by Joy Fielding
“Dylan,” Jeff said.
“Yes. Dylan,” Emma repeated. Didn’t he believe her? Was this some sort of fishing expedition? “And aside from that, there isn’t a whole lot to tell.”
“Now, why do I have trouble believing that?”
“You’d have to tell me.”
“Where are you from?”
“I was born in Buffalo.”
“Buffalo?”
“Yeah, but we moved when I was two.”
“Where to?”
“Cleveland, Detroit, Los Angeles, Miami. Name a city, I’ve probably lived there. We moved around a lot when I was a kid. Army brat,” Emma said with a shrug.
“I didn’t realize Detroit and Miami had army bases.”
Emma felt several beads of perspiration forming at her hairline, threatening to disrupt the smooth lines of her new cut. “We moved there after my dad died.”
“He must have died very young.”
“Yes, he did.”
“How’d he die?”
“He was killed in Vietnam.”
Jeff nodded. “Must have been hard, all that moving around.”
“Yeah, it was. It seemed like every time we got settled into a new neighborhood, we’d have to move, and I’d have to start all over again, making friends, getting used to new schools, new teachers. It wasn’t easy.”
“Why’d you have to move?”
“What?”
“You said that every time you got settled into a new neighborhood, you had to move.”
“I didn’t mean we had to move. We just moved, that’s all.”
“Any particular reason?”
Why was he asking her all these questions? Emma was growing impatient and was tempted to gulp down the balance of her cappuccino, make her excuses, and hightail it out of there. Except she’d already used up all her excuses, and a hasty retreat was probably not the best way to handle Jeff Dawson. “My mom got transferred a lot.”
“She was in the army too?”
Emma laughed. “In a manner of speaking, I guess. She was a school principal.”
“She got transferred between cities? Isn’t that unusual?”
“Unusual kind of sums her up,” Emma said. “How so?”
“Let’s just say she was one of a kind and leave it at that, shall we?”
“If that’s what you’d like.”
What I’d like is to get out of here, Emma thought. Was he never going to finish his coffee?
“So, how long have you lived on Mad River Road?” he was asking.
“About a year.”
“You like it?”
“It’s okay.”
“Thinking of moving again?”
“Who knows?”
“There can’t be much in the way of modeling jobs here in Dayton,” he remarked.
“I haven’t really looked into it.”
“No. Why is that?”
“Been there, done that, I guess.”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
“Not really. I mean, I liked it for a while. It was great having people fuss over me and tell me how beautiful I was and stuff, but there’s a lot of pressure involved that people don’t realize.”
“What kind of pressure?”
Emma took a deep breath. “Well, the pressure to be thin, of course. And not just thin, but really, really thin. Unhealthy thin.”
“Thin eyelashes?”
“What?”
“I thought the whole point of mascara was to make your eyelashes look thick.”
You think too much, Emma wanted to shout. “I did other stuff besides Maybelline.”
“Yeah? What other stuff did you do?”
“Some hair products. L’Oréal. I’m worth it,” she said, and laughed again.
“You’re kidding. I’ve seen those ads.”
“The one I did was years ago. Before they started using celebrities. I’m not even sure they aired it in this part of the country.”
“I’m surprised the Maybelline people let you do ads for a rival company.”
“Well, they’re not exactly rivals. I mean, they were totally different products.”
“That’s true.”
“I don’t think the rules were as strict as they are now.”
“You were lucky.”
“I guess.”
“You’re never tempted to get back into it?”
“Not really. Besides, I’m getting a little long in the tooth, as they say.”
“Twenty-nine is old?”
“For a model, yes. Unless you’re Cindy Crawford or someone like that.”
“So, what do you do?”
“What?”
“To support yourself. Do you have a job?”
Emma stared longingly out the front window, the sun shining its harsh spotlight directly into her eyes as she watched a carefree young woman striding toward her car in the parking lot, arms waving freely at her sides. Take me with you, she called silently after her. “I’m not working at the moment, no.”
“You’re between jobs?’ ”
“I guess.”
“Trust fund?”
“What?”
“I’m just curious how you support yourself.”
“I have some money saved up. From when I used to model. Not much left,” she added, hoping to ward off future questions. Enough was enough. “I plan to start looking for a job in the fall, when Dylan goes back to school.”
“What sort of job are you interested in? I might be able to help.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you. I’ll keep that in mind. Now, I hope you won’t think I’m being terribly rude, but I really have to get going. I have all this stuff to do before Dylan gets home. The laundry and groceries …”
“All of which you’ll be paying for, I trust.”
Emma forced her lips into a smile, fighting the unkind urge to toss the mug from Scully’s at his head. “Absolutely. You don’t have to worry about me.” She rose to her feet. “Thanks for the coffee.”
“Don’t forget the mug.”
Emma dropped the mug inside her purse. “Thanks again.”
“Have a nice day,” he said.
“Damn it, damn it, damn it!” Emma exclaimed as she threw open her front door and tore off her jacket, pulling off the layers of clothing beneath it as if her flesh were on fire. “I’m so hot, I’m going to explode,” she shouted at the empty house. Seconds later, she stood naked in front of her kitchen sink, guzzling water from the tap, as if it were a water fountain. “Damn it,” she said again, catching her reflection in the polished steel of the toaster and noting that her hair had started to flip up at the sides, so that it looked as if she were about to take flight. “That’s just great.” She marched back to the front hall, began retrieving her discarded clothes from the floor. “Fifty-five dollars for a haircut and it’s ruined, and it’s all your fault, Detective Do-Good,” she said, snatching the peach-colored sweaters from the floor and throwing them over her arm, along with the yellow cotton blouse, a white T-shirt, a pair of white shorts, and a pair of black capris, all of which she’d managed to hide underneath her regular clothes. “You think you’re so damn smart, Detective Dimwit. What do you think this is? Kiddies’ day at the Exhibition? You think you’re dealing with amateurs? Shit!” She grabbed her purse from where she’d dropped it just inside the front door, then marched everything up the stairs to her bedroom, throwing her purse on the bed and hiding the stolen items at the back of her closet, to be retrieved at a later date.
She sank down on her bed and opened her purse, withdrawing the mug from Scully’s and dropping it on the bed. She didn’t accept Jan’s pathetic attempt at an apology, a conciliatory gesture for not remembering who she was. Stupid thing almost got me arrested, Emma thought, shaking her head at the irony. If it weren’t for that mug, she’d have a beautiful pair of rhinestone earrings and a gorgeous silk shirt. A fuchsia silk shirt. “Fuchsia you, Detective Dawson.” She dug deep into her purse, her fingers quickly loca
ting the object she was looking for. “You think you’re so damn smart.” Emma smiled, her first genuine smile since leaving Natalie’s, as she extricated a small, but surprisingly heavy, brass bowl from her purse and examined it in the afternoon sunlight streaming in from the window.
WOMEN’S BODYBUILDING COMPETITION, CINCINNATI, OHIO, 2002. SECOND PRIZE
Emma would have preferred a trophy for first prize, but she hadn’t had the time to be choosy. She’d selected something small, from the back row, fairly nondescript, so that it wouldn’t be immediately missed. Hadn’t Jan herself admitted she didn’t know exactly how many trophies she had? It might be weeks, even months, before she discovered the trophy was missing. Possibly not even then.
Emma’s smile flipped into a frown. Why had she stolen the worthless trinket? It was ugly, and she couldn’t very well leave it lying around for anyone to see. Besides, Jan was Lily’s boss, and Lily was Emma’s only friend. She had to take the trophy back. What was the matter with her? Why did she do such things? She carried it into the bathroom, hid it inside the small cabinet beneath the sink. She’d take it back as soon as she got the chance, figure out a way to return it to its rightful place without Jan noticing.
And then she’d never steal anything ever again.
TWENTY-TWO
“WELL, what do you know?” Brad asked, breaking over an hour of silence. “We’re about to drive by the Carpet Capital of North America.”
Jamie looked aimlessly toward the side of the highway, her still-swollen eyes eventually focusing on the sign announcing the exit for Dalton, population 21,800. THE CARPET CAPITAL OF NORTH AMERICA, the sign read. Well, why not? she thought absently. America seemed to have a capital for everything else. Why not carpets?
“An amazing sixty-five percent of the world’s carpets are made in Dalton,” Brad said, his voice full of fake enthusiasm, as if he were auditioning for a job as a TV pitchman.
Jamie wondered if he was stating a fact or making up one to impress her. Yesterday she would have found either alternative endearing.
“I read it in a pamphlet back at the motel,” he said, as if monitoring her thoughts. “Apparently, some farm girl supported her family during the Depression by making bedspreads and rugs at home, and other women soon joined her, and before you could say ‘magic carpet ride,’ Dalton had this booming cottage industry that eventually grew into a multi-billion-dollar business. Pretty impressive, huh?”
Jamie said nothing. Did he really expect her to talk about carpets? Was he trying to charm her by taking over her role as tour guide? Did he really think she could be placated so easily?
“I thought you’d be interested in that stuff, seeing as you’re the one who’s usually spouting off about these things,” he said, once again reaching inside her head.
Jamie froze, afraid to allow her thoughts the freedom to form words, for fear he would usurp them, claim them as his own. Without language there is no thought, she remembered reading somewhere, trying to fill her mind with white noise but unable to ignore the tone of Brad’s last statement. The tone warned he was getting impatient with her silence, starting to feel hard done by, as if he were the injured party. Worse—he was getting angry, which meant he could explode at any moment. Jamie decided her best approach was to try not to antagonize him further. If she could just hang on until their next stop, make pleasantly innocuous conversation, convince him that he was on the road to forgiveness, get him to let down his guard, she might be able to make a run for it. “What else did you read about?” she asked, forcing her eyes in his direction. He doesn’t look any different, she thought in amazement. He’s still handsome. Still radiating that boyish charm. Still smiling that devastating grin. Only her response to him was different. Longing had turned to loathing. Disgust had replaced desire. Fear had banished any thought of love.
“Well, did you know, for example, that this whole stretch of Georgia is full of Civil War battlefields? We’re doing it backward, but I-75 actually follows the route of Sherman’s march toward Atlanta. Coming up in another couple of miles is Rocky Face Ridge.” He stared at her, as if this should mean something. “That doesn’t register with you?”
“Should it?”
“Hell, weren’t you paying attention in history class?”
“History was never my strong suit.”
He shook his head, as if she’d disappointed him. “I can’t believe you don’t know this.”
Jamie shrugged, afraid to say anything for fear of offending him further.
“Rocky Face Ridge was the scene of a huge battle between General Sherman’s army and the Rebel forces. Something like a hundred thousand men fought here. Think it was in 1864, maybe ’65.”
“Were there a lot of casualties?” Jamie asked, trying to inject some enthusiasm for the topic into her voice.
“Couple thousand, I think.”
Jamie nodded, not sure how much longer she could keep up her end of the conversation without bursting into tears.
“And coming up soon, right before we get to the Georgia-Tennessee border, is Ringgold, scene of the great locomotive chase. Surely you remember that.”
“Was that where Union soldiers stole a train, and it was chased through the countryside by its crew, half of them on foot?” Jamie couldn’t imagine what recess of her brain she’d managed to pull that one out of.
“Hey, pretty good.”
“I think I saw a movie about it.”
“I saw that movie too,” Brad agreed enthusiastically. “They played it on the History Channel one night. It starred Fess Parker. You know who Fess Parker was, right?”
Oh, God, Jamie thought. Who the hell was Fess Parker?
“Fess Parker was the guy who played Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone on TV,” Brad answered. “Now if you tell me you don’t know who they were—”
“I know who they were.”
“Tell me.”
Was this some sort of test? Was he going to pull off the side of the road and rape her again if she didn’t get the right answer? “Davy Crockett was a frontiersman.…”
“ ‘Davy, Davy Crockett,’ ” Brad sang. “ ‘King of the wild frontier.’ Go on.”
“He was born in 17—” She couldn’t do this. What if she made a mistake? What if she got her dates confused? Her voice broke off, threatened tears.
“Born in 1786 in Limestone, Tennessee,” Brad recited easily. “Served under Andrew Jackson against the Creek Indians in the war of 1813 to 1814, was elected to the state legislature in 1821, served three terms in Congress, eventually becoming a political opponent of Jackson and a voice of conservatism, ultimately defeated in 1835. He then moved to Texas, where he died defending the Alamo in 1836.”
“Wow,” Jamie said, impressed in spite of herself.
“Daniel Boone,” he continued, obviously enjoying himself. “Born in 1734, in a little town near Reading, Pennsylvania.”
“Another king of the wild frontier,” Jamie interjected, noticing Brad’s shoulders stiffen with the interruption. She held her breath.
“His family were Quakers, and they left Pennsylvania and settled in the Yadkin valley of North Carolina, where Boone became something of an explorer. He founded Boonesboro on the Kentucky River, and was elected a captain of militia in 1776. Captured by Shawnee Indians during the American Revolution and adopted as a member of the tribe, he escaped after four months and founded a new settlement, Boone’s Station, near what is now Athens, Kentucky. He served several terms as representative in the Virginia legislature.”
“He was quite a guy,” Jamie said, when it became evident she was expected to speak.
“Well, it turns out that a lot of the heroic stories you hear about him aren’t true, but so what? Man’s a legend, right?”
Jamie smiled with what she hoped passed for admiration. “Right.”
“And Fess Parker became this big-shot winemaker in California.”
“Fess Parker,” Jamie repeated, shuddering with the realization that just yesterday m
orning, she would have been hopelessly enthralled by Brad’s easy command of historical trivia. “How do you know all this?”
“About Fess Parker? I read it in People magazine.”
“About Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone,” she corrected.
He shrugged. “I had a lot of time on my hands last year. Did some brushing up on my reading.”
“A man of many talents,” Jamie said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Jamie said quickly. “Just that I’m surprised that between running your computer business and designing software programs, you actually found any time to read.”
“Sometimes it finds you,” Brad said cryptically.
Jamie nodded, too tired and too afraid to ask what he meant. “You’re also a man of many surprises,” she said finally, all she could muster.
“Not all of them bad, I hope.”
Jamie forced herself to smile. “No, not all of them.”
“Does this mean we’re friends again?” Brad asked after a pause of several seconds.
“Friends?” Jamie strained to keep the incredulity out of her voice.
“You gotta know how sorry I am about what happened.”
About what happened, Jamie repeated silently. As if it had been something beyond his control. As if he’d had nothing to do with it. “It didn’t just happen,” Jamie reminded him.
“I know that. I know I got a little carried away.”
“You hurt me, Brad.”
“I know that.”
“You really hurt me.”
“And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jamie. Please. You gotta forgive me. I’ve been kicking myself all day about it. It’s making me crazy. You know I love you, don’t you?”
Jamie’s eyes filled with tears. Was she going crazy? Could they really be having this discussion? “I’m not sure what I know anymore.”
“Aw, come on, Jamie-girl. You gotta know I love you. You might not know anything about Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett, but you gotta know that.”
Jamie smiled tentatively.
“That’s better,” Brad said. “That’s more like my Jamie-girl.” He reached over and grabbed her thigh.
Instantly Jamie recoiled.
“Hey, take it easy. I’m not trying to start something here.” He managed to look both surprised and hurt. “I thought we were past that.”