Where There’s A Will

by Stacy Gail

  He took a half step back, whether in shock that she’d dropped the f-bomb or her accusation, she wasn’t sure. “What do you mean, just like me? I’m nothing like that scumbag father of yours.”

  “Oh, no? The night I came to you, I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you, to work by your side to get back what was stolen from you and put things right. But you didn’t want me. You wanted the one and only thing that mattered to you, the only thing of value you’d ever had—that stupid valve. I loved you so much that I would have done anything for you. But in both your mind and in my father’s, I didn’t have value. Well, you know what? I do have value, even if neither one of you ever saw it. I will put things right, and then I’ll finally be done with you. That day can’t come quickly enough.”

  Seething to the point where it was almost impossible to push air past the constriction in her throat, she stalked to her car and prayed the damned thing would start. She had to get out of there before the blinding fury she’d kept on a tight leash for so long slipped out in the form of mortifying tears.

  * * *

  Three mornings later a new half gallon of milk sat on her doorstep, in the exact same place another half gallon had been left the past two days. Miranda stared at it for nearly a minute, as if doing so might somehow make it vanish like the figment of imagination she hoped it was. When that didn’t work, she scooped it up and delivered it to a bemused Esme Fenster, all the while looking around for Coe the same way a soldier might search for snipers while in enemy territory. Since there was no sign of him, she tried to put it out of her head by focusing on the website design project she’d been handed before her father died. By the time she turned her laptop off for the night, the project was complete, her eyes burned from too many hours of staring at a screen, and her lungs hated her for breathing in the trailer’s musty air.

  Just another fun-filled day in Garden Court, she thought wryly, then glanced at her cell phone charging near the front of the trailer when it buzzed. Automatically she scooped it up, thinking it might be her supervisor overseeing the project she’d just turned in, only to blink at Geraldine’s name on her screen.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you, kiddo.” Geraldine had a voice as stunning as the rest of her, a wicked mix between Lauren Bacall and a veteran phone-sex operator. “I hear they go to bed early in rural areas.”

  She rolled her eyes. “An early bedtime is hardly contagious, Geraldine. There’s no collective-hive mind out here in the boonies, I assure you.”

  “Good. I can rest now that I know you won’t be assimilated.”

  “Resistance is futile.” She did her best Borg impersonation.

  “That whole concept still gives me the willies.” Geraldine’s voice carried a faint shudder. “I’m too much of a free-spirited individual to ever be comfortable with the idea of being forced into a collective. And speaking of individuals, that’s why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tony’s younger brother Carlo is in town—you know, the cute one?”

  Miranda didn’t know, but she shrugged a shoulder and went along with it. “Ah. Okay.”

  “We had a nice dinner in, and after a couple bottles of wine we wound up spending the rest of the evening watching some of the video we shot when we went waterskiing at Grapevine Lake.”

  “What, from this past July?” She snorted as memories of vicious summer heat, ice-cold beer and faceplanting into the water rose to the fore. “Wasn’t that the trip where Tony got so hot and bothered watching us put sunscreen on each other that he had trouble with his banana hammock?”

  “It’s a Speedo, kiddo, and my Italian stallion fills it out quite well. Anyway, I’m calling to let you know that apparently young Carlo is just like his brother.”

  Dear God, Geraldine was calling to brag about a threesome. “Um. Oh?” Really, what else could she say?

  There was a beat of silence. “Not about filling out a Speedo, for God’s sake. I have no idea if Carlo is hung like his brother, though I wouldn’t be surprised. Italian men are just so insanely virile, you know?”

  Wow. Just wow. “If you say so. I’ve never dated an Italian man.”

  “Which is why I’m calling. Carlo had the same reaction that Tony did watching us put on sunscreen, though his attention was primarily riveted on you. He seems quite interested in meeting you, so I thought I’d give you a call. I don’t suppose you have any idea when you’ll be back in town, do you?”

  Miranda loosed a short sigh that ended on a wheeze, thanks to the allergens she’d been breathing in. “I’ve only been here a week or so.”

  “You had hoped you wouldn’t be there that long.”

  “Things haven’t gone as smoothly here in Bitterthorn as I’d hoped. Coe is being...” Impossible. As usual. “Less than cooperative.”

  “Doesn’t he understand how much money he’ll get if he cooperates?”

  “It’s tainted Brookhaven money, so no doubt that makes it untouchable.”

  “Mmm, a man stubborn enough to choose his own personal principles over wealth,” came the musing reply. “He’s not Italian, is he?”

  “I believe he comes from a long line of purebred irritants.”

  “Could still be Italian, then. Or any other nationality, since he’s a man,” Geraldine chuckled. “Patience, kiddo. Remember that while you’re dealing with a human whose brain is technically bigger than yours, it doesn’t work at your speed.”

  “No one’s brain works like Coe’s.”

  “Nevertheless, we women have our work cut out for us when it comes to getting the male of our species to do the sensible thing, God love them. But on the upside, they always make us feel useful, don’t they?”

  Coe made her feel a lot of things—angry, annoyed and frustrated to the point of flying apart at the seams. Useful though? Not so much. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be here, Geraldine. For all I know, Coe is going to drag his feet throughout the entire sixty-day period. And then...” She didn’t want to think about what would have to happen then. “Let’s just say I doubt I’ll be in a dating mood at the end of that process.”

  Her neighbor made a sound of disappointment. “Well, just keep it in mind, all right? In the meantime I’ll ask Tony if his little brother has a Speedo of his own, just to see if the boy has any reservations about filling something like that up.”

  “Right. Thanks.” I think.

  The last thing she needed in her life was another man, Miranda thought as she hung up with her neighbor and turned in for the evening. Maybe tomorrow she’d brace herself and have another go at encouraging Coe to look for the evidence needed to give him the valve and all that went with it. As much as she wished he’d just get the job done without her having to interact with him, it was becoming obvious that wasn’t going to happen.

  Damn it all to hell.

  A coughing fit turned sneeze attack dragged her out of bed with the sun, and a shower to open clogged nasal passages helped only marginally. When she headed out to get some fresh air, she almost kicked a brand-new half gallon of milk off the trailer’s rickety platform.

  “No. Frigging. Way.” Scowling, she looked around the trailer park that was blanketed in the sleepy hush of early morning, and swore once more when she didn’t detect any sign of life. Somehow Coe knew she wasn’t accepting the milk he was leaving. She was trying to decide whether or not to kick it off the platform when the trailer door across from her opened. Wrapped in a paisley housecoat that had probably been chic in the seventies, Esme Fenster crossed her arms and stared first at her, then at the milk.

  “Good morning.” Miranda’s neck prickled with uncomfortable heat before she too, stared at the milk. “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I’ve somehow managed to receive yet another accidental delivery?”

  The older woman sighed. “Come on over.”

>   Gratitude rushed in and in a matter of seconds she was on Esme’s doorstep, offering up the milk. “Thank you so much for taking it, Ms. Fenster. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste—”

  “I didn’t say I’d take it, I said for you to come on over.” Esme stepped back and waved an impatient hand. “Hurry up, I’m not going to stand here all day heating up the outside with my door hanging wide open.”

  Too stunned to do anything but follow orders, Miranda found herself sitting across from her sour-faced neighbor at a round table a minute later, the table’s blond-wood surface polished to within an inch of its life. The carpet was a deep rust color and also immaculately clean, and the needlepoint throw pillows on the futon-style couch facing an old boxy TV were lined up like soldiers. Clearly, Esme Fenster’s house was an orderly one, and woe to anyone who tried to make it otherwise.

  “So.” Esme nodded at the milk now sitting on the table in front of Miranda. “He left it about twenty minutes ago.”

  About the time she was in the shower, she recalled before she shot the older woman a guarded look. “Who?”

  “Don’t play dumb, you know very well who I’m talking about. Roscoe Rodas.”

  Her jaw wanted to unhinge in the worst way. “I wasn’t aware most people knew his full name.”

  “Most people don’t, but that boy was a neighbor a while back. I watched him grow up.” She waved a general hand toward the front end of the trailer. “The moment he turned eighteen he was out the door, never to return. Until you showed up.”

  Miranda wasn’t sure what to say. “I apologize if we’ve been a bother.”

  Esme shook her head in dismissal. “Why is he leaving you milk?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you I had no idea?”

  “Would you believe me if I told you that I don’t tolerate lies, especially when they’re told right to my face?”

  “Right.” Miranda sighed and wrestled with the tattered thing she optimistically called her pride. “I didn’t have enough cash with me to buy milk. So apparently he’s having a field day rubbing my snooty Brookhaven nose in it.”

  “Huh.” For a while they stared at the intrusive presence of the milk jug before the older woman got up and stowed it away in the fridge. She came back with a pot of coffee and a couple of mismatched mugs. “I hope you like your coffee strong, because that’s what you’re getting.”

  “Oh, thank you, but there’s no need to go to—”

  “I said that’s what you’re getting, so finish it all without any back talk. I’ve got banana bread too, homemade, and it goes great with coffee. Want some?”

  Miranda knew when she was beaten. “Yes, please. Thank you, Ms. Fenster.”

  “Esme will do, and I’m calling you Miranda. You don’t have a problem with that, right?”

  Even if she did, she had a feeling it wouldn’t have mattered. “Right.”

  “I wasn’t close to the Rodas family,” she went on as she poured coffee and served up thick, fragrant slabs of banana bread on paper towels. Miranda sighed in pleasure at the first bite of bread that smelled like bananas, vanilla and brown sugar, and had the texture of sponge cake. “Truth be told, I’m not close to the majority of my neighbors, because let’s face it—this is a rough part of town. The rough part of town attracts a rough sort of people, and no one was rougher than Coe’s daddy.”

  Miranda’s brows inched up. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean he was a pig,” came the flat reply. “No, check that. That’s an insult to pigs, and I like bacon. Whatever’s lower than a pig, that’s what Roscoe Senior was.”

  “Coe is named after his father?”

  “Why do you think he wants everyone to call him Coe?” Placing the coffee pot on a warming trivet, Esme settled into her chair. “I don’t blame the boy, really. I wouldn’t want to own anything that belonged to that man either.”

  “What was so bad about Roscoe Senior?”

  “He believed women were put on this earth to play the role of either a convenient whore when a man had an itch, or a punching bag when he didn’t. Or at least, that’s what he believed of his wife,” she added thoughtfully, ignoring Miranda’s horrified recoil. “The end of their trailer was just a stone’s throw from where my bedroom is. That meant I had to hear just about every horrific thing that went on in that household when Roscoe decided it was time to go on a rampage. Which was pretty much every damn day.”

  “I had no idea.” Thinking back, Miranda couldn’t remember a time when Coe didn’t live on his own. He’d had a small apartment when they’d been dating, worked both at the garage and drove stock cars at her father’s track whenever he could get a ride. “He never told me anything like that.”

  “It’s not something that crops up in polite conversation.” Esme shrugged, stirring her coffee as she studied Miranda across the table. “Interesting that you think you should know about it, though. You and Coe have some sort of history?”

  That was one way of putting it. “Ancient history, to be precise.”

  Esme seemed to take her time digesting the nuances of that. “Whenever things got too violent, I’d watch that kid run out into the yard to get out of the line of fire, then turn back and stare at the door like he’d give his right arm to rush back in—kinda like a soldier wanting to jump on a grenade to save his buddies. He’d stand there, his little feet running in place in this crazy kind of panic. He’d flinch every damn time he heard his mother cry out, like he was the one getting punched, you know? It was painful to watch. You could see that boy wanted to protect his mother so much, but he was too small. Too afraid. I can’t even imagine how that’d screw up a kid—being made to feel so helpless while someone you love is getting the dog shit beat out of them.”

  Miranda could hardly wrap her mind around it herself, and the coldness in her heart thawed a fraction at the thought of a young and desperate Coe. “Did the police...” She stopped when she recalled Coe’s contempt for Sheriff Berry. No wonder he’d sounded like he knew what he was talking about. “Did you ever try to talk to Coe about it?”

  “I tried a few times to get him to come over until the worst of it passed—I just couldn’t bear for that kid to put himself through that. But he always pushed me away, spouting some of the foulest language I’ve ever heard come out of a child’s mouth. Made me wonder at the time what kind of person he’d grow up to be.”

  “Coe may be a lot of things, but he’d never raise a hand to a woman.” Being totally indifferent to the emotional damage he wrought, though...

  That was another story.

  Esme wrinkled her nose. “I’m not talking about that. When he finally took that good-for-nothing father of his on, screaming that no real man ever hurt those who were weaker than him, it was clear he understood what a man should—and more importantly, shouldn’t—be. No, I’m talking about the subtler cues most of us pick up along the way. I’m not sure he ever saw what a normal relationship between a man and a woman should be.”

  That made her think back to their time together. Their relationship had been fiery and tempestuous, a wild, unforgettable ride of passion and awakening physical hunger, and her fascination with him had bordered on obsession. It had been a thrill and an honor to have his name tattooed on her body, because she’d thought it was understood a tattoo was a forever sort of thing—a statement that she and Coe would be forever. He had been her first thought when she woke in the morning, and the last thought in her head at night. She’d believed it would last a lifetime.

  Looking back, her naïveté was almost painful.

  “Maybe that’s why he prefers engines to people,” she said after a moment, seeing him from a new perspective. “He’s a mechanical genius when it comes to figuring out how things work. But people are a lot more complex.”

  “Maybe that’s why he seems so bent on this milk run with you.”


  Miranda frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “Coe Rodas probably isn’t like any other man you’ve known,” Esme drawled, polishing off the last of her banana bread. “He won’t woo you with sweet words or flowers or text messages or whatever the hell is in fashion nowadays. All he knows is one thing—you needed milk. So he’s bringing you milk. This might be his way of trying to make you happy.”

  It was so ludicrous she couldn’t stop the laughter. “Coe couldn’t care less about my happiness. Remember that ancient history I mentioned? Things went so bad between us that I suspect the one thing that would make his day would be to know he contributed to any amount of misery I might have in life.”

  “You’d know about that better than me, I guess. But whatever his motives are, I hope he gets over it soon. I’m running out of room in my fridge.”

  Chapter Seven

  The State of Bean was unknown territory for Coe. Hipster atmosphere, hoity-toity lattes with ridiculously long Italian names and piped-in fusion jazz—it just wasn’t his thing. In his world, coffee was black with two sugars and no pretentious illusions. If anyone dared to suggest he pay more than a couple of bucks for it, they were going to get a good long look at his middle finger.

  He would have ignored the tiny coffeehouse with big-city aspirations that had opened a few months back. Then he spotted Miranda’s car in the parking lot, and he found himself making an illegal U-turn to park next to her. He snagged up the latest half gallon of milk—almond milk, on the off-chance she’d been serious a couple of weeks back about being lactose intolerant—and within a minute was inside a cozy area full of easy chairs, coffee tables, displays of fancy presses, kitschy ceramic mugs...