The backs of her eyes burned and she blinked furiously, not wanting to cry; she was so damn tired of crying.
She was still in the loose grey shirt and leggings she’d worn the night before. The bed was still made and she was draped with the old quilt her grandmother had stitched. She guessed Carlos had covered her up before he’d slipped out.
This was not the way this morning should have gone. She was supposed to have awakened and found her man next to her, beat up and exhausted, as full of tumultuous emotions as she was, searching for answers and hoping that they could figure out what had happened, and where they were going together. He wasn’t supposed to quit on her. Not after she’d learned the truth, not after she’d shot a man…not after she’d decided she could live with the truth.
Though it was fruitless, she checked the rest of the house, a shiver tickling up her spine when she stepped over the bloodstain on the carpet, but still no Carlos.
She could envision her mother’s face, that told-you-so look of hers as she slowly shook her head side-to-side. Diane may have been right about the heartbreak, but she was not, Alma knew, correct in her reasoning.
When she’d given up, she returned to the bedroom to gather up fresh clothes, intending to take a shower, and that’s when she found the note.
He’d used a sheet of her monogrammed stationary, and the hard-pressed, slanted script reminded her so much of Sam’s handwriting it was frightening. Almost as frightening as the stack of cash sitting next to it on the nightstand. Alma’s legs gave out and she sat down hard on the edge of the bed.
Morning Babe,
Before you even start thinking it, you’re not giving the money back. It’s for you and the baby. I love both of you so much. You and little Sam. And that’s why I’m so, so sorry I put you in danger. You don’t have to worry anymore, it’s all over, and I won’t bother you again. Take good care of yourself and Sam. Love you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Noble to the last, he’d even managed to leave her a Dear Jane letter that put wistful tears in her eyes. As she read the note for the fifth time, committing the lines to memory, a few of those tears pattered down onto the paper.
“Dumbass,” she muttered, regretting the word the moment it left her lips. He’d always let his emotions overrule his logic, but this time, she knew logic had finally won out. If she were smart, she would thank him for making the hard decision, take the cash, and get on with her life.
The life part she could handle: that she needed. But lucky for both of them, she wasn’t all that smart.
33
Marty Dolman had an office in Alpharetta he considered his home-away-from home. Just down the street from the Ferrari dealership, he’d spared no expense in outfitting the three-story commercial building that was a modern masterpiece of steel and glass. The lobby had been designed to service a client, or even potential client’s every need: travertine tile floors, lush, chocolate-colored leather furniture arranged in artful conversation groups, a coffee bar, a bistro. All the countertops were done in black marble and Marty himself had overseen the installation to ensure that they bisected the average adult at the perfect height, so his clients were comfortable while they were greeted by the receptionists.
His personal office was on the third floor, in a north-facing corner so he had sunlight all day that poured in through the windows that flanked his desk. He had accumulated oddities from across the globe: a Samurai sword, a grandfather clock from London, two bronze foo dogs that guarded the entrance between his private sitting room and his work area, potted tropical plants, half of which were poisonous. His furnishings were dark wood, the floor knotted pine that had been covered with Oriental rugs. Framed photos of his family and his travels were nestled in the short stretches of wall between windows. It was a sumptuous, splendid place, and best of all, with a fold-out sofa bed, mini fridge, microwave and flat screen TV, it comfortably served as an apartment on nights he couldn’t bring himself to go home: which was about four nights a week. He spent at least one night with one of the receptionists, Tina of the perfect teeth and perfect fake breasts. Which meant he had to endure his wife and children only on weekends.
His children. Marty sat back in his chair, taking a brief respite from the inundation of phone calls that had held him captive for the past hour and let his eyes slide over toward the framed picture of his family at the edge of his desk. There was his frigid wife Melissa with her painted-on smile. His eight-year-old angel Daphne who was fast becoming the brattiest little shit he’d ever laid eyes on. And of course, Trevor. He hadn’t even been sober for the photo, which had been taken by a high-priced professional on the back terrace of their house.
Trevor was twenty and had already been to rehab twice. Of course, Marty didn’t put any stock in the spas and pools of the supposed medical facility that had looked more like a luxury resort.
Fucking Trevor. The little bastard’s coke habit had become so out of control that two years ago, two thugs with gun-shaped lumps in their pockets had shown up on his front lawn, hell bent on collecting what they were owed. After much consternation, Marty had crunched some numbers and decided to do the only thing he could do as a successful businessman: He’d begun his own operation. Trevor didn’t owe anyone and now, the small time dealers were coming to him. Selling blow made Marty’s skin crawl, but it was lucrative, and controlling the seedy under layers of this city was not a bad thing at all.
Of course, there had been resistance. The cocaine trade in Atlanta had previously been controlled by a handful of street gangs and a couple of wannabe players like Sean Taylor, but the money Marty had funneled into their pockets had changed the tide in his favor. It didn’t matter what their tattoos said, what kind of creeds any of the gangsters lived by, when millions of dollars were up for grabs, they all took the money and ran, ran right the hell out of the drug business.
Some of them, like Taylor, had been absorbed as part of his corporate model and had proved useful.
Thinking of Taylor, his gut tightened with unease. Sal had gone off the radar the night before and hadn’t returned. That call had come into the office line – and boy, had he been sweating when he’d listened to the voicemail – and after that, no one had seen Sal. At least, not the people who knew Sal existed anyway…
The intercom on his desk crackled to life. “Mr. Dolman?” his secretary Paula – one-hundred-seventy pounds of motherly dependability – intoned. “Two men here to see you.”
Marty thumbed the transmit button. “I don’t have any appointments scheduled.”
“I told them that but - ” there was a rustling sound. He heard men’s voices. “You can’t go in there!” Paula protested, and then the door to his office swung open.
In an automatic gestured he’d practiced in order to project an air of polished superiority, Marty leaned back in his chair and smoothed his tie, hands coming together afterward and linking on top of his desk.
The two men who entered his office without, he noted with disgust, any modicum of respect, were both in suits. One was white, middle-of-the-road in the height and looks department, a sprinkling of salt in his hair. The other was black, tall and fit looking, his suit cut a little nicer than that of his counterpart. Marty recognized him with a jolt the same moment both of them withdrew wallets and flashed him Atlanta police badges.
Sean Taylor.
“Son of a - ”
“Martin Dolman,” Taylor said with a smug grin, “you’re under arrest.”
34
Six Months Later
“Well, the thing is, I want my job back.”
Marianne Parks, the sales manager at Brightside Publishing, had an austere face; it was all sharp points and harsh planes: a long, regal nose, deep-set eyes that gave her an almost skeletal quality. She was not pretty, though might have been called handsome in an attempt to lend her some sort of compliment. Her hair, blonde going grey, was pulled back in a bun so tight it narrowed the corners of her eyes. And her thin, po
inted shoulders were visible even inside the burgundy pantsuit she wore.
She was a talented woman, no question, but her people skills had always left a little to be desired; at least, Alma thought so. And that was why she hadn’t wasted any time in this meeting. She wanted her job back, and while the notion of coming right out and asking for it would have seemed extreme a year ago, a lot had changed since then.
Samuel Carlos Morales had come into the world on April the fifth, at four-eighteen in the morning. Seven pounds, four ounces of red-faced, healthy, screaming baby boy. Everyone had told her that her priorities would shift, that she’d be so in love she wouldn’t know what to do, but she hadn’t believed them. They’d been right, of course, because in those first milliseconds, when he’d been gross and slimy, laid up on her stomach so the doctor could cut the cord, Sammy had become her world.
But single motherhood was the most difficult struggle of her short adult life thus far. It was up-all-night and falling asleep on her feet, crying and comforting and changing diapers. Some days she felt a hundred, others fifteen and incapable of rearing another human. She wished Sam could see him, and wished Carlos could hold her when she started feeling overwhelmed and just needed a little bit of comfort to get her through it.
But here she was, mid-June, her baby two months old, and she was taking those steps she had to take, making those decisions she couldn’t put off.
Beyond the window over Marianne’s left shoulder, a Bradford pear tree waved lazily back and forth in the breeze, all its emerald leaves flipping around and around on their stems, the flashes of light underbelly and bright top painting a beautiful image against the backdrop of a blue sky smeared with wispy clouds.
If only Marianne looked as cheerful as that tree.
Her mouth twitched. “You were let go.”
Alma had been ready for this. She’d read her spiel to Sam, who’d responded with saliva bubbles and a whiny little sound. “I know,” she said. “And I deserved it. But I saw the sales position opening online.” She pulled the internet job posting from the pocket of her blazer and unfolded it, setting it on the desk between them. “And I know that if I got the job once, I still have the education and skills necessary to make a valuable member of your team.”
Marianne propped an elbow on the desk, hand upraised, a pen between her fingers she kept clicking out and then in. Her tight expression conceded Alma the tiniest of points, but she wasn’t smiling yet. “I let you go because your performance was subpar. I can’t have my sales staff missing meetings with clients, Alma.”
“I know that too.” Alma schooled her features into what she hoped was some version of a puppy-dog face. “Not that it’s an excuse, but my husband was murdered and I was in a bad place, emotionally. But I’ve put my life back together and - ”
The manager silenced her with a flick of the pen she held. “You have a baby now.”
“My mom keeps him during the day while I’m at work.”
“You’re working?”
“Waitressing.”
Marianne seemed to contemplate a moment, then she frowned. “You were a welcome addition to Brightside, Alma. I don’t doubt your competency or sense of the business.” The frown deepened. “But we can’t have an employee with so much personal drama that it affects the company.”
This was what she was afraid of, and unfortunately, it wasn’t an argument Alma was confident she could win. She could try, though.
“I want to be in the publishing world. I want to be submerged in literature. And I promise you, no more personal drama is going to get in my way. If you could see to giving me a second chance, I won’t let you down, Marianne.”
**
An hour later, the blessed cool of air conditioning ruffling her hair, Alma pulled her truck into a parking spot that was dappled with the shade of oak trees at one of the larger, prettier public parks in Marietta. The moment she killed the engine, the heat seemed to come pressing in through the doors and windows of the truck, caressing her bare arms. After the meeting, she’d shed her blazer and was now in a white tank top and black skinny trousers, platform sandals: an outfit that could move from office to picnic without too much fuss.
Stray bits of pea gravel crunched beneath her feet when she climbed out of the cab, grabbed her purse and set off toward the park entrance. The lot was long and narrow, running perpendicular to the wide, winding sidewalk that traversed the fields, playgrounds, game courts and ended in a nice loop around the duck pond.
It was a hot afternoon, but that was okay, because Alma loved summer. Children swarmed from playground to playground, shouting and whooping, their mothers watching from the benches beneath the trees. She went down the sidewalk, dodged the chalk mural two girls were working on, and found her mother at a picnic table beneath the park’s pavilion.
Diane was sitting sideways on the bench, facing the stroller she’d rolled up to the table, shaking a little stuffed rabbit and making faces at her grandson. Three women with a whole gaggle of elementary age children were at another table, their voices echoing loudly off the tin ceiling of the shelter, but Alma could still hear her mom talking to Sam. “Here comes your mama, sweet pea.” When she glanced up and smiled at Alma, it was the most genuine smile she’d seen her mother give her for a long time. And the good thing was, those sincere smiles were becoming more frequent. “How’d it go?”
Alma drew up to the table and dropped her purse on it, leaned over the stroller. “Hi, baby,” she greeted Sam. He was, to her maternal eyes, a beautiful baby. He had such nice, cute little features, just a few wisps of black hair on the very top of his head. She scooped him up and snuggled him beneath her chin, breathed him in, cherished his weight in her arms. “It went well,” she answered her mother as she took a seat beside her on the bench. Sam she cradled so he was on his back, head supported in the crook of her arm. He was in green overalls with frogs on them, a little blue shirt, stocking feet.
“And that means…?”
“I got my job back,” Alma grinned.
“Oh!” Diane cupped her hands over her mouth, eyes springing wide. She laughed. “Oh, that’s wonderful!”
“It is,” Alma agreed, but her eyes were off and moving, running across the park’s landscape. She had come to pick up Sam and deliver the good news, but that wasn’t why she’d selected this park in particular.
From their vantage point under the pavilion, Alma could see a long stretch of bright green grass. A playground that had been painted in blues and purples, children shuttling down the slides, swinging across the monkey bars, making castles in the sand. And beyond, a landscaping crew tended a massive flower bed the size of a swimming pool full of summer flowers. There were three men and they were all in matching white t-shirts, the company logo printed on the back in stylized script. They had on khaki cargo shorts and boots, khaki, monogrammed hats. Their truck was parked at the curb just behind them: an old Ford flatbed full of rakes, shovels, wheelbarrows and potted trees that had been strapped into place. Alma had seen the rig as she’d driven into the park and had been glad Caroline’s tip had been right: Morales Landscaping was up and running.
Beside her, Diane squinted and frowned. “Tell me that’s not who I think it is.”
“I can tell you, but it won’t make it true.”
She forced a dignified sigh through her nostrils. “So that’s why you wanted to meet here.”
Alma couldn’t contain her grin any longer, it stretched so wide it made her cheeks hurt. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she said, standing and repositioning Sam in her arms.
Diane grumbled to herself, but waved her away.
Platform sandals were not the ideal footwear for uneven ground, but Alma made the most of it as she picked her way across the grass and swung wide around the playground to avoid the kids who swarmed back and forth. The further she walked, the more rapid the beating of the butterfly wings in her stomach became. She had no idea what to expect and suddenly, she felt like a high school girl about to a
sk a cute boy to the prom: terrified and inadequate.
Carlos had sent flowers to her hospital room when Sam was born: a whole dozen pink roses, and as she’d learned how to nurse her baby and greeted the steady stream of visitors, she’d been wondering if he knew anything about flower-color politics. She’d wondered if the lack of red was significant, or if he just knew she liked pink. A few days later, she’d sent him a lengthy thank you note and almost hadn’t sent it because she felt like she’d written far too much, but in the end, she’d mailed it anyway. He hadn’t responded.
So now, as she came closer and closer to the trio spreading pine straw and her eyes moved over her former lover, a lump formed in her throat.
He looked good. Scratch that, he looked fantastic. Tan and fit, the t-shirt stretching tight across his chest and around his biceps. She could see the light sheen of sweat on his arms, the rope-like veins under the skin that she’d always liked so much. He turned and laughed at something one of his coworkers said, straight, white teeth flashing. He looked happy, unburdened. All the dark brooding she’d seen in his face the months they’d been together was gone, and Alma paused, wondering if she should turn back. He was obviously doing quite well for himself without her. What if it had never been about Sam or the drugs? What if his unhappiness had been a product of his relationship with her?
She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, tightened her arms around Sam, and retreated back a step. But then one of the other two guys glanced up and saw her, gave her a smile, and Carlos glanced over too. Their eyes met and he went completely still.
Alma took a deep breath, and then another, letting the second one out in a tremulous rush. “Hi,” she said, though was amazed she’d managed to form sound at all.
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