Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “Let’s go.” I brush past them and head out the front doors, running down the stairs and marching toward the dirt sidewalk path that will lead us to my father’s apothecary.

  Crew is yards behind me, Emme in his arms.

  Ahead in the distance, I see a woman with sandy hair that matches mine, streaks of gray that show her age, and a long gray dress that drags on the floor as she sweeps the front steps of the shop with a Shaker broom.

  “Verity.” I call my mother by her first name, the way I’ve always done.

  Once upon a time, before she and my father came to Shiloh Springs, her name was Margot.

  Plain old Margot. Margot Crabtree, I believe she was.

  She stops sweeping and glances around, her hand shielding her eyes from the early afternoon blaze of the sun. I watch her squint, then squint harder.

  “I need to speak to Stone.” I stop short, fold my arms, and peer inside the shop to see if my father is inside. There’s movement behind lace curtains.

  “Calypso?” Verity drops the broom and ambles toward me, arms open wide. She wraps me in an embrace before kissing my forehead. Then my cheeks. Twice. Then the tip of my nose. I stare into her eyes and know immediately she’s not all there.

  It’s nothing new.

  Some things never change.

  “Is Stone inside?” I ask.

  “We missed you, my little willow wind.” She calls me by my childhood nickname. “Never thought I’d see you again. Come inside. Stone will be tickled.”

  She looks past my shoulder, her stare falling on Crew and Emme. Verity’s hand lifts to her lips.

  “Is this . . . is this your family?” she asks.

  Kind of.

  “Friends,” I say.

  Her brows scrunch and she studies them some more, Emme in particular.

  “No, no,” she says. “That makes sense.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. I toss Crew a look, silently instructing him to ignore her. I should have warned him on the way up here instead of stewing in silence.

  “The vision I had.” She presses a fingertip against pursed lips. “It was a boy. You had a little boy. Sandy hair. Dimpled chin. That’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  My face reddens slightly. It’s got to be the heat. It’s really warming up.

  “Shall we head in?” I suggest.

  The whitewashed wood floor of my father’s apothecary looks the same as it did years ago. Wide planks, dirt-smudges. Character, he called it.

  “Stone,” Verity calls, traipsing to a back room. Her fingers toy with the beaded necklaces that hang from her neck. “Stone, guess who’s here?”

  “Your parents have the coolest fucking names,” Crew whispers in my ear. “Your dad better look like a goddamned superhero.”

  I fight a smile and ignore him.

  A second later, my mother comes out and closes the front door to the shop, a sign to the locals that they’re not accepting business at the moment, though there’s nothing to keep anyone from walking in if they wanted anyway.

  “We’re going to head back to the house.” Verity points to a door in the back of the shop, one that leads to the house I spent most of my childhood in. Two other families lived above us, but we all came and went as we pleased. Nothing was off limits to anyone. As Father Shiloh always said, “We’re nothing but one big, happy family.”

  The four of us pass through the door, and I’m hit with the scent of sage. My mother must’ve been cleansing again.

  I spot the back of my father’s head. He’s seated in his favorite wingback chair. Tufts of stuffing and foam stick out from sewn rips along the back and bottom. His wiry, salt and pepper hair is still long and going in five different directions. In another life, I swear he would’ve been a mad scientist.

  If he was ever missing in action, we always knew where to find him—in his back room, mixing different medicines and concoctions. Coming up with cures for random ailments plaguing the community. He once cured the entire village of a serious lice infestation with a secret ratio of tea tree oil and apple cider vinegar.

  “Stone,” Verity says. “Calypso is here.”

  We head for the sofa, the four of us, and we each take a square. It sinks in and smells of sandalwood and patchouli incense. Thank God for the open window next to Emme.

  “Calypso,” Stone says. His beard has more gray than black now. It hides everything but his nose and eyes. His barrel chest rises and falls with slow breaths as he studies me. “What brings you home?”

  Home.

  I huff.

  “I want answers. I want the truth.” I stare into a set of eyes that match mine fleck for fleck.

  His mouth pulls into a Cheshire grin. “Don’t we all? Isn’t that why we’re all here?”

  Crew exhales loudly.

  “The miscarriages,” I say. “The tea Penelope gave me. You prepared it.”

  He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.

  My mother stops messing with her necklace.

  I shove my hands under my thighs to keep from fidgeting.

  “You were never supposed to be a Shiloh.” He rises, dragging his thumb and middle finger along the corners of his jutted mouth.

  Air is sucked from my lungs.

  “Having those babies, those Shiloh babies, would’ve ruined you.” He clears his throat. “It would’ve been dangerous.”

  Verity frowns. “Stone, stop talking all this nonsense.”

  “Nathaniel Shiloh didn’t give me a chance.” He reaches for an amber mug, like the one the local artisans made for the bazaars, and takes a sip. It sends a twinge of pain to my groin. “He wanted you out of the picture. He wanted his son to marry the Linwood girl, and nothing was going to stop him.”

  “What are you saying, Stone?” Verity’s eyes are as clear as I’ve ever seen them. She’s oddly coherent. Perhaps she was in my corner all along, not taking part in any of the orchestrated evil.

  “Nathaniel asked me, and I obliged,” Stone says, his face straight. “I did it to protect Calypso. I did it because if I didn’t, it would’ve gotten worse.”

  He clears his throat and takes another sip.

  “And he said if I didn’t, we’d be excommunicated,” he adds. “We had nowhere to go. Not a real penny to our names. We’d have been homeless.”

  Verity rises from the tattered sofa. “Stone, how could you?”

  “I was protecting us.” He gazes out the window, probably so he doesn’t have to meet three angry glares.

  “You fucking coward,” Crew growls, his teeth clenched. “You were protecting no one but yourself.”

  Crew hands Emme to me, like he’s about to go after my father. He stands, pushing his sleeves up.

  “Crew,” I say.

  He storms across the room, his tightened fist in my father’s face.

  “You don’t get to play God,” he says. “You’re a goddamned coward, Stone. I’m pretty sure that’s not even your real name.”

  I nod, agreeing.

  It’s Michael Miller.

  “You came to this fucking cult because you’re too chicken-shit to deal with the real world. You wanted to live this fantasy, Little House on the Prairie life with your Monopoly money, mixing potions in your little apothecary like you’re straight out of Harry fucking Potter, and the second your precious way of life was threatened, you did the unspeakable.”

  I don’t think my father has heard of Harry Potter, but I’m sure he gets Crew’s point.

  “I can’t believe this,” Verity whispers, her eyes glassy. If I know my mother, she’ll let this sink until she can stand the heaviness no more. And then she’ll roll a big, fat joint as soon as we leave and forget all about it. “Stone, how could you?”

  “Forgive me, Calypso,” Stone has the audacity to ask. “I haven’t been able to forgive myself, but believe me when I tell you I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously?” Crew spits. He reaches for my hand, pulling with a quick jerk until I’m next to him. “
If she forgives you, it’s up to her. You don’t get to ask. You don’t get to make her feel guilty if she decides she can never fucking forgive you.”

  Perhaps I should be falling apart at this revelation, but for whatever reasons, I’m detached from this moment.

  It’s as if the balloon strings have been cut. I’m floating, rising above it all. Watching from above.

  Maybe it’ll sink in later, on the drive home.

  But it’s true what they say: Truth sets you free.

  “We’re leaving.” Crew squeezes my hand.

  Stone doesn’t protest.

  Verity is speechless.

  “Come on.” He leads me out a side door, where a very pregnant Holly Linwood-Shiloh stops dead in her tracks.

  She looks like she’s just seen a ghost.

  Her hair burns bright orange, reflecting off the sun. A hand cradles the underside of her bulging belly, the one carrying Mathias’ fourth child. All of her babies and my babies are siblings in the bigger scheme of things.

  It’s weird to think of it that way, but it’s true.

  I stop, releasing Crew’s hand.

  When our eyes meet, we hold a silent conversation. Maybe she’s sorry. We were like sisters once.

  Emme squirms in Crew’s arms and reaches for me. I oblige her and wrap her in my embrace. Holly’s eyes go from mine to Emme’s to Crew’s. Maybe she thinks they belong to me. I’ll let her believe what she wants.

  “Motherhood looks good on you,” she says. “I always knew you’d be a good mom someday.”

  A little tow-headed blonde, Cassidy, I’m assuming, tugs on Holly’s hand, trying to pull her toward the playground. She gives me an apologetic wave, her stare lingering a little too long, and then waddles behind her daughter.

  “Who was that?” Crew asks when she’s gone over the hill.

  My pained ego wants to declare her as the woman who derailed my future with her birthright. I can’t blame everything on Holly, and I don’t have the energy to loathe yet another pathetic soul from this stupid commune.

  “An old friend,” I say.

  “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “More than you could possibly know.”

  I slip my hand into his. I know we’re just friends, but Crew anchors me. He keeps me from floating away.

  I’m glad he came.

  We step off the dirt path and veer toward the main drag. When we pass the big brick building, I peek from the corner of my eye. Mathias stands in his window, half-shielded by a sheer curtain, and watches as Crew, Emme, and I depart the devil’s playground that is Shiloh Springs.

  I’m free.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Crew

  “We’re home.” I whisper gently, my hand on Calypso’s shoulder. Emme’s asleep in the backseat. A full moon lights the cabin of my truck.

  Calypso inhales, sitting up straight. I pretend not to notice when she wipes the corner of her mouth. She wasn’t drooling, but she did sleep the whole way home.

  We weren’t in Shiloh Springs very long, but I know the day took a toll on her.

  I climb out and grab Emme from the back. She stirs but doesn’t wake.

  Calypso seems drowsy, but she grabs Emme’s diaper bag from the backseat and follows me into my apartment.

  She stands next to me as I change Emme’s diaper and slip her into pajamas, both of us holding our breaths that she doesn’t decide the last several hours of the trip were a mere nap.

  “You doing okay?” I ask when we put the baby in her crib. We shut Emme’s door and linger in the hall.

  Calypso yawns, nodding.

  “You need me to tuck you in tonight too?” I tease.

  She cracks a sleepy smile. “I might need you to carry me to bed. I don’t have the energy to even walk to my place.”

  Without warning, I lunge for her, sweeping her in my arms like a groom carrying his bride.

  “What are you doing?” Her yell is padded by a whisper.

  “Carrying you to bed.” We head toward my room.

  “Your bed?”

  I kick the door with my foot and carry her above my messy floor, depositing her in the center of my bed.

  She props herself up, her elbows beneath her. “I’m tired, Crew.”

  There’s an apology in her voice.

  “I’m not trying to fuck you, Calypso. God, what kind of asshole would I be if I expected to get fucking laid after a day like today?”

  I tear off my clothes and find a clean t-shirt for her. A couple of minutes later, we’re under the cool covers, staring up at the ceiling fan and the cord that swings in rhythm with the circulating blades.

  “A few months from now, you’ll be in Chicago,” I say.

  She’s quiet.

  “It’s going to be weird not having you around,” I say. “For Emme, I mean.”

  She laughs, her hand pressed against my chest as she buries her face.

  “Yeah, Emme’s going to really miss me.”

  “She will.”

  “She won’t remember me.”

  “I’ll make sure she doesn’t forget.”

  Calypso sighs. I peer down, watching her eyelids fight a losing battle. I could lie here all night talking. Maybe it’s the four coffees I chugged on the drive home, or maybe it’s the fact that I know damn well my days with Calypso in my life are numbered.

  “I’m glad you didn’t end up with that Mathias asshole,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Calypso,” I whisper again.

  I lift her limp hand from my chest and drop it. The faintest snore escapes her pretty lips.

  She’s out.

  I stare at the ceiling, breathing her in, soaking in this moment, and trying to imagine what the future might be like without her in it, because I barely remember what the past was like before she came along.

  THIRTY

  Calypso

  I wake to an empty bed with sheets that are softer than mine yet not entirely unfamiliar. It takes me a moment to realize I stayed with Crew. My thighs squeeze.

  Nope. We didn’t have sex.

  The only thing I remember about last night was that I was too drained to think straight, too exhausted to walk, and too burned out to care.

  I climb out of his bed and step around the clothes and remotes and shoes littering his floor. My body feels like it slept a million years, my mind less weighted.

  “There you are,” I say in the bathroom doorway. Crew’s hunched over the tub, giving Emme a good scrub.

  “She peed through her diaper,” he says.

  “That’s what you get for buying store brand. I tried to warn you.”

  Emme splashes in the tub, squealing every time the water sprays across her face.

  “Where are your keys? I’m going to grab my things out of your truck,” I say.

  “On the counter, next to the phone charger,” he says, his back toward me.

  “Okay. I’ll be back. I’ll grab your bag too.” I change back into yesterday’s clothes and avoid the mirror. I don’t need to see my reflection to know I’ve got a severe case of bedhead.

  I swipe his keys from the counter and step outside. The second I pull the door closed and turn, I’m met head-on with a dark-haired woman with a raised forehead and her lips pulled into a straight line.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, stepping aside. “Excuse me.”

  The woman looks from me to Crew’s door and back. I need to get past her, toward the parking lot, but she won’t move.

  “Excuse me,” I say with a smile, eyeing just past her shoulder.

  She still won’t move.

  The woman points to Crew’s door. “Where you . . . were you just leaving?”

  And then it dawns on me.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  This is Crew’s mother.

  I’ve been up all of five minutes. I can’t think this quickly on my feet. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do.

  His mother pushes past me and barges into
Crew’s apartment. “Crew! Come out this instant.”

  Her jaw is clenched tight, nothing moving but the tiniest hint of jowls.

  Crew comes around the corner, Emme wrapped in a yellow duck towel, the hood pulled up. She smiles at Crew’s mom, but her toothless grin goes unreturned.

  “Mom,” Crew says.

  She looks at the both of us, then Emme, before reaching for her diamond cross necklace. She slides the pendant back and forth along the chain so hard that I think it might break.

  “What is going on here?” She stomps a kitten-heeled foot into the ground.

  I’m frozen, looking to Crew for some kind of guidance. His shoulders are pulled tight.

  “Please tell me you’re not playing house with,” she turns to face me, her nose wrinkling. “this thing and her baby.”

  My jaw falls.

  “Mother,” he growls. “Completely out of line.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s out of line,” she barks back. Her face is growing noticeably flushed. “You shacking up with your next door neighbor. Taking pity on some single mom who got herself into a situation. Guess what, Crew?” She points to me. “Her carelessness is not your problem.”

  Crew’s nostrils flare. The veins in his neck bulge.

  His mom sucks in a dramatic breath and moves toward him, running a finger along his exposed tattoos.

  “What are these?” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Good God, Crew. Did she tell you to get these? We raised you better than this. You know better than to hang around with bad influences.”

  Crew drags a finger along his jawline, laughing though he clearly doesn’t find this situation funny.

  “You done yet?” he asks.

  “Pardon me?” She takes a step back before turning to toss me another wicked glare.

  “Let me know when you’re done ranting, and I might be able to offer you a little explanation.” He cocks his head, peering down his nose.

  “There’s nothing to explain,” she says. “I see it all, clear as day. And it stops. It ends. No more. Your father will have his last and final heart attack if he finds out about this, and I’ll be a widow. Tell your neighbor to take her baby and . . .”