Not Even if You Begged

by Francis Ray

  “Only because charges haven’t been filed, but that doesn’t mean that they won’t be,” Ryan said.

  “For what? Barging into an office?” Dr. Thomas questioned.

  “Vandalism,” Traci answered. “She damaged Ryan’s tire,” Traci guessed.

  “He shouldn’t have been at your house,” Elisa spat. “He’s mine.”

  Dr. Thomas briefly hung his head. “I don’t want to see her treated this way.”

  “Then help her,” Ryan snapped. “You had to know she had a problem. Stop enabling her. Get her the help she needs.”

  “We tried.” Elisa’s father turned on Ryan. “Nothing gets through to her. Sending her away only makes it worse instead of better. She thinks we abandoned her.”

  “So you checked her out early?” Traci theorized.

  Dr. Thomas seemed to age ten years in front of their eyes. “We love her. She’s our only child.”

  “Greg.” Ryan clasped the older man’s shoulder. “Tough love isn’t easy. My guess is that each episode gets more violent. What if she’d taken a knife to a person?” He flinched and Ryan knew she had. “I realize it’s not her fault she’s ill, but I won’t jeopardize the people I care about. Either you check her into a facility within eight hours or I’m filing charges and notifying the medical board.”

  Dr. Thomas’s head snapped up. “They might take her license.”

  “Do you think she could help anyone in her present condition?” Traci asked.

  “No,” he admitted. “There’s a facility, but it’s a five-hour drive from here. There is no way I could get her on a plane.”

  “Bledsoe, can you accompany them in a car?” Ryan asked.

  “Not a problem,” the private investigator answered. “I can have a driver here within fifteen minutes, ready to go. Dr. Thomas, his daughter, and I can sit in the backseat.”

  “Make the call.” To Elisa’s father, Ryan said, “Don’t ruin this chance for her. If you do and she comes after any of us, I won’t hesitate to handle things in my own way.”

  “I won’t.” Dr. Thomas went to Elisa. “We’re going on a little trip.”

  “You can’t fool me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I’ll be good. I promise. Ryan, help me. Please help me.”

  He went to her. “I am.”

  “No, you’re not! Nobody loves me. Nobody!” she cried.

  Traci glanced away from the other woman’s suffering. She’d once felt the same way. She didn’t wish that hell on anyone.

  C h a p t e r

  16

  “It might sound crazy, but—”

  “You feel sorry for her,” Ryan finished for Traci. They stood with their arms around each other, watching Elisa get into the car. All the way to the car she had looked at Ryan, silently begging him to save her. One day, he hoped she’d realize that he had.

  Bledsoe got in after her and closed the back door to the big black Lincoln, and the car pulled away from the curb.

  “You talked to Mother yet?” he asked, not liking one bit that she was hurting and there was nothing he could do to help her. Worse, that he might have caused the pain.

  “No, but I’ve contacted the Sisterhood, and we’re going over there tonight to cheer her up,” Traci told him.

  “I guess that means I won’t see you tonight.” He swept her hair back from her face.

  “Afraid not. Maureen needs us.”

  “She does. Tell her I love her.”

  “She knows, but I’ll remind her.” Traci placed her hands on his chest. “Just think about what I said. Let her live her own life.”

  “Men aren’t honest the way they used to be.”

  “Oh,” Traci said mildly. “So I can’t trust you?”

  “Of course you can,” he quickly told her, then sighed. “I get your point.”

  “Good, because I don’t like repeating myself.”

  “It’s a good thing I know you care.” He kissed her briefly on the forehead. “Call me as soon as you leave Mother’s.”

  “It might be late.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I want to know how she’s doing.”

  Maureen was miserable.

  There was nothing like your own son throwing your age into the face of your lover to kill a budding affair. Drawing her feet under her, Maureen curled up in the window seat overlooking the back gardens and leaned her head back against the wall. Misery ate at her.

  She knew she was in bad shape when she’d missed work for the first time since she’d taken off a week for James’s funeral. She’d felt lost until she remembered his words of encouragement. Now, all she seemed to be able to remember was Ryan shouting her age.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and fought tears. She hadn’t even gotten dressed. If her mother were alive, she would have been scandalized. No decent woman kept her robe on past seven in the morning. Perhaps that was it.

  Maureen wasn’t a decent woman. Her eyes clamped shut.

  A knock sounded on her door. Karen, the maid, was probably coming to tell her she was leaving. Maureen didn’t want to face anyone.

  The knock came again. Maureen pulled her feet from under her and stood. Another thing her mother said—and Lillian Louise Canfield had always had a lot to say whether you wanted to hear it or not—was that the world didn’t care how you felt, so don’t waste their time or yours telling them about it.

  Maureen opened the door. Her bottom lip began to tremble. Tears she’d been trying to hold at bay all day streamed unheeded down her cheeks.

  “There, there, dear.” Nettie drew Maureen gently into her arms. That Nettie was several inches shorter didn’t seem to matter to either of them. “We’re here now.”

  “And we’re staying until you’re better.” Ophelia wheeled a loaded serving cart into the room. Serving dishes, stemware, and plates rattled. Behind her was Donna, carrying a wine bucket and four bottles of wine.

  “Traci called and thought we ought to come earlier than planned.” Betsy carried a bouquet of canna lilies, Maureen’s favorite flowers. “She’s coming as soon as she leaves work.”

  Nettie dried Maureen’s tears with a white handkerchief that had a two-inch border of lace. “What do you want to do first, talk, drink, or eat?”

  Maureen bit her lower lip. “Talking won’t do any good.”

  “Pour her a drink, Donna,” Ophelia suggested.

  “Pour all of us one.” Betsy set the flowers beside the other bouquet. “Simon’s doing?”

  Maureen sniffed and nodded. “He said his mother always said flowers and not cooking makes a woman feel better. That and shopping.”

  “Smart woman,” Nettie said, drying another tear from Maureen’s cheek. “Smart son, too, to know a good woman and go after her.”

  “I’m too old for him, just as Ryan said.” Maureen accepted the drink Donna gave her and stared down into her glass of pinot noir.

  “And here I always thought he was smart.” Ophelia snorted. “Before Ryan put his unwanted two cents in, what were you feeling?”

  “I was happy,” Maureen admitted. “Simon didn’t even seem to mind my hot flashes.”

  Betsy nodded her head emphatically. “I knew, with a strong name like Simon, he had it in him to rise to the top.”

  “And now he’s gone.” Maureen began to tear up again.

  Ophelia guided Maureen’s glass to her lips. “Take a swallow.”

  “It won’t help,” Maureen protested.

  “It won’t hurt,” Betsy said, taking a sip of the wine, then setting the glass aside to remove the tops from various chafing dishes. “I’ll bet you haven’t eaten.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Maureen took a sip of wine to appease them.

  “You can’t drink too much on an empty stomach.” Betsy took the glass. Nettie gently nudged Maureen into a chair and pushed a small table in front of her. Donna placed a plate of soul food in front of her. Ophelia spread a napkin in her lap and gave her a fork.

  “I’m not hungry,” Maureen repeated.


  “Eat,” Nettie said, preparing her own plate. “Afterward, and perhaps after a few more glasses of wine, you’ll realize that Simon is still yours if you want him.”

  “I’m too old,” Maureen insisted, reclaiming her glass and taking a sip without being coerced.

  Ophelia leaned down to whisper loud enough for all of them to hear. “Last night, when it counted, did you feel old or feel good?”

  Maureen flushed, remembered, gave the only possible answer. “Good. I felt good.”

  All of the women moved in closer. Maureen took another sip as her body stirred, hungered.

  “Fill her up again, Donna,” Betsy ordered with a laugh. “Maybe if we get her drunk enough, she’ll jog my memory.”

  “She’ll have to do more than jog mine,” Nettie said. “However, I’m willing to let her try.”

  The women laughed and, wonder of wonders, Maureen laughed with them.

  The party was in full swing when Traci arrived.

  The temperature of the room was a cool sixty-eight, the ceiling fan was whirring, and three empty bottles of wine were lined up like soldiers on the small table in the sitting area of Maureen’s bedroom. Maureen, Nettie, and Donna were on the bed: Ophelia and Betsy on the love seat in the sitting area.

  “It’s a good thing I brought reinforcements.” Traci held up the cardboard box in her hands.

  Ophelia chuckled. “Traci, we’re not lushes.”

  Traci grinned, trying not to stare at Maureen, but she’d noted the tissue clamped in her hand, the misery in her eyes. She could shake Ryan. Might still do it. “Good thing I know that.”

  Sitting the box on the floor, she removed a two-gallon jar with a spigot. Lemon slices, cherries, and raspberries floated on top.

  “Raspberry lemonade,” Betsy said. “Maureen’s favorite.”

  “Heck,” Donna said from the bed. “Just when I was hoping she was drunk enough to spill more about last night.”

  Traci whirled, a thermos of coffee in her hand. “Then perhaps I should pour this out.”

  “Don’t you dare.” Nettie gracefully sat up from reclining against the headboard and got out of bed. “Perhaps it’s for the best. My heart probably couldn’t take the excitement.”

  “Your heart is in better shape than any of ours,” Maureen said, then bit her lip. “Especially mine.”

  Traci frowned. It wasn’t like Maureen to feel sorry for herself. Traci looked at the other women in the room. All almost imperceptibly shook their heads. Setting the thermos aside, she picked up two bottles of alcoholic lemonade from inside the box. “Perhaps we should stick to the hard stuff.”

  “If we do, we’ll be zonked out of our minds.” Donna reached for the half-full glass in Maureen’s hand.

  Maureen moved her hand away and downed the contents. “Anything would be better than this ache.”

  “Ryan is dead meat when I see him,” Traci declared.

  “Save a piece of him for me,” Donna said. Her cry was taken up by all of the women.

  “He-he meant well.” Maureen sniffed.

  Traci went to her, took the glass. “Remember what your mother always said: A braying jackass is loud, but that doesn’t make him important or right. All it makes him is loud.”

  Maureen blinked. “Did I tell you that?”

  “You did, dear,” Nettie confirmed. “It was at the Chippendales review we snuck—er, went to when that loud man tried to pick you up.”

  “Mama didn’t like people to know she knew curse words,” Maureen said, pulling her lower lip into her mouth. “We were too genteel for that.”

  “What do you think your mother would have said if one of her children would have tried to tell her what to do?” Traci asked.

  “None of us would have dared.” Maureen gingerly shook her head. “Even Papa knew when to back down. No one messed with Mama. If one of us had sassed her, she would have knocked us silly. She always said she’d forgotten more than we would ever learn.”

  “Brenda and Carolyn know better than to tell me how to run my life,” Nettie said. “I’m small, so I fight dirty.”

  All the women laughed.

  “My five tried, especially when they started smelling themselves, as the old people used to say. I set them straight,” Donna said. “When they could afford the mortgage, food, car note, and all the other things they were getting, then they could come back and talk to me. Until then, I didn’t want to hear it. Now, they all have teenagers who are giving them the blues. It’s payback time.”

  “Isn’t it something how history repeats itself?” Ophelia turned the spigot on the raspberry lemonade. “My four boys were always in and out of the house, leaving the door open and letting the cool air out. No matter how many times I’d tell them to close the door, they’d forget. Now they live in Texas and their electric bill is enormous. It’s not the door these days, but the lights. My grandchildren complain that they’re put on rations for electricity.”

  “History repeating itself isn’t always good.” Betsy’s hands curved around her empty wineglass. “Errol and David.” She paused, lowered her head. “I worry about my sons.”

  “We’re here,” Nettie said, going to her. “If we can help, you know we will.”

  Betsy blew out a breath. “I took them to church, to their Boy Scouts meetings, their games. I never missed a PTA meeting or parent conference night. Yet …” Her voice trailed off. She lifted her glass, then frowned on seeing that it was empty.

  Ophelia took it, filled it with raspberry lemonade. “You’re a good woman, a good mother. Don’t ever blame yourself. You were there for them.”

  “And Rudolph wasn’t.” Betsy sipped. “His success came first. I’m not sure where the boys or I came in. He thought a generous allowance and loose discipline was the answer. They looked at me as the ogre because I didn’t want them to have so much.”

  Traci crossed to Betsy and hunkered down. “Maureen knows and now I’ll tell you. Due to unforeseeable circumstances, I went to live with my grandfather when I was four. It was hard when other children had their parents and I didn’t. I didn’t really learn to appreciate him always being there for me until I was an adult. He just loved me until I could love him and myself back.”

  Betsy reached out her hand and Traci took it. “Thank you.”

  “You’re a great woman, Betsy.” Traci released her hand and stared at Maureen on the bed. “That goes for you, too, Maureen. I don’t have any children, haven’t really thought about it, but if and when the time comes, I hope and pray I can be there for them as you were there for your child, love them as much.”

  “And not let them control your lives.” Ophelia drained her glass and reached for the strong stuff. “As if childbirth isn’t bad enough. Betsy, you’re not alone in your doubts. There were times when I didn’t know if I was loving them too much or not enough.”

  “They think you’re the bad guy when they can’t do what the others are doing,” Donna said.

  “Or don’t get the latest games or toys,” Maureen put in.

  “That’s why I don’t dye my gray hair.” Nettie took the bottle of alcoholic lemonade and filled her glass. “I earned every last one of those gray hairs raising the girls.”

  “And you never stop thinking of them as your babies,” Betsy said. “They’re just in grown-up bodies.”

  “And think they know everything.” Traci poured herself a glass of the strong stuff.

  “We know they don’t.” Ophelia filled all their glasses. “To the Invincible Sisterhood and our honorary member, strong women who have loved incredible men.” She looked at Maureen and Traci, and continued, “And two who might be blessed to love again.”

  They all toasted. Traci and Maureen were slow to drink. Traci didn’t know about Maureen, but she wasn’t willing to say her desire for Ryan went deeper than lustful caring.

  There had been few times in Simon’s life when he hadn’t known what to do.

  Like a besotted teenager, he’d driven by Maureen’s ho
use four times. He was worried about her. He’d called her store and learned she wasn’t coming in. No one had to tell him that was unusual. Calls to her house had been picked up by the answering machine.

  He pulled up behind a 1978 Buick in mint condition. Nettie’s late husband’s car. The matronly woman didn’t drive so someone must have driven her. In the driveway was a late-model Chevrolet and a five-year-old Benz. They’d been there when he’d driven by a little after four that afternoon. It was a little past seven and the cars were still there.

  He had no way of knowing what that signified. He just hoped it didn’t mean that Maureen was still embarrassed over what had happened. Or worse, thinking about listening to Ryan and not seeing Simon again.

  The flat of Simon’s hand hit the steering wheel. Ryan needed to mind his own business. Simon had no doubt he wouldn’t take kindly to his mother telling him to give up Traci. He’d blow a gasket.

  Simon straightened as a white panel van pulled into Maureen’s drive. Anthony’s Catering was scrawled in elegant black script on the side. The driver, a clean-shaven man in his mid-twenties, got out, opened the back doors, and hopped inside. He quickly emerged carrying several containers.

  The front door of Maureen’s house opened. Simon leaned forward, hoping he’d see Maureen. Instead, it was Traci and Betsy. Betsy took the containers from the delivery man and went back inside the house. Traci waited for the man to return with several trays. She stuffed something into the driver’s pocket and took the trays. The driver closed the door, unfolded the paper from his pocket, then shot a fist into the air. Grinning, he ran back to the van, backed up, and drove off.

  That was a lot of food for no more than six women. Or maybe the others had picked up some women he didn’t know. Perhaps they were having some kind of party. He hoped so. Starting the car, he pulled around Nettie’s Buick. He’d call Maureen tomorrow. Meanwhile, it would be a long, miserable night, just as it had been a long, miserable day.

  Ryan drove straight to Maureen’s house once he left rounds at the hospital that night.