Well, chinga him, too.
“Adrian?” I said out loud. I listened with all my senses.
Nothing. My heart plummeted back down to the pit it now lived in.
Chinga everybody. I got up and grabbed La Mariposa and rode back to my car alone.
***
That afternoon I took Annabelle and Sam to Fadi’s for Mediterranean food. Sam’s moods had pinballed from happy to angry to forlorn to manic, and Annabelle was jetting off to New York in a week and might never come back. I needed to get a fix on both of them, to keep them close to me, so although I didn’t feel like eating, I would make a good show of it. We would recharge, then head back to work and our new normals the next day. Or at least that was how I imagined it.
Sam grabbed a tray and slammed it down on the rails. Annabelle gathered her silverware and napkin with no sign that she’d noticed, but without allowing me to make eye contact with her. My tension ratcheted up. I recognized the warnings. Adrian had tried to get me into meditation, but everything in me resisted it. He’d settled for visualization and breathing exercises. Mostly I’d shined him on. I hadn’t even participated in the breathing exercises in Lamaze. But now and then I used his tricks. This was one of those nows.
I pictured the bluebonnet sky from earlier that morning, my back nestled in sun-warmed grass, my hand in Adrian’s and the length of his body lined up against mine. Then I breathed in time with a slow ten-count.
“Ma’am? Any dips?” The server had an edge to his tone.
“Oh, yes, sorry. Jalapeño hummus, please.”
I pushed my tray as I continued to breathe and order, mentally ticking off Adrian’s favorites, as well. He would get the lentil salad, and he never passed on fruit for dessert. Two chicken kabobs, oversized orders of eggplant, broccoli, and rice. When we reached the end of the line, the server handed me three heaping plates. I looked at them. One for me, two for Adrian, just like always. Had I ordered aloud for him? Rather than explain I was losing my mind, I took the plates and some to-go boxes.
Neither Annabelle nor Sam had spoken a word to me since we entered the restaurant. They went to find a seat while I paid, and when I joined them, they didn’t look up. Great. Okay, I’d try to get them talking.
“Your outfit looks fantastic on you, Belle. You made a good choice.” The green peasant blouse matched her eyes and set off her amazing blonde hair, and hopefully people would look up at that, instead of down at the impressive length of thigh displayed by her new skirt.
She moved some potatoes around on her plate with the tines of her fork. “Thank you.” Her voice was small and polite.
“So, do you have any plans to go out with friends in the next week?”
She wriggled a little in her chair. “Maybe.”
“Really? Who?”
“You don’t know him.”
“Describe him, then.”
Annabelle looked up, but at Sam, who was looking back at her now. “His name is Jay, he’s a year older than me, and he just moved here. He started with our swim team this week.” She finally turned to me, and excitement crept into her voice. “He’s going to swim for the University of Texas next year. Like Dad.”
My throat constricted. “He sounds interesting. Has he asked you out?”
She nodded. “Last night.” She smiled, with teeth.
Last night? What did she do last night? I thought she said she was hanging out with friends. “That’s great!”
Sam interrupted, his tone acid. “Does he know you’re moving to New York in a week?”
She glared at him. “No, butthead, I haven’t told him that yet. But I will, soon.”
I forced a smile to match hers. “When can we meet him?”
Sam didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I don’t want to meet him.”
I gasped. “Sam!”
“You don’t have to be mean.” Annabelle’s bottom lip protruded just a little bit.
“What? You’re leaving our family. What does it matter if we meet him or not?” He shoved a pita in his mouth and ripped a piece off with a twist of his head. He went on with his mouth full. “Besides, Mom, you probably don’t have time to do stuff with Belle and him now since you’re such a media whore.”
Annabelle dropped her fork on the floor.
I dropped my jaw. “What did you say?”
He chewed, calmer now. “You heard me, and it’s not like I’m the only one that feels that way, is it, Belle?” He took another bite of pita and shoveled rice in after it.
I looked down at my untouched food and ordered myself not to cry. I didn’t entirely disagree, but it wasn’t the whole story—only I hadn’t told it to the kids, just that I had a TV show to do and when I’d be back. “Belle?”
She looked daggers at Sam, then back at her food. “Well, not really, but sort of. I mean, it would be nice if you hadn’t gone to New York last week. Or if you’d come shopping with me instead of just meeting me to pay for the clothes. And Dad just died, and you’re on TV about the book, and talking like nothing’s wrong.”
Sam interrupted again. “Using him to sell your book. Classy, Mom.”
I gripped the edge of the table and leaned in. “That’s enough, Sam. You are entitled to your opinion, but you’re not entitled to be disrespectful.” I dialed it back. “Adrian wanted this book, he wanted people to read what he wrote, and I can’t help it that it came out one day before he died. I have obligations to the publisher, and—” I stopped. I sounded like Scarlett.
I tried another tack. “I know it’s hard right now. Nothing makes sense—to me, either. Someday it will get easier. I’m not sure when, but it will. Until then, all we have is each other.” I fought to keep a tremor out of my voice. “I loved Adrian. I will always love him. I’m so sad it’s hard to get out of bed. I promise I won’t do anything I think he wouldn’t want. I love you guys, too, and I need to talk to you more. I’m sorry. I should have explained why I had to do the TV stuff.”
“It’s all over the Internet.” Annabelle’s voice cracked. She looked up at me and wiped away tears with a savage jerk of her forearm across her face. “That woman. What people are saying they did together. Maybe if you’d stop going on TV, they’d quit talking about him like this?”
So much for protecting them.
“Was our family all a big lie?” Sam hissed, soft at first but louder with each word. “Were we a lie?”
“What? No! Of course not.” My voice escalated to a shriek. “She’s lying, she’s crazy!” Heads turned and I looked out the window, trying to think of what to say when I didn’t even know what to think. The angle of the sun through the windows made me squint, so it took a moment for me to figure out that someone was standing at the driver’s door of my Jetta. I shaded my eyes with my hand. Someone was trying all the doors on my car. I jumped to my feet, knocking my chair over backwards.
“Michele, what’s wrong?”
I dashed out the door and burst onto the sidewalk.
There was no one there.
I trotted out into the strip center parking lot, my head swiveling back and forth, searching, searching. Nothing. No one. What the hell?
“Mom?” Sam yelled, which got my attention. He hates a scene.
I turned back toward the restaurant. Annabelle and Sam stood together on the sidewalk. Tall and dark. Short and pale. Perfect opposites. God, I couldn’t take it. I put my hands on either side of my forehead and squeezed my temples. The kids stared at me, their eyes wide and fearful. I had to do better.
“I thought I saw someone breaking into our car.”
“Where?” Sam bowed up with testosterone.
“False alarm.” I crossed the parking lot to them and pulled them both close to me, Sam towering over me by a head and Annabelle eye-to-eye. They didn’t resist. Annabelle even patted my back, the way I usually patted hers. I patted them both. I lowered my voice to a stage whisper. “It’s possible I’m a little overwrought.” Annabelle and I giggled.
Sam’s body yielde
d a fraction and he eased farther into our group hug. “Guys, this is starting to look weird.”
“Deal with it, butthead.”
“Yeah, if you want me to take you to get your driver’s license tomorrow, deal with it.”
“If you pass, you can take me to morning practice on Tuesday.”
Sam snorted. “Four a.m.? I don’t think so.”
We broke apart and headed back into the restaurant. I needed to make it okay for the two of them to move on. I realized I could give Sam the 4Runner instead of saddling him with the Jetta.
“Which car do you want to take for the test? Mine or Adrian’s?”
“Um, Adrian’s, I guess. If that’s okay with you.”
What else could I do?
We packed our to-go boxes and headed back outside, Sam and Annabelle in deep conversation, me on the outside once again.
One step forward into the great alone.
Chapter Eight
I stared at the computer screen in my Juniper office Monday morning. I didn’t like what I was seeing, but I had no choice. I clicked “Continue” on Southwest.com, searching for a Houston-to-LaGuardia flight. Less than two weeks had passed since I’d lost Adrian, and in just a few days Annabelle would leave, too. Diane had kindly let me handle the travel arrangements and front the funds to send my Annabelle away.
She’d sent me an email: “Be sure to send receipts with Annabelle when she comes so I can send you a check.”
See Michele play the role of the help, I thought. I sighed and fingered my locket.
The flights scrolled down my screen. I was trying to find a flight as late in the day as possible, but early enough to get her to LaGuardia in time for dinner in the city, as instructed. It shouldn’t have been so hard to choose a flight, but I was still struggling through brain fog. Finally, I clicked to purchase.
“What are you up to?” I heard from the doorway.
I had managed to avoid Brian when I came in, but my luck had apparently run out. When I didn’t answer, he came in and sat down, looking at my monitor. “Oh, a vacation!”
“Plane ticket to New York for Belle.”
“Is she visiting colleges up there?”
“No, she’s moving in with her grandparents.”
He jerked his head back. “Are you all right with that?”
“What do you think?”
“Sorry, of course you’re not. So sorry.”
I stood up and pulled the papers from my overflowing inbox and starting going through them. One touch and done. I threw the first paper in the trash. The second paper was a keeper, a condolence letter from one of our writers. I pulled out my file drawer and grabbed a new folder, then opened my purse to get the black Sharpie I’d been carrying to sign books. I wrote “Adrian” on the tab before slipping the letter inside.
“Do you have to let her go? Legally?”
I straightened up from my sorting job. “Yes. I’m only a stepmother. I have no legal relationship to her now that Adrian is gone.
“Maybe if you fought, she’d back off. Bluff her, you know?”
“Belle’s grandparents want her. They’re family, they’re the closest link to her mother. This is important to her.” I picked at a hangnail. “I just hope it lives up to her expectations.”
He bit his lip. “Do you think you should get a lawyer, maybe see if she’ll do a visitation agreement?”
Really, I knew Brian thought of me as family, but I was not a little girl. I let just a hint of prissiness into my voice. “It’s only one year, her senior year. Then she goes off to college anyway.”
He nodded and stopped talking. I resumed filing. One touch and done. One touch and done. Leave, I willed him. But tick, tick went the clock with Brian planted there, watching me.
“Are you going to be okay, you know, money-wise?”
I slanted my eyes up to him. “Yes.” Not that it was his or anyone’s business, but Adrian had left his life insurance to me, along with a sizable chunk from his former wife. And I’d sell the house when things settled down. Sam and I didn’t need all that space or the reminders of what we’d lost.
“Good. I want you to take this first day back as a warm-up. We’ll get you back in the game tomorrow.”
I nodded. “Fine. Thank you.”
He cleared his throat. “I wanted to congratulate you on your book sales. They’re fantastic.”
I nodded again.
“Scarlett lined up more media for you. She’ll be getting in touch with you soon about it. That’s work time for you. I mean, don’t try to squeeze it in on top of work and your training for Kona.”
I looked up and settled my gaze on him, let it linger. Because you and Scarlett cornered me into Kona, I thought, and said nothing.
“I hate to ask, but could you write the pieces Adrian was going to write about it? Obviously they’ll have a different hook now.”
“Obviously.”
“Look, I know I pushed you to jump into the media too fast. You really came through for the team. I’ll never forget it.”
“Neither will I—nor will my kids, for that matter. Sam called me a media whore yesterday. Belle was a little more polite.”
“Oh, God, Michele—”
I jumped to my feet. “I happen to agree with them. But, as you said yourself, I’m nothing if not a team player, the perennial MVP. I will be out there helping you chum for readers, even if it attracts sharks like Rhonda Dale.” By the time I got to my last point, my voice could be heard halfway around the building.
Brian’s face splotched up, then his neck. He adjusted his collar. “I’m sorry. We really had no way to anticipate a development like her.”
My hand sprang up to perch on my hip. “Really, Brian? Because in the world I live in, positive news only plays for ten seconds before the bottom-feeders grab the attention for themselves. If it wasn’t her, it would have been someone or something else like her, just as soon as you made me the story. Really, the question now is what will it be next, and when?”
I crumpled back into my chair and let my head drop back against the cushion. “What will hit us next?”
Brian straightened and leaned toward me. “Nothing you can’t handle.”
“How do you know?”
“Anyone who knows you knows that.”
I wished I could believe him, but this was coming from the one person most vested in making sure I didn’t fall apart. My anger fizzled out, though. Even friends with ulterior motives beat none, and Brian had always been my friend. I had to remember that.
He jumped to his feet and reached inside his Texans Starter jacket, a year-round staple in his wardrobe. “I almost forgot. I have a letter for you. I’ve had it on my desk for a few days now. There have been a lot of condolence letters, but something about how this one was addressed was different. I’m sure it’s nothing, but—” He handed me an envelope addressed to “Michelle Hanson, wife of Adrian Hanson,” care of MultisportMagazine.
One L Michele, I thought automatically. I took the envelope from his hand and my heart started to pound. It had an ominous aura to it. I swallowed my heartbeat down into my chest, and then—phhhhh—blew it out again, barely. I looked at Brian. “Luckily, there’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“Do you want me to stick around while you open it?”
I nodded, then stalled, looking for my red leather-handled letter opener. I found it in my junk drawer, slit open the envelope, and unfolded the letter onto my blotter. The writing was a print and cursive hybrid in black ink. It looked male to me.
Dear Mrs. Hanson:
I apologize that I don’t know how to send this to you, other than to the magazine, but it’s appropriate in a way, since that’s where I read your husband’s wonderful articles about his two great passions: triathlon and you. Adrian’s articles really spoke to me. I first contacted him after a column he wrote on personal bests a few years ago, and we have corresponded since then.
I am so glad I got to meet the two of you face-to-face
at your launch party. I considered him a friend and kindred spirit. I send you my deepest condolences, in what I know must be a time of incredible pain.
I will miss Adrian and his words.
With my deepest sympathy,
Connor Dunn
I closed my eyes.
“Are you okay?”
I’d forgotten Brian was standing there. “Yes, I am.” I formed the words slowly, testing them to see if they were true. “It’s a beautiful condolence letter from one of his readers.” I glanced back down. “More than a reader, I guess. A pen pal. I met him at our launch party.” I left out the part about how weird the guy acted, and that I was sure Adrian lied to me about their conversation. I wished I hadn’t even thought it.
“Adrian did bring out the A game in people.”
“Yes, he did. He sure brought out the best in me.”
Brian stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked up on his toes. “I’ll leave you alone, then.”
“Thanks.”
After he left, I folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. The letter had a strangeness to it, but was innocuous enough. I slid it into my new Adrian folder.
My computer chirped softly and an email from Detective Young popped up in my inbox. I set Adrian’s folder aside. I hadn’t heard from Young in a week. He’d called Adrian’s death a homicide, but from where I was sitting, he didn’t seem to think it mattered much.
Sometimes this made me mad. Other times, I liked not seeing HPD light up my phone. I was all over the place. One part of me couldn’t believe anyone would hurt Adrian for any reason. Another part of me saw white Tauruses and platinum blondes lurking on every street corner. Still another part didn’t care how it happened or why—whoever did this stole my life away. Even if it was a complete accident, even if Adrian caused it by riding out in front of a car, what kind of person doesn’t jump out and administer CPR—or at least call for help? That was criminal to me, and I wanted justice.
Going for Kona Page 9