The jerk in question was, of course, Eli. At least as far as Franco was concerned. “If Congdon is a jerk, I’m sure I can manage him.”
“Oh, honey, if anyone can, it’s you,” Sherrie said.
They all smiled so hard and brightly at each other that Giorgio forgot himself for a moment and smiled, too.
Just look at what happened when you did the true, right thing, Glory thought, bemused.
In an indirect way, this was all Eli’s doing.
“Mr. Francone’s a nice boy, isn’t he?” Sherrie prompted. “Is there anything . . . you know, there, with you two?”
“Nope,” Glory said firmly. “Let’s just say he kind of wagered on something and he lost. And this is his way of making good on his bet.”
Oddly enough, Sherrie and Glenn shot each other relieved looks. Funny to think they might actually have an opinion about her love life.
The door jangled then. Sherrie and Glenn turned in tandem to the sound. Glory had her calling, and the Misty Cat was theirs.
“You can say you knew us when, hon.” Sherrie patted her arm, one step toward the day’s first customer already.
“And the sooner I say that, the better, right?” Glory teased.
Both Sherrie and Glenn laughed a little too loudly at that.
Glory got home around four p.m, to find Gary Shaw and her mom were sitting at the kitchen table, absorbed in some paperwork and each other. She could practically see the little insular bubble of happiness surrounding them.
Glory sneaked past them, scooped up their old beige landline phone from the hallway, dragged it into her bedroom and shut the door. Just like when she was a teenager burbling on about God knows what—she couldn’t remember now—to Mick Macklemore.
She picked up the receiver, raised her hand to punch buttons and froze.
It only just occurred to her that she didn’t have Eli’s cell phone number.
But her fingers knew the number pattern of his landline the way they knew where to go on her guitar strings when she was playing a familiar song.
She was pretty sure he wouldn’t be home. But she wanted to hear his voice.
The greeting was typically minimalist:
“Leave a message for Eli.” BEEEEEP.
Her heart gave a pleasant stab as his baritone washed over her.
She hung up quickly, lest she sound like a perv breathing into the line.
For privacy reasons, he didn’t have a Facebook page. She knew a lot of law enforcement personnel didn’t. She didn’t know his e-mail address, either.
She supposed the two of them had . . . always just actually talked to each other, mostly. Like a couple of Luddites. Had always taken for granted that they’d see each other.
So she called his office. The cop shop was pretty small in Hellcat Canyon, so odds were pretty good one of the deputies would answer the phone when someone called the main number rather than 911, especially if the receptionist on duty was in the bathroom.
She exhaled, realizing her heart was hammering like a fourteen-year-old calling her first crush.
That wasn’t far from the truth, actually.
“May I speak to Deputy Barlow, please?”
“Oh, Eli is out of the office for a few days, Glory,” Deputy Owen Haggerty told her over the phone.
Crap! He’d recognized her voice!
“He’s in court all day today and he’s going up to county tomorrow morning. Something I can do for you?”
“Er—No, thank you, Owen. No message! Everything’s great!”
Click.
Her heart was hammering. For heaven’s sake, she needed to get a grip.
She put the phone gently down in its cradle. And mulled.
It was just that it still wouldn’t feel entirely real until she told him. And when she did tell him, this remarkable, miraculous thing would become even better. And a million things could happen between now and seven a.m. Tomorrow. From now until then, until she actually saw Wyatt Congdon in person, it would feel like that dream she’d had once where she was trying to cross Main Street downtown, but the street just kept getting wider and wider as she walked and no matter how fast she walked she could never get across until she woke up, sweating.
And yet telling Eli about Congdon would mean telling him about what had transpired between her and Franco, and that would be part of a conversation that could well determine the rest of her life. And though she knew Eli was likely losing sleep waiting to hear from her, she didn’t want to have that conversation over the phone.
Maybe it was all for the best this way.
She sucked in deep breath, and released it slowly. And took the phone back to its perch in the hallway.
“Oh, Glory, honey, when did you get in? What on earth are you . . . Is that your brother’s shirt?”
“Hi, Mom. Hi, Gary. Yep. Found it in the laundry pile this morning and I was a little desperate. Thanks for covering me up last night, by the way. I didn’t even hear you come in. I must have been zonked.”
“You really were out like a light, honey.” She paused. “But you did stir and mumble a little when I put the comforter over you.”
Glory was amused, and a little worried, hoping she hadn’t said anything too profane. She’d probably said “Freebird!” Or “show us your tits!” God only knew she’d heard that often enough. “What did I say?”
Her mom hesitated. “You said, ‘Eli.’”
Glory froze like a criminal in the beam of an overhead helicopter.
And for an instant the silence was total apart from the refrigerator humming in the next room.
“I miss him, too, honey,” her mom said finally, softly.
Gary Shaw was taking all of this in with the sympathetic air of a man who had already heard everything about the Greenleafs, and not only could handle every bit of it, but rather liked it.
And now Glory realized they didn’t talk about Eli or Jonah in the house because her mom understood how Glory felt about it. Her mom had been honoring Glory’s feelings.
Glory was a little abashed she’d been found out. But it was useful to know she’d muttered his name in her sleep. Because she supposed the word that popped out when your mind was shut off and your heart was unfettered by analysis, when you were at your most surrendered . . . well, that must be the truest word you knew.
Eli was proud of how well he seemed to be holding it together, admirably, even, in the absence of a phone call or any word from Glory since that day. He’d said his piece, she’d said hers, and there was peace in that. Piece and peace reminded him of that dip Macklemore’s misspelled tattoo, and then he thought about Francone, and even though he knew Glory, at heart, was made of integrity, he knew she was also made of ambition. And the effort it took not to analyze or extrapolate what might come next was like balancing on the top rail of that old whitewashed fence out near that pasture by the elm tree.
He’d spent a long but satisfying day testifying in court yesterday and he was going to work a short shift before he headed out to Sacramento for his meeting with Leigh, armed with an impressive PowerPoint presentation regarding a proposed ten-year plan for his life on his laptop.
Deputy Owen Haggerty was at the front desk when Eli checked in.
“Morning, chief. You’re heading up to county today, right? Nothing’s really happening yet. Glory Greenleaf called here yesterday looking for you, though. She said it was WHOA.”
Eli lunged at Owen and clutched his shirt like someone in a melodramatic 1930s gangster movie.
“What do you mean ‘whoa’? What the hell? What’s wrong? Is she okay? Owen, what the hell?”
Owen’s eyes got huge. “She’s fine! She said it was nothing. Didn’t leave a message. The WHOA was for your face.”
Eli released his deputy, thoroughly amazed to realize he hadn’t actually been keeping it together all that well.
“What’s wrong my face?” His hands went up to explore it.
Owen stood back and smoothed his shirt and appeared to
give some good thought to this question. “Well, when I said the words Glory Greenleaf your expression was kind of like you got hit with a shovel. You know, sort of dazed? But also as if getting hit with the shovel somehow adjusted your internal lighting and you were about five times brighter.”
They stared at each other.
Owen’s eyes were glinting.
Eli willed a flush not to happen. Judging from his skin temperature, he hadn’t completely succeeded.
“Very observant. Good use of detail, Owen,” Eli said finally. “Anyone ever tell you that you should go into law enforcement?”
Owen was studying him curiously, his eyes still shining.
And Eli was going to have to stand there and watch realization dawning in his deputy’s eyes, because Eli couldn’t not say what he said next. He cleared his throat. “If Glory calls again . . . give her my cell phone number. And make sure I know about it right away.”
“Oooohhhh!” Owen was all insinuating realization. “It’s like that, huh?” Owen began to purse his lips.
“So help me, God, if you make a kissy noise, Owen, I will shoot you.”
Owen relaxed his lips obediently.
But they only wavered and curled up again into a grin.
Eli made an irritated noise and a little chopping gesture with his hand. “Bye, Deputy.”
“Have a safe trip, Eli. Give my best to Devlin. Be safe out there.” Owen’s voice was still suffused with amusement.
Eli grunted and stalked out to his cruiser, hurled his packed overnight bag into the backseat.
He sat for a moment. But why had Glory called? Had she come to some kind of conclusion? To say good-bye? To say I’m coming over, please be naked when I get there? To say Franco proposed and it’s on YouTube?
He backed out of the parking lot a little too emphatically, maybe, then took a breath and forcibly steadied himself, because he was the law, not a stroppy teenager, and he could manage this without acting out.
He took in a deep breath. Whatever she had to say, he would hear it. As long as she was okay, he could wait.
It was that tender hour of the morning when pale gold light was just creeping up over the mountain, and Main Street was still metaphorically yawning and stretching. A few awnings were being unfurled, blinds on storefronts cast upward, flowers and fruit set out in front of their markets.
“Hey, Eli?” Owen’s voice came over the radio suddenly.
Eli gritted his teeth and seized the radio. “Yeah, Owen?”
“Got a call that the burglar alarm at the Misty Cat was tripped. Little early for them to be open, isn’t it?”
He was relieved not to be teased. “Yeah. It’s probably nothing, but I’ll check it out.”
He reached the foot of Main, where the Misty Cat sat (it had been built at the foot of the hill right above the original mining camp, so inebriated miners could stumble out the door and roll right back down into camp, or so legend had it). He pulled to the curb and cut the engine. He knew this beat, the Harwoods, and the Misty Cat so well, and not once since Eli had worked in Hellcat Canyon had they forgotten to disarm the alarm when they did open.
There was a first time for everything, he supposed. It could be a malfunction.
Still, he put his hand on his gun as he approached the window to peer in.
Two men he’d never seen before were sitting at a table near the stage. His senses went on high alert.
But none of the other chairs had been pulled down from the tables yet, and they formed an obscuring forest of chair backs. He couldn’t get a clear look at them.
He pushed the door gently; it was unlocked. He slowly, slowly pushed it open to try to avoid jangling the bells, slipped inside, and moved toward them quietly.
They turned toward him, faces expectant but not surprised. And then they both went taut with a sort of irritation.
Oh yeah. These two were definitely not burglars.
One was older and slim and fit in that sleek, yoga-and-personal-trainer Los Angeles way. His clothes, his skin, everything about him had that polished look that a particular sort of wealthy person had, the kind who mostly moved between air-conditioned limos and planes and air-conditioned buildings and mansions and ate only wheatgrass and chickens who ranged free and the like. And he had an air of detached absorption and the sort of charisma conferred by power and utter certainty.
Eli knew a few powerful people. That particular air was cumulative, something that developed over time, and it was earned.
Across from him sat a younger Asian guy, just as wiry slim and fit but a little taller, wearing what Eli thought of as a groovy Franco Francone–esque shirt. He had an expensive-looking haircut and an array of electronics—a phone, an iPad, and so forth were spread out on the table in front of him.
“Good morning, Officer,” the older guy drawled, not sounding the least surprised. He didn’t move or rise. “You don’t look like Glory Greenleaf.”
Eli frowned, bemused. And then with a blast of clarity he knew who this guy was.
Hoooooooly shit.
“Good morning. The alarm was triggered and I stopped in to investigate. You two planning to rob the place?”
“No crime occurring here,” the old man informed him. “Unless you want to arrest Miss Greenleaf for the crime of wasting my time.”
The only thing that got arrested was the assistant’s chuckle. By a hard glare from Eli.
“You’re Wyatt Congdon,” Eli guessed, keeping his tone pleasant.
“My reputation precedes me, eh?” Congdon smiled faintly.
“Something like that.” Eli didn’t quite smile. Where the hell was Glory? She was never late. And she would definitely never be late for this.
“And you are?” Congdon prompted.
“Deputy Sheriff Eli Barlow.”
It seemed as though, for whatever reason, Francone had coaxed Congdon to Hellcat Canyon. He’d brought the mountain to Muhammad, so to speak, instead of luring Glory to Napa. Which could mean Francone was stepping up his campaign to nail Glory. Or that she had done something, said something to Francone to make this happen.
And Eli had no idea where he stood.
And suddenly he realized it didn’t matter.
All he knew was that Glory wasn’t here. And if she wasn’t here, that meant something was wrong.
And Eli would move a mountain to get her here, if that’s what it took. No matter what happened. No matter what she decided.
“I’m Justin Chen. Junior vice president of Stellium Records,” the young guy suddenly volunteered.
“Nobody cares, Justin,” Congdon explained patiently.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Chen,” Eli said. Pointedly. “If you wouldn’t mind, gentlemen, letting me in on exactly why you happen to be sitting in the Misty Cat before opening time, and why you hoped I was Glory Greenleaf? Seems the alarm was tripped, and I’ll need to put it in my report.”
Congdon sighed. “Certainly, Officer. Our apologies about tripping the alarm, by the way.” Congdon shot a look at Mr. Chen, who was clearly going to be assigned blame. “I’m here as a favor to Franco Francone. His father was my college roommate. He’s my godson. And he knows me well enough not to waste one particle of my time. But he was sufficiently persuasive with regards to Miss Greenleaf’s talents to get me to drive two hours to this little . . .” He waved a manicured hand vaguely, irritably, to indicate the whole of Hellcat Canyon.
Oh, how sweet. Congdon clearly wanted to use a word like backwater or bumfuck but he was being sensitive to Eli’s feelings.
“It would take a nuclear holocaust to keep Glory Greenleaf from a meeting with you,” Eli said, and he was impressed by how natural the words sounded because inwardly his nerves felt pulled back like a slingshot. “I’ve known her all my life and I would swear to that in court. Something must have held her up. A flat tire, maybe. The roads out here can be a little tricky.”
Eli sensed these words were basically a drop trickled into the ocean of Congdon’s
indifference.
“I guess that would make this Miss Greenleaf’s Hiroshima, then.” Congdon was amused, albeit in a detached and cynical way. Glory was nothing to him.
It was one of the more discordant moments of Eli’s life. It was inconceivable that anyone should experience Glory as nothing, when she was in fact everything.
“Call her cell?” the assistant offered, nervously, placatingly into the chilly silence.
“She doesn’t currently have one,” Eli said.
He shouldn’t have said that.
Or maybe it was exactly the right thing to say.
Because the two men, who had seemed to be restlessly rustling their flight feathers when he’d entered the restaurant, went still. It was clear that whereas Glory was just an irritant before, she’d now become faintly interesting, albeit in a circus-freak way, to these men. Because in their world, not having a cell phone was akin to not having a head.
“I’ll get her here inside of fifteen minutes,” Eli said abruptly.
“How are you going to manage that, Deputy? Are you going to put out an APB?”
He actually didn’t know. All he knew was that he would. Eli’s faint, bland cop smile betrayed absolutely nothing of his turmoil.
“It’s possible, Mr. Congdon, that you watch too many cop shows.”
“Just the one. Blood Brothers.”
“Of course,” Eli said neutrally. “You’re certain Glory knows she’s supposed to meet you here?”
“I’m told Francone managed to convey the particulars of this meeting to her. Justin found the time in my schedule, after considerable juggling, I might add.”
Justin nodded vigorously.
“And now that son of a bitch Franco is lounging on my estate while I’m sitting here waiting for the flaky Miss Greenleaf.” Congdon sounded amused by this. Clearly he was fond of Francone, and God only knew why.
“Fifteen minutes, Mr. Congdon,” Eli repeated. And now his heart was racing. “She is not a flake.”
Congdon stared at him curiously. “Listen . . . Deputy?” Congdon issued the title gingerly, as if Eli was yet another actor playing a part. “I didn’t really have the ten minutes I just wasted waiting for this person. I don’t have the two minutes I’m using now to discuss this with you. When you see Glory Greenleaf, you can tell her she fucked up her shot, and well, when you fuck up your shot . . .”
Wild at Whiskey Creek Page 25