by Sylvia Nobel
“Good Lord!” Ginger leaped to her feet. “He’s got a scorpion!” Startled by her scream, the cat dropped the creature which lay still for a few seconds, and then barreled across the carpet.
Brian moved swiftly and crunched the thing under his boot. The cat looked displeased.
Ginger sank into her chair, patting her chest. “Them things give me the apoplexy.”
Of course, that brought a rash of favorite insect stories. When my turn came, I told of the boy who’d put a spider down my back in the sixth grade. It brought howls of laughter from everyone.
Ginger held her stomach. “Y’all really took off your clothes?”
“Down to my skivvies,” I answered dryly. Ginger coaxed a reluctant Brian into helping her wash the dishes. In the meantime, Nona entertained me with photos and articles about her long theater career. Her scrapbooks made me feel a little sad. It was hard to believe that the young, vivacious person in the pictures was now this shriveled old woman.
Brian had rented a movie and we’d just reached the thrilling climax when the doorbell rang.
“Now who could that be?” Ginger’s expression was puzzled. “It’s past nine o’clock.”
“Bonnie,” she gasped, swinging the door wide. “What a nice surprise…” Her voice trailed off. “What’s the matter? Where’s Tom?” She pulled a heavy set woman with streaks of violet mascara staining her cheeks into the room. I remembered Bonnie was Ginger’s sister.
“Tom’s out of town,” the woman sobbed, “but I couldn’t wait until tomorrow to tell y’all.” Then to my amazement she laughed, blurting out: “Ginger, it’s finally happened!”
“What? What’s happened?”
“God has answered our prayers. We had a meeting with that lawyer y’all recommended, and guess what? We’re getting us a baby!”
Ginger clapped her hands. “Oh my Lord! You finally got in to see Eric Heisler.”
That grabbed my attention. I recognized the name as the Phoenix attorney who owned the tennis ranch.
“That’s right.” Bonnie dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “He is the most wonderful man…no, he’s more than that. He’s an absolute god.”
More shrieking. That was followed by the two of them jumping and hugging. I met Brian’s amused glance as he shrugged. Drama seemed commonplace in this household.
When things quieted, I told Ginger I had to go, not wanting to intrude on what was obviously private family business.
“Oh, don’t go on my account,” Bonnie said after Ginger introduced us. “I wish I could share this news with the whole world. Let’s have us a celebration party!”
Not wanting to spoil the festive atmosphere, I agreed. Anyway, I was curious to hear her story. We all filed into the kitchen where Brian pulled out a bottle of sparkling champagne he said had been in the refrigerator since the Carter administration.
Glasses clinked during the noisy toast. Then Bonnie launched into her tale, recounting fifteen years of miscarriages, fertility drugs, blind leads, anguish and waiting. They’d even, she admitted, placed ads in newspapers, hoping to appeal to interested teens.
“The turning point was Ginger talking about my problem to her boyfriend,” Bonnie said with a misty-eyed smile while squeezing Ginger’s hand. For my benefit she added, “You know, he works in the pro shop at the tennis ranch and, well, I must say, I almost fainted when Eric Heisler’s secretary called me.”
Ginger was ecstatic. “I just asked Doug if he’d put in a good word for me.”
Bonnie chimed in, “We didn’t know what to expect because we’d heard his fees were like astronomical, but he was so nice, and so easy to talk to. And even though he told us that he hasn’t handled too many adoption cases, he promised he’d do the best he could for us.”
Ginger good-naturedly bawled her out for keeping her meeting a secret and I noticed Nona nodding in her chair, the empty glass still clutched in one hand.
Bonnie looked contrite. “I was afraid to say anything. We’ve had so many failures. But when he called me today to say that he knew of a young woman expecting in June, I tell you I about busted a gut.”
Nona started to snore, so Ginger and Brian excused themselves to help her to bed. Bonnie went on to tell me some of her experiences with adoption agencies.
“I appreciate you sharing this with me,” I commented to her. “Being a reporter I always want to know everything about a subject and I honestly didn’t know adopting was such a ticklish business.”
“Please don’t take this wrong, because it isn’t meant to sound biased, but it isn’t as difficult if you don’t want a white baby.”
“Why is that?”
“Because there’s an unbelievable shortage of ’em.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, the abortion laws changed everything,” she confided, pouring herself another glass of champagne. “People don’t have kids they don’t want anymore. But the most important reason of all is that over eighty percent of pregnant, unmarried teens keep their babies.” She shrugged. “It used to be something to hide, to be ashamed of. Not anymore. The stigma is gone and so are all the adoptable babies.”
The wait, she added, through private and state agencies averaged five to seven years if you could pass the rigid restrictions which included income, education and religious affiliation.
“We’re great on all that stuff except I up an ruined everything by havin’ a nervous breakdown over this a few years ago,” she said in an anguished voice. “I miscarried the baby after five months and it just about sent me over the edge. It put a big black mark on my record.” Her voice trembled and her brown eyes misted again.
My heart went out to her. This was a woman who’d obviously been to hell and back.
When Ginger returned, she insisted Bonnie stay the night and not make the return drive to Prescott due to the late hour. She happily agreed and I said good-night after congratulating her again on her forthcoming adoption.
Ginger clicked on the porch light and followed me outside to my car. We stood for a moment chatting as a warm desert breeze fluffed our hair. Above us, stars blazed from the inky canopy of night sky.
The more I got to know her, the more my affection grew for this pixie-faced Texas girl. Ginger had welcomed me into the cozy bosom of her family and filled the emotional void I’d been suffering since leaving my own home and relatives so far behind.
“Thanks for dinner,” I said smiling. “I thoroughly enjoyed it and meeting your family.” I opened the car door. “That was a really nice thing you did, getting your friend Doug to put in a good word for Bonnie. I’m looking forward to meeting him, but then, I guess I’ll get that chance when I cover the big charity affair at the tennis ranch.”
“I’m going to be there myself.” She told me she and some other members of her church congregation had volunteered to help park cars and assist in the kitchen. Doug Sauers would be bartending.
A cunning look crept over her face. “Wear something real sleek and sexy if you want to catch his eye.”
“Whose eye?”
“Why Eric Heisler’s, of course! This guy is special. Dangerously rich and real…cosmopolitan like.” She raised an eyebrow suggestively. “You know, more your cup of tea.”
I laughed. “Oh, Ginger, will you stop with the matchmaking. I’m not ready to get involved with anyone.”
“Oh piffle. It cain’t hurt to have a look see. Tell you what. I’m a fixin’ to go into Phoenix on that Saturday morning to see a foot doctor about these pesky corns, so why don’t you and me go together? I can show you around town, we can shop, have lunch at one of them fancy restaurants and still be back in plenty of time to get ready for the big shindig at seven.”
She had such a pleading look in her eye I couldn’t refuse. Anyway, it would be a nice change and I did want to see Phoenix.
Random thoughts tumbled about in my head like clothes in a dryer as I drove home. The sky over Castle Rock glowed faintly, announcing the imminent moonrise.
&
nbsp; Bonnie’s face, filled with eager desperation as she’d discussed her longing for a child, stuck in my mind. Funny, I’d never given it much thought before tonight. I guess I’d always figured if I ever got married again and decided to have children, poof, I’d just have them. Would I feel like Bonnie, if that didn’t happen?
I mentally laid out my plans for the following week as I swung the car onto Lost Canyon Road. It would be busy. Besides my regular work, I’d have to squeeze in my undercover assignment.
An extreme sensation of weariness washed over me as I pulled into the driveway. Sorely in need of a good night’s sleep, I hoped there would be no disturbance tonight.
Settled into bed, my thoughts involuntarily returned again and again to Bradley Talverson. Even though he’d been insufferably rude at our first meeting, since then, he’d been pleasant, attentive almost. Could Ginger be right? Was he attracted to me because I reminded him of his wife? Had he been so insanely jealous of her that he’d rather have her dead than with another man?
Jesus! Why couldn’t I stop thinking about him? The last thing I needed right now was a man to complicate my life. Remember, I reminded myself, they’re all trouble.
Exasperated, I turned over, thumped the pillow and tried to make my mind blank. Given his scandalous background, and as illogical as it seemed, right before sleep clutched me, I reluctantly acknowledged what I’d been trying hard to ignore. I was far more attracted to him than I wanted to admit.
7
The second week of May ended with the thermometer outside the front door of the Sun pegged at one hundred degrees. Everyone else at the office seemed oblivious to the heat while I wilted like a head of warm lettuce.
Hot as I was, I did feel better. My asthma attacks had decreased to the point of only using my inhaler once a day, if then. And for that I was grateful. Even so, I missed rain. Actually I would have settled for a cloud at that point.
“Hang onto your hat,” Ginger said, tossing mail onto my desk. “When them monsoons blow in around July, y’all are gonna think this is downright cold. Come rainy season we’re talking about heat and humidity.”
I gave her a quizzical look. “You mean it actually does rain here? I swear my skin is so dry, I feel like a lizard.”
“Relax, sugar. Besides getting y’all gussied up in some fine new clothes, we’ll get us a barrelful of body lotion to boot.”
Laughing, I agreed and then went back to work, tapping out a story concerning the upcoming Gold Dust Days celebrations.
Bradley, who’d been out most of the morning, came sauntering in, sailed his hat onto the wall hook, and then rolled his swivel chair up close to mine. I tried not to react to his closeness by pretending to be utterly absorbed in my copy.
“You busy?” His knee was almost touching mine. I looked up at him. For a fraction of a second before answering, I studied the chiseled contours of his lean face. When our eyes met, a jolt shot through me, almost like the time I’d stuck a bobby pin in a wall socket.
“Sort of. What do you need?”
He flashed me that crooked grin. “I heard you’re covering the fund-raiser tomorrow night. I’m going to be there too, interviewing some of the tennis bigwigs. You’ve heard of Ron Holiday, haven’t you? Second seeded at Wimbledon? He’ll be there.”
I wondered what he was getting at. “I’m impressed,” I said, keeping my voice casual. “What’s your point?”
“I was thinking. Since you’re on the way, what say I stop and pick you up?”
Sideglancing, I noticed Jim’s gaze glued on us. I ought to refuse him again, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of any reason why I should. Anyway, what harm could there possibly be?
“Well…” I hesitated. “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you…” Why was my heart beating so erratically?
“No inconvenience at all. See you at six-thirty.” He touched me lightly on the shoulder and pushed back to his desk.
Jim’s bratty face wore an expectant smirk. I hoped he hadn’t seen how much the simple encounter had shaken me. Bradley and I were simply two co-workers covering the same story. Period. Right?
With an effort, I pulled my wandering thoughts back to work. After completing the copy, I hauled out my journal and studied the notes from the previous week.
My interview last Monday with town socialite Thena Rodenborn had been quite informative. I’d let out a low whistle of admiration at the sight of her sprawling Santa Fe-style adobe house flanked on both sides by well-kept gardens. Tugg had told me she was a wealthy widow and by the look of the place, plus the sleek gold Lexus parked in the driveway, there was little doubt.
She greeted me with a cheery smile and escorted me into a beautifully furnished sitting room. Had I not known, I would have never guessed by her slender, youthful appearance that this woman was in her early seventies.
“My dear, I certainly cannot take all the credit,” she’d said in answer to my question regarding the shelter. “Reverend Gleason, who’s the pastor of the Valley Chapel along with a lovely, lovely lady by the name of Violet Mendoza were absolute saints in helping me get it started.” She explained that the pastor had donated the space and Violet had managed the daily activities of the shelter. Through further questioning I learned that an anonymous benefactor five years earlier had provided the funds needed to purchase the house which was now the Desert Harbor Shelter. That happy event had been tempered by the sudden death of Violet Mendoza when she’d been struck down one night by a hit-and-run driver.
“Shortly after that terrible tragedy we were blessed, absolutely blessed, to get a woman like Claudia Phillips to take her place, and frankly, I’m surprised she’s stayed on so long considering the small amount we’re able to pay her.” But,” she added hastily, wagging a well-manicured finger, “she’s very efficient.”
She applauded my idea for a series on runaways and suggested I talk to Claudia as soon as possible.
When asked about the upcoming fund-raiser she spoke enthusiastically about her son, Eric, and how successful the gala event had been last year raising money for not just the shelter, but other local charities.
“I’m so glad you’ll be attending,” she said as she showed me out the door. “My son makes sure everything is first class. It is the social event of the season,” she finished, her voice filled with pride.
The interview with Claudia Phillips proved to be more difficult. When she didn’t return my third phone call, I’d hopped in the car on Tuesday afternoon and driven to the two-story wooden house on Tumbleweed Trail.
A weather-bleached sign announcing the name swung back and forth, squeaking softly, as I walked under it. I noted the narrow, dead end street had only four houses set back from the curb on large lots. It was quiet and deserted.
I knocked on the ragged screen door, thinking the rather dilapidated house could certainly use some repairs. Nothing happened for a minute, so I knocked again. Finally, a stocky young woman most likely of Mexican descent answered with “You need help? ¿sí?”
I said I’d like to see Ms. Phillips. Smiling, head bobbing, she led me into a small office, pointed to a chair and then backed out the door. Apparently, she spoke little English.
Even though the room was sparsely furnished it gave me comfort to know there existed in these harsh surroundings a sanctuary. Had my young blonde hitchhiker made it here for help?
I’d already formed a picture of Claudia in my mind. She’d be plump, fiftyish, benevolent, overflowing with motherly compassion… My thoughts halted as a tall, slim woman dressed in an expensively cut cream-colored suit glided into the room and froze. I wondered if I wore the same look of surprise on my face.
“Yes?” Her voice was low and husky. The glint of suspicion in her eyes remained even after I’d introduced myself.
“I’m sorry to come without an appointment, but I have a four o’clock deadline to get this in tomorrow’s edition and since you didn’t return my calls…well.” I smiled, but she continued to stare at me cold
ly. When I mentioned I’d spoken to Thena Rodenborn, her attitude thawed a bit. With the grace of a panther, she seated herself behind the desk and needlessly smoothed her dark hair, already pulled tightly into a silky chignon.
“I’m extremely busy today, Miss O’Dell…but since Mrs. Rodenborn requests it, I can speak to you for…” She hesitated, glancing at her thin gold watch. “Ten minutes.”
I wanted to say, “Well, whoop-de-do! Don’t do me any favors, your ladyship.” Instead, I mustered another professional smile and launched into a series of questions concerning runaway girls and what part the shelter played in their lives.
In a voice completely devoid of any emotion she gave me a dry run-down. “The homeless problem in this state is not considered by legislators to be of much social importance, even though the numbers of runaways increase by the month. We exist on a minimal…really pathetic amount of assistance from the Department of Health Services and an occasional Runaway and Homeless Youth Grant from the federal level. Needless to say, we rely heavily on private donations and we still receive some help from the Valley Chapel.” While she talked, she rubbed the back of one hand with the other.
The curtain at the window beside her fluttered gently, wafting the scent of her sweet perfume toward me. I was genuinely puzzled by her cool attitude. Was this normal or was she annoyed with me because I’d come without an appointment?
In the short time remaining she explained that most of the girls stayed only a few days, usually moving on to larger metropolitan areas like Los Angeles where welfare budgets were more substantial.
“We can give them a change of clothes, food, some medical assistance and help them out with bus fare,” she continued, “but due to our limited funds we’re unable to provide much more.”
“How do the girls find this place?” I asked.
“Posters at the bus station, some of the churches and the clinic direct them to us.”