“Say, you guys been traveling all over? Which place did you like best?” Francine asked.
Daisy grinned.
“I’m Cornelius,” the preacher said. “Please, now, give us a little time. Adult time.”
“Have it your way, asshole.” Francine backed out.
Campbell stayed inside. “Now, Daisy, please, listen. We’ll catch up with them in a few days. There’s a name for this, Stockholm syndrome. Of course you want to be with them, but a simple thank-you is enough. Gentleman, ladies, where did you put Daisy’s clothes?”
“Honey, no, please, stop. I’m so sorry.” Daisy covered her face with her hands.
Campbell stepped close to her. He could feel her sweat. Smell her fresh scent. “Darling, don’t be crazy. Just give me your hand.”
“I can’t! I can’t! Marcy, Berniece, I tried. Cornelius, do something. He is suffering so. Campbell, it won’t hurt anymore if you just say yes.”
Marcy and Berniece gave her a hug.
“Daisy, I have the ring right here in my pocket.”
Campbell watched as Daisy looked to him, then at the women, then at the preacher, and then turned her head to gaze at the bright sky outside the RV. Finally she dropped her eyes and stared at Campbell. “Not today.”
“Listen to the lady,” the preacher said and pushed Campbell out of the RV.
Campbell slipped onto the dirt and stood up. “Daisy, you’re making a mistake.”
“Not this time,” Daisy said, and slammed the door.
The RV burst into life, tires squealing, exhaust pipe pumping out smoke.
It roared away, bumping and thumping down the road, spitting gravel all the way.
Campbell watched it drive away.
“Guess no double dates for a while, Dad,” Francine said, standing beside him. “Guess it’s just us chickens now.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, late afternoon
Coal Banks Landing
E.B.
E.B. walked back toward Ken’s van, shaking his head. God had some sense of humor—have Berniece show up at the campground at the same time he was about to talk to Laura. And now he had only an hour to talk to her in a van full of people. See how that’s going to work, God. Gee, thanks.
A blasting horn from across the campground startled E.B. from his fresh misery. He sprinted the rest of the way, words tumbling around in his mind, and found Ken behind the wheel of the van, leaning out the window, his elbow on the horn. “A dollar late and a dollar short,” Ken spat. “Jesus, E.B., where the hell have you been?”
“It’s a beautiful day, don’t you think?” E.B. forced a smile, climbed inside, slipped by Kris and Jane, and settled in to the vacant seat next to Laura. She was leaning toward the tinted window, her face obscured by her hat. “You okay?”
“I could use a shower.”
E.B. counted heads. “Hey, Ken, what about Campbell and Francine?”
“They wanted to stay out a few more days, head down to Judith.”
“Too bad I didn’t get to say good-bye.” E.B. thrummed his fingers on his knees.
“Prettiest part of the river, I’ll say,” Ken said and punched it. The van bounced and rattled on the dirt road, pebbles pinging the undercarriage. Driving from the dirt road onto the highway, he hit a bump and everyone felt a thunk and flew back in their seats.
“Slow it down a bit, won’t you, Ken?” E.B. asked.
“I wouldn’t be in such a hurry if you hadn’t been so late.”
“I can call, tell them we’re on our way.” E.B. reached for his cell phone.
“Don’t bother. We didn’t get that tower Verizon had planned. All the farmers made a big stink at the last planning meeting and everyone caved. You among them.”
“That wasn’t me, that was Berniece.”
“Oh.”
“Build the goddamn cell towers everywhere, Ken, that’s what I say.” E.B. hoped Ken would stop talking so he could say something to Laura.
“You don’t say,” Ken said.
Ken was silent at last.
E.B. leaned toward Laura. “You seem kind of quiet. Everything all right?”
“You’re squishing me.”
He gave her a few inches of seat space, even though it jammed him against Jane, who pushed back. “Better now?”
“A little. Thanks,” Laura said.
“If you like,” he muttered, “I can give you a local’s tour of Fort Benton. Town’s full of history. It was a trade route in the nineteenth century for buffalo robes and all points north. People would take a paddle wheeler from St. Louis, and once they got here, they’d shift to the stage. A lot of trips up the old Whoop-Up Trail into Canada.”
“Whoop-Up? Why did they call it that?”
“Damn if I know. But would you like the tour? We even have a museum.”
“I have to spend the morning calling the DMV.”
“We have a little one here, off Main Street.”
“In California.”
“But after?” E.B. asked.
“There is no after,” she said, and tucked her head inside her hat.
Ken banked around one turn, then sped into another.
“Ken! You’re driving like a maniac!” Laura looked a little pale.
“All right, all right,” Ken sputtered and slowed down to fifty-five on the turns.
Laura felt grubby. It was stuffy in the van, she felt like a sardine, and E.B. kept leaning on her. She wondered if Stella had Fed Ex’d money and clothes.
Stella would like E.B. Another married man? How could she have been so stupid?
She wished she had a cigarette, if she still smoked, or a drink, like an ice-cold margarita or mojito. She wondered how Mom was. She’d been gone too long.
“If you give me an hour or two, I could show you my place,” E.B. said. “My Bassett hounds—Sierra and Skyler—love everyone. Bet they’ve been rolling in manure again. You like dogs, Laura? Cats?”
“Stella will be glad to see me,” she said. “I’ve missed her.” “No big skies in LA,” E.B. mused. “No fantastic sunsets, either. Montana is a little wilder than LA.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”
“What’s the matter with Montana?”
“Lunatics.”
Ken slammed on the brakes. “Goddamn antelope!” The weight of the trailer bumped into the back of the van and made everyone jump.
“See what I mean?” he said. Several tan animals jumped off the road and leapt into fields nearby.
“I thought they were deer,” Laura said.
“Country’s full of them,” Ken said. “If you look across the fields, you’ll see more. They make for great hunting.”
E.B. pointed out the window. “Check out the hollows, they’re gathered there. Go on, take a closer look.”
What looked at first like piles of dead, tan grass turned out to be animals, groups of them, resting near fence corners, lots of them, a tumble of legs. Some lying down, others keeping watch, fawns curled up, their long legs folded beneath them. Their black noses the only sign that they were there. Laura stared, her eyes moist. “They’re so pretty. For God’s sake, how could you shoot them?”
“Everyone in Montana hunts. It’s a rule,” Ken said. He downshifted into a turn. “Except E.B. He doesn’t drink or party or have any fun, do you?” Ken snickered. “He’s a dull boy. You want me to take you hunting, Laura?”
“You want me to take you shopping, Ken?”
“Sounds worse than death, that.”
“Pretty much the same in my book.” But he had a point. If she could learn to be a better shot, that would help, wouldn’t it? Keep assholes like Tucker away. And Harry. What if he was still in Fort Benton, waiting for her? She cringed against the window.
“They don’t have big skies in LA,” E.B. said suddenly. “Just cars, traffic, and smog. Nor prairie dogs,” he added. “Nor foxes at the water, nor wolves howling in the night. Nor frigging antelope.”
“Ken, watch out!
” Laura shouted.
Ken was passing a truck, but a semi was coming up too fast. He careened the van back into the proper lane, making everyone shudder and scream.
In the din, E.B. turned to Laura. “How you doing?”
“Couldn’t be better. I’m covered with bug bites, I’m sunburned, and I stink.”
“My kind of gal.”
“You have a warped sense of humor.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Hold on everybody.” Ken turned off the highway and dropped down a narrow two-lane road. Across the way, mountains rose above a narrow river canyon. A small town sprawled below.
“Fort Benton,” he chirped.
“About bloody time,” Kris grinned. “I need a beer.”
Laura saw the little houses, the brick buildings, and the river beyond, lined by willows; the sun’s final rays illuminating the cliffs.
“You and Berniece getting back together, E.B.?” Ken asked. “She seemed awfully eager to talk to you. Me, I wish I was married.” He laughed, downshifted as he turned left down Front Street, passed the steamboat, and slowed down as he paralleled the river bank.
“Laura, before you leave, give me a minute, won’t you?” E.B. asked.
She stared out the window, trying to ignore him. She felt the hurt in his heart. What about hers? Can’t see you tonight, it’s the kids’ birthday, in-laws coming, or some other such excuse.
In a minute they passed by the Banque Club restaurant, the Pioneer Inn, and on the river side, the grand historic downtown hotel where she’d stayed. The last place where she’d felt safe. It was such an itty-bitty town.
“The Union Hotel,” Ken said, proudly, slowing down even more. “You see there, the Mandan, the riverboat, just beyond? I’ll show you around as soon as we get unloaded.”
Campbell slammed on the brakes as a mother pushing a double stroller and holding the collar of a black Labrador walked carefully across the street. He picked up speed once they were across. A minute later they reached the landing, where he slowed to a stop. The landing where Laura had started her trip, two days and a lifetime ago.
“This is it,” Ken said, got out of the van, and stretched.
From her window Laura checked the streets and sidewalks for Harry or Mike or Bart. No men lurking about except for one, a guy with a cane. The man turned, took a long look at her, and tipped his ball cap. Pale face, crooked little smile, sparse, white hair.
“Can I take you out for a drink? You deserve it,” Ken said, offering a hand.
“Not tonight, I’m grubby and tired and just beat,” Laura said.
“We’re staying in the same hotel. I can meet you in the lobby, in a half hour, if you like,” E.B. suggested.
Laura looked at him, at Ken, at the scraggly characters climbing out of the van, at Beth Ann’s torn, ragged, filthy shorts on her mud-spattered legs. She checked out the view across the water, the bridge beyond, the tall elms casting shadows, and felt the cool breeze coming off the river. Pretty or not, she had to go.
“You’ll feel better after a shower,” Ken said.
“I’ll feel better when I’m home,” she said and marched off to the hotel.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Tuesday, early evening
Fort Benton, Union Hotel
LAURA AND E.B.
Laura shut the door to room 306 and threw the bag of clothes, cosmetics, colognes, and cash Stella had sent onto the bed. She peeled off Beth Ann’s stinky clothes and underthings one by one and dropped them into a steamy little heap on the wall-to-wall carpet, slipped into the bathroom, and stopped, stunned. Oh my God. Clean hot and cold water out of the faucets seemed like a miracle. She jumped in the shower and washed her hair two times with the hotel’s collection—Aveda moisturizing shampoo and Lush Carnation Vitality liquid soap. Reluctantly, she stepped out, smelling like roses. Feeling like spring.
Tan lines showed on her upper arms—a farmer’s tan, just below her biceps. Her upper thighs were darker too, with a sharp line where the hem of Beth Ann’s shorty-shorts had been. Scratches crisscrossed her slender calves. Mitch wouldn’t care for her tan. Screw him. She was proud of her sun-kissed skin. Proud of those scratches and nicks and bug bites. Proud of her strength on the river.
Two bruises, the size of a quarter, bloomed just above her right ankle, and one the size of a fist darkened her upper arm where Tucker had grabbed her. She hoped he was in jail.
She arched her back and did a few stretches. Things were tightening up fast. She’d have to double her exercise regimen for a bit. Back home, she’d attend the rest of Mr. Lee’s selfdefense classes and then take the next session.
She stared in the mirror, looking for new tiny lines around her eyes, and saw a sparkle and a vigor she’d never seen before. She grinned. Alive, yes. Healthy, yes. Worried about her future, yes. In love? Yes! Requited? No.
But one thing she knew for sure. As soon as she was back in LA, she’d move on. The hell with Mitch and the Flying Horses Club. The hell with any club. She could do better than that, any day. That’s what she’d learned from the broad Missouri.
Tucking fluffy towels the size of bed sheets around her, she ran a brush through her clean hair, letting strands fly, then pulled back the heavy brown window drapes and gazed at the river and bridge just outside. Down at the patio there were no men there, at least. She hoped the thugs had given up at last.
Light glinted off the water, and cottonwood tree leaves fluttered on the opposite bank. The last rays of sunlight poured through the window. She loved the slowness of the river, the caramel color of it, the way it bumped and curved around the bridge supports, gathered itself together, and moved along on its way. She opened and closed her palms, examined her broken nails, the nicks and calluses on her fingers, and missed the familiar touch of a paddle in her hands.
E.B. Oh E.B.
She wouldn’t see this view in LA, and she wouldn’t see him.
At home out her kitchen window, there would be nothing but smog. And on her kitchen table little Betsy Finnegan, her calico, curled up on a stack of newspapers, motoring. Nearby would be a stack of paper takeout containers. Even with little Betsy beside her she’d still go home to the loneliness that made her stomach ache in the middle of the night. And in the morning she’d tell Stella about the Missouri, and the man she left behind.
Outside, on the bridge, a young couple was leaning on the railing, his arm around her back, her hand on his shoulder, their heads tipped toward each other.
Oh Jesus, E.B., what have I done? Laura couldn’t bear it.
She pulled on the clothes Stella had sent—a silky white sleeveless top, a pair of oatmeal shorts, and her Manolo Blahnik jeweled kidskin sandals with long straps. Jewels decorated the strap across her chipped and faded fire-enginered toes.
Halfway to the door, she stopped. The shoes didn’t fit right. The knots dug into her skin. She took them off and threw them in a corner.
Wiggled her toes. Better.
She slipped off her sleeveless top, too white, too clean, too silky, and yanked off her white shorts; they were too bright against her tanned skin, and when she pulled on Beth Ann’s smudged dirty shorts, they felt like pajamas. Her top, stained with sweat, felt like a second skin. Later she’d find a Laundromat, and return the clothes, clean and folded, to Beth Ann, who had been nothing but kind.
She felt so much better now, so much more Laura-like.
Poor E.B. She’d heard what he’d said in the van and she’d let him go without a word.
Ready at last, she ran out of the hotel room, slammed the door behind her, and flew down to registration where a young woman was standing behind a mahogany counter pecking at an iPhone.
Laura glanced at her nametag. “Hey, Brenda? Can you please tell me the room number for E.B., uh, . . . Ezra Benson?” Her legs were trembling. What if he changed his mind? Gave up on her?
“Sorry, ma’am,” Brenda mumbled, not looking up. “Hotel policy, we don’t give out room numbers.”
“I know he’s here, Brenda, please. It’s Mr. Ezra Benson. He checked in right after I did.” Laura leaned closer to Brenda’s iPhone and looked down on it. Playing Candy Crush. Of course. “Brenda? Help me out here.” What if he’d headed home to Loma? To Berniece?
“I’m really sorry, but it’s policy.” Brenda twisted the ends of her hair. “I could get fired. Maybe you can call him on your cell?”
“I don’t have a cell phone, obviously I would’ve tried. Come on, be a sweetheart.”
“I can’t. I could lose my job.”
“Brenda, please. His room number. You see”—Laura leaned way over the counter—“I’m his ex-wife,” she whispered, “and his mother’s sick. She hasn’t talked to him for years. Brenda, are you really going to keep a son from seeing his sick mother the day before she dies?”
“I’m sorry,” Brenda sputtered, going white. “Oh God, you could’ve told me . . . here it is, room three-oh-one. Oh, please tell him I hope she gets better real soon.”
“Of course, and thank you.”
Laura tried the lobby phone, but there was no answer. Maybe he was in the shower. She ran upstairs to the third floor, down the hall, and banged on his heavy mahogany door. No answer. She put her ear to the door, but there were no sounds. He was either on his way to the bar to have a drink with Ken or heading home.
Laura flew back downstairs, out of the double doors of the hotel, and into the evening’s last rays of sunshine and saw the bridge, right there, bigger than life. A figure stood on it. Someone tall. Shadows hid his face. Right height, though, right hair. What if it wasn’t him? What if it was one of the thugs? Or worse, Tucker? She stopped in her tracks and took a deep breath. She broke into a run, almost mowed down a white-haired woman walking a small dog, and ran up onto the bridge where wooden boards thumped under her pounding flip-flops.
The man was standing halfway across the bridge, beside the trusses, staring at the water, his back turned to her. As tall as Mike, and as thin. She tightened her hands into fists. She slid up near him, every part of her body ready to fight, breathing hard, and touched his arm.
Montana Rhapsody Page 23