Della

by Julie Michele Gettys

  “Like what?” He shrugged.

  “Like you don’t know me. You’ve been up and down like a toilet seat from the moment we said ‘I do.’”

  He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Maybe you don’t know me. Maybe we need to get to know each other as man and wife. We don’t have to run around acting like a pair of lovebirds every minute. We can relax with each other.”

  “Why?” she said bewildered. “We’re the same people We haven’t changed. We still have the same dreams, don’t we? We’re just committed now.” She rose, wiped her mouth, laid her napkin on the plate still filled with food and announced, “Let’s go to bed.” A good round of sex always warmed the heart.

  Rick stood. “I’m going down to the casino and play some blackjack. Come with me.” He smiled one of those devastating smiles that usually caused an instant meltdown.

  But this time, his smile wasn’t working. “You go. I’m taking a warm bath to get my head screwed on right.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “See you in about an hour. If I’m late, you’ll know I’m chasing my money. Come get me.”

  She held her tears in check and the nasty lump in her throat almost gave her a headache. “Okay,” she squeaked out.

  He left, shattering her every dream about love and marriage.

  Small tears trickled down her cheeks.

  “Damn, damn, damn. What have I done?” She went through the closet to find a dress. She decided to chase after him, gamble, make the evening fun. No one was going to accuse the new Mrs. Della Courtney of being a stick-in-the-mud. She froze in front of the mirror. Her eyes were puffy from crying, her cheeks were splotched with red, but she didn’t care. No matter what she had to do, she wanted to take care of this relationship.

  On her way to the door, the phone rang. She knew Rick was calling to apologize, wanting her to get off her high horse and come on down. She picked up the receiver. “I beat you to the punch. I’m on my way.”

  “Della!” Wes shouted. “I found you.”

  She heard his relief through the phone wires. “How did you find me?” Of course, Jack Davis had crossed her again. If she told Wes about her marriage, Rick would be furious.

  “I know you didn’t want anyone to know where you were, but I’ve come across some information I thought serious enough to track you down.”

  “I should have known if you wanted to find me, you’d have no trouble.”

  “When are you coming back to Los Angeles?”

  “We’re leaving early in the morning. But,” she added quickly, “then we’re leaving right away for Hawaii.”

  “Hawaii? Does that mean what I think it does?”

  Trapped. “It does indeed. Rick and I were married earlier today.” She made sure she had a lilt in her voice. Wes mustn’t know of her momentary depression. He always seemed almost too concerned for her well being.

  Wes groaned. “Oh, no.”

  “Why? I thought you liked Rick.”

  “I did–”

  “Did?” she interrupted. “And what does that mean?”

  “Do you know what Rick does for a living?”

  “Of course, computer software.”

  “Anything else?” He paused. The line crackled. She shivered, her skin prickled.

  “No. Why?”

  “I think you might be in danger. Rick is into drugs.”

  She gasped. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a delivery boy and God knows what else, given the people he hangs out with. The DEA is on to him. He not only sells to some of our recording artists, he sells street stuff to kids. He’s into cocaine, marijuana. He gets whatever anyone wants.” Wes paused a moment. “He was married before, and put in jail for physical abuse.”

  She didn’t believe this for minute. But still, there was ice in her stomach. “Come on, Wes. You’re talking about my husband. He’s not the kind of guy who’d be involved in this kind of stuff. He’s been as gentle as a kitten with me. I’d have known. We’ve been open with each other. I married him because he’s so sweet. I know he isn’t perfect, but drugs?”

  “Have you met any of his friends?” Wes said.

  “Well, come to think of it, no.”

  “Don’t you find that a bit strange?”

  “No, of course not. You know how a relationship is in the beginning.” Under her veneer of self-confidence, a new truth emerged. As Wes talked, she glanced around at the luxurious surroundings of their suite. She thought of the Porsche, Rick’s expensive clothes, the roll of bills he always carried. He never used credit cards. A light flashed in her brain. Stark, black fear gripped her. Of course, she’d been blinded by her need to have this man. “Wes, I didn’t know.” She wanted to kick herself for her stupidity. Wes didn’t deal in theory, he dealt in facts. Thorough was his middle name. She had made another huge mistake, like her mother. But her mother was smarter–she didn’t marry the bastards.

  “What should I do?” He might come back at any moment. She needed the strength to hide what she knew. She’d have to go to bed with him and pretend there was nothing wrong. No, no, no.

  “Listen, if you can get away, leave now. “

  “I can’t. Rick is downstairs gambling. I haven’t been out of his sight since I arrived. There isn’t a flight out of this ‘burg until tomorrow. I overheard people in the lobby discussing Greyhound. The place is crawling with conventions.”

  “I’ll arrange a private plane for you.”

  She took a deep breath. “No, I’ll be fine. As long as Rick doesn’t know I know anything, he won’t be any different than he’s always been.” She rubbed her temples.

  “I’m worried about you. You know Carrie and I really care for you. I’ll have someone at your apartment when you arrive.”

  She blurted, “No, Wes. I got into this, let me work my way out. As long as I can keep this to myself, I don’t think I’ll be in any danger. Don’t worry,” her confidence rose, “I’ll be all right. I just want to get home.”

  “I want you to call me the minute you get in. If you run into any trouble before then, you call me. Should take you about ten hours.”

  “We have a flight to Hawaii tomorrow morning. I’ll work something out between now and then. I have my cell phone. I’ll turn it on.”

  “Just get back to L.A. as fast as you can.”

  Slowly, with hands trembling, her heart breaking, she laid the phone in its cradle. To calm her nerves, she decided to settle into a hot bath with a double martini to drown her troubles. There was something familiar about all this.

  The warmth of the water and the flush of her drink settled her down. She wanted Rick to chase his money and stay out late, drink too much. The thought of having sex, faking an orgasm and whispering sweet nothings in the ear of a man who had blatantly lied to her, a drug dealer, was totally out of the question..

  A negative thought struck her. She had lied about her past to Wes and everyone else connected with Gates. She hadn’t told Rick about her prostitution and being arrested. The fact that she didn’t have a clue what qualities made up a good man, an honest life, or a truly happy woman, shocked her.

  In the middle of the night, Rick slipped into bed. She lay awake, too upset to sleep. She had lain there between silk sheets, feeling their softness, breathing in her own perfume, and dreading his body sliding in next to hers. She must talk him into getting up and going home, but the alcohol on his breath warned her he had too much to drink to drive–another side of him she’d never seen. Rick laid an arm over her waist, snuggled next to her, and soon he breathed deeply.

  In the morning, she unspooned herself and slipped out of bed. Her heart pounded twenty miles a minute. Silently, she moved around the room, dressing, packing, putting on her makeup. She leaned over and gently touched Rick’s exposed shoulder. “Darling.” The words nearly gagged her. “It’s time to go.”

  He cracked open an eye. “What time is it?”

  “Seven.”

  He sprang into a sitting pos
ition. “Holy shit! We’ve got to get on the road.” On the way to the shower, he added, “Why didn’t you wake me up earlier? We haven’t even had a wedding night. We will tonight, my love.”

  She cringed. “You looked so comfy after such a rough night.” She tried to sound casual. He showered, and she ordered a light breakfast. By the time he came out, the tray was on the table. She was eating toast and drinking coffee, praying to the “girl God” to help her pull this off.

  “Coffee for me. I don’t want anything to eat.” He slipped on his pants and shirt. “We’ve gotta make tracks. We have a long drive ahead of us. We’ll stop by your place and you can pick up what you’ll need, then stop by mine. We’ll spend the night at an airport hotel. Our flight leaves for Hawaii at six a.m.”

  They drove in silence, Rick obviously nursing a hangover, Della scared out of her wits. He reached over as they descended the Sierra and squeezed her thigh. “I’ve been a shit. I don’t know what happened. At first, I blamed my attitude on your laughing during the ceremony, but now I think I was just scared.”

  “Of what?” she retorted sarcastically. “Being married and having a family?”

  “Guess so. What else? We just moved too fast. I didn’t have time to think.”

  “This was your idea, dear.” She glanced out the window at the passing pine-covered mountains and wished he were scared enough for an annulment. “You can get out, if you want.”

  He put his hand back on the wheel. “Not on your life, baby. We’re just beginning. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

  How she wanted to ask him about his life, what he really did for a living; but she knew her safety depended on her keeping her mouth shut. Anyone who contaminated the world and kids with drugs was a monster to her. Any feelings she had for him had totally evaporated.

  Coming down from the Grapevine and into the Valley, she squeezed his leg, wanting to soothe him, keep him thinking everything was normal. “Why don’t you drop me at my place. I’ll take a quick shower and pack a few fresh things. You do the same. Pick me up, and we’ll head to the airport.” She’d ditch him, lock him out. He had keys, but she had a dead bolt.

  “Naw, too much driving.”

  Her heart sank. He wasn’t going to give her a chance to get away. She’d wait in the car at his place, call Wes on her cell phone, alert him. Maybe he’d have someone at the hotel when they arrived. She let out a breath, relaxed. They were almost there.

  When they reached her apartment, her heart went into overdrive. All she wanted was to get inside alone. Knowing Rick, she figured he’d probably want to come in with her, wait for her, speed her up. “Keep the engine running. I’ll just run in.”

  “Not so fast.” He leaned back. “You’re really excited, aren’t you?”

  She nodded and cracked a weak smile. Her lips felt like they were trembling, but knew they weren’t.

  “Tell you what. I need a couple of things from the drugstore. You go in alone. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Be ready.” He gunned the engine, like a boy with his first car.

  She leaned over and hugged him, tears stinging her eyes.

  “Hey, what’s the matter?”

  She kissed his cheek. “I’m just so damn happy, that’s all.” She got out and ran up the steps to the building entrance. As he spun off, she turned and waved. “Good-bye, Rick Courtney. Have a good life.”

  He had her suitcases with all her personal belongings, but she didn’t give a damn. What she had lost was her dream.

  Inside her apartment, she locked the door, secured the deadbolt, even latched the chain, then methodically checked each window, even though she lived on the second floor, to make sure they were all locked and she felt safe.

  Tears still streaming down her cheeks, she went to the kitchen to make herself some hot tea. She called Wes, told him she was home safe and sound.

  “Where’s Rick?”

  “At the drugstore. He should be back here any minute.”

  “I’ll come pick you up. You can stay here until we get things settled. I’ll call the police.”

  What a frickin’ nightmare. She had just married a man she thought was the most wonderful person on the face of the earth. Now, she stood by the stove waiting for the water to boil and the police to come and haul her husband off to jail.

  The knock came.

  Rick was back.

  The teakettle screamed.

  Another knock. This time, a little louder.

  She heard the key in the door, the knob turned. Then rattled. Her tears stopped, her heart thudded in her ears.

  “Della,” came Rick’s muffled call.

  She turned the burner off and walked toward the door, unsteady, her hands trembling.

  “Della, open up.” His tone sharper, almost desperate.

  He rattled the knob again. This time, more violently.

  Under her breath she muttered, “Go away, Rick. Please, go away.”

  “Della, what the hell’s going on?”

  She stood next to the door, listening, her hand encircling her phone. He yelled, “Open this goddamned door or I’ll break it in.”

  “Get out of here, Rick,” she shouted back. “Wes has called the police. They’ll be here any minute. I know all about your drugs.”

  “It’s a lie!” he screamed.

  “Beat it, Rick. I mean it.” She wasn’t afraid now. She was in her own home, locked in, the police on their way.

  He said in a muffled, anguished tone, “You bitch!”

  With her back against the door, she slowly slid to the floor, crying, “Oh, my God. I am my mother.”

  9

  On a dazzling Sunday morning in Los Angeles, Lillian Garland sat in her favorite chair at the living room window, drinking coffee, watching the children play on the sidewalk in front of her house. Seeing kids play reminded her of her youth, when she was happy and carefree. Her childhood had come to an abrupt halt when her parents were killed in a car accident and she ended up in foster care. They sent her to one money-grubbing family after another, pseudo-parents who took in kids for a paycheck. Surely, there were some caring folks out there who did it for love, but she never met them. Instead of her, they clung to the twentieth of each month for their check from the county.

  At sixteen, she’d had enough. She disappeared into the sleazy streets of Hollywood. She quickly discovered she earned more money on her back than at a desk, and men were for sex, not love. Hardened to life, she learned the art of survival.

  These thoughts crept into her mind each Sunday morning when she planted herself in front of the window and watched the kids. No wonder she found comfort in the bottle. A small boy, maybe ten years old, skateboarded past her house, a big smile on his cherub cheeks, thrilling in the moment. In this neighborhood, he stood a good chance of ending up just like her. God forbid.

  With a sigh, she lit her fourth cigarette, reached for the brandy–Christian Brothers, a high-class brandy–and trickled the amber liquid into her steaming mug of coffee. She leaned back, took a sip and closed her eyes. Another day to read the paper, sip her booze, smoke two or three packs of cigarettes, and watch CNN, her window to the world. Maybe she’d luck out and see another armchair war with one of those nasty little middle eastern countries. It was a nice day to nibble on her favorite foods, or a friend might drop by for a visit, share a drink with her. By dusk, she’d be sound asleep with Louis her cat on her lap.

  What more could anyone want?

  She sighed and thought of Eddie Williams, her last lover, the one who had hung around long enough for Lillian to feel almost married. He had died suddenly in her bed of a massive heart attack. She shuddered, remembering his scream and his body stiffening on top of her, scaring the bejesus out of her. Then, a few weeks later, to her surprise, a stranger drove up and restored her dignity by handing her a copy of Eddie’s will. He left her a little money, enough to take her off the dole. Who would have guessed that little shit had any money, and would leave all of it to her? God knows, he nev
er spent money on her while he was alive. Had he salted everything away for her, to make sure she was taken care of in her old age? If he had, he was the first man who’d ever done anything good for her.

  Thanks to Eddie, these had become carefree days, like when she was a kid and her parents took care of everything. She had security, her bottle, her cigarettes, and no one to answer to, not even her only kid. She’d made sure of that.

  A sleek black car pulled up in front of her house. Not knowing who or why startled her. Only beat-up jalopies or garbage trucks parked here. Tinted windows made it hard to make out who was inside. Whoever was in the car just sat there. Lillian slipped her brandy onto the shelf under the table, and closed the cabinet door. Who the hell is it? Only drug dealers drove big black cars in this neighborhood, and she didn’t need a dealer for her drugs–beer and brandy were on the open market.

  The longer the car sat there, the more nervous Lillian became. She cleared her coffee and plate away, came back and straightened her chair, peeled back the curtain and peered out to get a better look. The woman was barely visible inside the car. Her heart started thrumming, her vision blurred. For chrissakes. Was that Della? After what they’d been through, she wouldn’t have the nerve to show her face on Lillian’s doorstep. Not without any warning. She had worked extra hard to make sure Della hated her, and wanted nothing more to do with her. Otherwise, the girl might have ended up just like her.

  If she was Della, from the look of that car she’d done pretty well for herself, unless she she’d gotten into drugs or had become a high-class call girl. She watched as Della emerged, stood by the door and surveyed the neighborhood where she had grown up. Her very own daughter, in the flesh, coming home to see her ma. Lillian felt faint.

  She remembered Wes Gates paying her all that money to have an abortion, and how she decided to have a little fun with the money instead, then had the child and set herself up on welfare. The little girl never had a chance. She was Lillian’s meal ticket. She even managed to squeeze a few extra dollars out of Wes while Della went to high school. When the girl turned seventeen and started hustling, like her ma, Lillian drove her out, making her no better than the foster families from her own youth. She shook off the guilt.