had thought about that.
She glanced at her watch. She had time to skim a few pages—most of which she knew by heart.
Or you could write something new, chickadee.
Char mutely groaned. The voice had been mysteriously absent for a good week, but now it was back.
“Go away.”
Char looked around to make sure no one else was present. Talking out loud to oneself was bad enough, but talking to an imaginary voice that spoke with a Southern accent and the dialect and inflection of an old black woman took odd to a new level.
Oh, stop yer stallin’ and git this over with so we can go to the partee. Morgana Carlyle’s s’posed to be there.
Char rolled her eyes. She didn’t understand the old black woman’s fascination with celebrities. But even as a child growing up in movie star–free South Dakota, Char—and her very vocal conscience—had been titillated by stories of the rich and famous. A fascination that turned up-close and personal when Libby married Hollywood heartthrob Cooper Lindstrom.
Coop’s ex-wife and costar, Morgana Carlyle—aka Morgan James—was the latest celeb to fall for a Sentinel Pass local. According to a reliable source—Libby—Morgan and Mac McGannon were “in love.”
Le’s go, chickadee. Le’s get this trip down mem’ry lane over and done with.
Char had racked her brain over the years trying to figure out why her conscience spoke in a stereotypical voice so far outside Char’s personal frame of reference. She’d even invented a genealogy assignment in one of her classes to get her aunts to open up about the Jones’s family history, thinking perhaps some long-dead ancestor had been a slave owner. But both Pam and Marilyn had clammed up as if such knowledge was a state secret.
“We come from dirt-poor farmers,” Pam had told her. “They weren’t the kind to take photos or keep records. I don’t see any reason to start now.”
Char took that to mean none of her forebears had ever lived in the South or employed a maid/housekeeper/ nanny—black or any other color. Yet this was the voice she’d heard in her head for almost as long as she could remember. She’d even written about it in her journal.
Thumbing to a familiar spot, she read:
The old black woman is back. Maybe she never left. But if that’s true, then where was she when I needed someone to say, “This is a really bad idea, Charlene. One you’re going to regret for the rest of your life.
Char wished she could have blamed all her bad decisions on someone else—even an imaginary voice. Too bad life didn’t work that way.
Before she could resume reading, the phone rang.
“Native Arts. Char speaking.”
“Hi. It’s me, Libby. The party’s starting. You’re still coming, right?”
Pregnancy had turned Libby into an even bigger mother hen. “Of course. I’d never break my promise to Megan. I’m waiting for Pia to get here before I fill the balloons.”
“Great. Morgan is going all out to make this party perfect.”
“Why? Is the paparazzi invited?”
Libby laughed. “No, thank goodness. I think we left them all in California this time. But this is Morgan’s first attempt at organizing a little girl’s birthday party and she wants to do it up big.”
Char wondered if that was for Megan’s sake or Mac’s, but she didn’t ask. Mac had been through a lot in the past year. If anyone deserved a second chance at love, it was Mac.
Unlike me.
She tapped her finger on the cover of her journal, knowing the reason behind her fall from grace was detailed on the pages in this book.
“Tell her not to worry. I’ll be there soon with a big bouquet of balloons in tow. I promise.”
In the background, Char heard the loud, joyous peal of children’s laughter. A lump formed in her throat and she could barely mumble a goodbye. Her fingers trembled slightly on the edge of the notebook but she couldn’t bring herself to open to the pages she had earmarked.
Well, chickadee? Are you gonna read it or not?
“Chickadee,” Char murmured. A nickname given to her by her father, Charles Ballastrad. Seed salesman by day, front man for a band called Chick Ballastrad and the Guys by night.
The Guys were losers, her mother always said.
Char barely remembered her father. Her parents divorced when Char was six, and, tragically, her father and two band members were killed three years later in a bus accident after a gig in Minnesota. Char’s mother took back her maiden name and changed Char’s at the same time to help them both “move on.”
Nobody called her chickadee after that.
Except the old black woman in her head.
Char opened the notebook, surprised, as always, by the meticulous penmanship.
Mom’s in love. Again. His name is Devon, but she calls him D. Short for divine. He isn’t. Not even close. I don’t know why she can’t see what a creep he is. Even the old black woman agrees he’s trouble.
Char licked the tip of her finger to flip ahead in rapid succession. She didn’t need to read what came next. To this day, she couldn’t be around a bonfire without picturing the entire scene unfold in front of her eyes. The Hustler magazines. The trash can. The flames that jumped far higher than she’d expected after she tossed in a match.
She skimmed to the bottom of the page.
Devon moved out this morning. Mom’s not talking to me. She stopped crying long enough to say it was all my fault.
Char sighed. Her troubled relationship with her mother had gotten more troubled after that. Pam might have been more supportive if she hadn’t been so upset about the smoke damage. Only the old black woman took Char’s side.
What kind of man leaves his dirty magazines around for his girlfriend’s daughter to find? A man who got hisself a problem. That’s who.
The sudden and unexpected tinkle of the bell over the door made Char slam the notebook closed. Her heart rate spiked guiltily. “Hello,” she called out, looking left and right, trying to spot the new arrival. “Welcome.”
A man.
She rose on her toes.
The man from the road.
She looked over her shoulder. Sure enough, the solitary figure who had last been standing near the highway was gone.
Hmm. She didn’t believe in prejudging people—a guy driving a Lexus might be just as dangerous as a fellow on foot—but it suddenly struck her that she was alone and help was several minutes away.
She reached under the counter to reassure herself that her pellet gun was there.
“May I help you?” she asked, pleased by the relative calmness in her voice.
The man stumbled slightly, nearly knocking over a rack of greeting cards by the door. “No…um…no, thanks.”
She let go of her journal and reached for the portable phone. She had 9–1-1 on speed dial, just in case.
He edged a bit farther into the shop, veering to the left toward the book display. She looked at the monitor again. Damn. A rainbow arch of multisize dream catchers obscured her view of him, but what she saw confirmed her earlier impression—no backpack and not enough warm clothes.
Maybe the guy’s ride stood him up, she thought. Her heart rate started to return to normal. Being stranded on the road didn’t make him a bad person. Generally she’d learned to trust her instincts where strangers were concerned, and at the moment her radar didn’t feel threatened.
“There’s coffee and cookies on a table near where those Navajo rugs are hanging,” she told him.
His low grunt brought to
mind her grandfather, a loud, vitriolic figure who passed away shortly after Char and her mother moved to Pierre. Unfortunately Char’s sainted grandmother soon followed.
Char followed the man’s slow meandering on the screen. She’d scoffed when her friend Jenna first broached the idea of setting up in-store surveillance. But after Jenna’s family’s business, the Mystery Spot, got vandalized, Char decided to invest in a scaled-down version of the same system. Now the unit didn’t seem so frivolous.
When she saw him stop beside the refreshment table, she went back to her reading. Helping a traveler in need was supposed to be good karma—something she could always use.
Keeping one ear primed for anything suspicious, she quickly flipped ahead. Her mother’s anger had turned to depression, evidenced by her nightly visits to the bar.
I hid Mom’s car keys. She knew it, but she didn’t get mad or nothing. Instead she smiled all pretty and sweet and said, “The weather is so nice I believe I’ll walk to Frenchie’s.” She didn’t get arrested for drunk driving but she wound up with a big cut on her knee from falling down. Aunt Pam made me give Mom back her keys.
Char used to wish that her life was more like the Brady Bunch, but following the Hollywood gossip magazines was a good way to see that acting in a fake perfect life didn’t mean your real life was guaranteed to turn out well. And there were so many things you had not an ounce of control over. Like the size of your breasts.
Pam took me shopping for school clothes ’cause Mom was hung over. I went up another bra size. Pam said I inherited my grandma’s bosom. Great. Just what I need. A crazy voice in my head and big boobs. Life sucks.
Char didn’t actually remember writing any of the diatribes she could point out from her freshman year, but she had a deep abiding sympathy for the girl who felt ugly, different and odd. Big hair had been the rage in Pierre at that time, and, unfortunately, Char’s hair didn’t have the first clue how to behave.
As for her figure…She skimmed down the page until she found what she was looking for.
Are they ever going to stop growing? I asked Pam about getting surgery and she yelled at me. Said I needed to accept who I was and not try so hard to fit someone else’s idea of who I should be. She didn’t even listen when I told her Becky Halverson said someone drew a picture of me on the bathroom door in the boys’ locker room. When Bec told me what they were doing when they looked at it, I nearly puked.
She slammed the journal shut. She didn’t know why that still got to her. Was it unpleasant being the butt of a joke? Of course. But that had been seventeen years ago. Get over it, she told herself. She had a business to run. Balloons to fill.
Instead of walking to the helium tank, she leaned as far to the left as possible, trying to spot her lurker. He’d left the refreshment table and was now hanging around the display of authentic reproductions of early Native American hunting spears. Carl Tanninger, a rancher down by Custer, had researched arrowhead production and made each piece by hand.
Given their value—and price tags—she’d tethered them to the display with a steel gauge wire locking system. She’d never felt more relieved.
“Um…pretty cold out there today, isn’t it?” she asked, feebly attempting to be social. She never pestered customers but most were a bit friendlier than this guy.
His back to her, he asked, “Bathroom?”
“Push your way through the Navajo rugs. The restroom is on your right,” she said. Was she thrilled about sending him out of sight? No, but even if he wandered into the teepee there wasn’t anything of great value to steal. Mostly summer clothes and kids’ things.
Kids. Megan’s balloons.
She abandoned her notebook on the counter and hurried to the upright tank where she’d set out the balloons she planned to fill. Gift balloons hardly fit the theme of her store, but she was a retailer first and balloons were good for business. Guys would come in for a balloon bouquet for their girlfriends and wind up buying a nice piece of jewelry, too.
Tinker Bell, first. Char was dying to see the special balloon-within-a-balloon inflated.
She smiled as she watched the little blond fairy take shape. She’d ordered it a month ago for Megan’s actual day of birth, but so much had been happening family-wise, Mac had postponed the party by a couple of weeks. Once it was filled to capacity, she clamped the end and attached the wrapped gift that had come with it. Soon, Megan and Tinker Bell would be wearing matching necklaces.
She attached one of the ribbons she already had cut and released the balloon. It bobbled to the end of its tether, but didn’t soar away thanks to the extra weight of the present. Still, Char carefully secured the ribbon to the handle of the tank’s cart while she filled the next balloon.
She’d managed to inflate all the character balloons—party favors for Megan’s friends—and was starting on the solid colors when her customer returned. At first, she thought he was going to head her way, but he took one glance at the balloons and fled toward the pottery.
Fine. Pretty hard to shoplift pottery.
As she filled the last balloon—an extra-large fuchsia one, she noticed her notebook had flopped open. Even from a few steps away, she could see her doodles. Her name and Eli’s paired in flowery hearts. Line after line of Eli Robideaux and Char Jones. Or rather, Mrs. Char Robideaux. Did every dumb girl suffering from unrequited love doodle the object of her daydream’s name, over and over?
The old black woman had warned her not to pin her heart on the first cute boy who looked her way. But Char had been caught up in something she hadn’t expected and apparently had no control over.
She knew what Kat would call it: swoo. Kat Petroski, Char’s friend who had fallen for the wrong swoo twice, defined it as that indefinable element that makes a certain girl gaga over a certain guy. Love was different, Kat said. That came later…if you were lucky. Swoo was first strike. Wham, bam, damn.
That was how it had been for Char when she first met Eli—an upper classman jock heartthrob who didn’t know she was alive. That fine spring day of her freshman year when she literally bumped into him in the hallway of school, every stupid thing she’d ever seen in a movie or read in a book about love, lust and sex hit her square in the chest.
Being a shy outsider, she’d adored him from afar until opportunity—God? Luck? Fate?—had intervened. What happened next was written in black and white on the pages of her journal.
A hissing sound made her fumble slightly as she remembered to cut off the flow of helium before the balloon exploded. Impatient with herself for zoning out, she quickly applied the clamp. Her fingers felt thick and out of touch as she attempted to attach the last remaining ribbon.
“Damn,” she muttered the same moment the stranger entered her peripheral vision. He’d probably been standing close by for a second or two, but she’d been so involved in her trip down memory lane she’d overlooked his presence.
“Oh. Hello. Sorry. What can I do for you?”
The hood of his thermal-weave sweatshirt had fallen away and was scrunched around his neck. Chin down, his gaze seemed fixed on something inside the lighted display that separated them. His straight black hair—oily and clumped together in spots as if he’d been wearing a stocking cap at some point—was her first clue to his ethnicity. His skin tone was several shades darker than Char’s. That could have been attributed to the sun or the cold wind, but his cheekbones cried Native American. Char guessed him to be her age or a little bit older. Overall, he had an I-clean-up-better-than-I-look-at-the-moment way about him.
He brought his hand up and coughed into his fist. Something in the gesture set all sorts of alarms off in her mind, rendering her fingers useless. The balloon she was holding slipped from her grasp. She made a wild reach to grab it, but the brush of air merely encouraged it to go up, until it reached the ceiling, where it bounced along until becoming trapped in the acrylic dome skylight.
The stranger turned slightly to follow the pink escape artist as it made its brave drive for
freedom. In profile, she could see his scrubby black beard. It contained a hint of silver.
The fluttering sensation in her chest grew.
“Hey, do I know—” Her words got stuck in her throat the instant his gaze met hers. Those eyes. She would never in a million years forget those eyes.
Yep, chickadee, that’s him, the voice in her head chortled. Eli Robideaux. The source of all your moanin’ and groanin’ and weepin’ and carryin’ on all these years.
And, if I’m not mistaken, he’s here to rob you.
CHAPTER TWO
“I DON’T WANT TO DO THIS, ma’am, but, um…give me all the cash you got and I won’t…I won’t hurt you.”
Eli had been plotting the best way to rob this place ever since he spotted the stupid-looking teepee from the road. The guy who’d picked him up near Hermosa—not something Eli would have done if he’d been a white guy looking at a scruffy, stinky red man—was only going as far as the Sentinel Pass turnoff.
“Hurt me?” the clerk with the odd hairdo repeated.
“I could tie you up if that would help. After you give me the money, I mean.” He wasn’t making sense. Why would he? He wasn’t a felon. Usually he was the one arresting people like him.
The thought aggravated the pounding in his head. “Now. I need the money now.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why are you robbing me? Haven’t you caused me enough heartache over the years?”
He shook his head, as if that might rearrange her words in a way that would make sense. Was he supposed to know her? She had to be a good five or six years younger than him. Maybe he’d arrested her once.
“For the record, I’m not robbing you. I’ll sign an IOU for whoever owns this place. He’s Indian, right? He’ll understand.”
“She’s not Native American,” she said, her tone primly politically correct. “She’s me. And I don’t understand.”
Finding Their Son Page 2