Sweet Hearts

by Connie Shelton

  It took no more than fifteen minutes at her first assignment to take the key from the lockbox, walk through the house, check all doors and windows, and do a perimeter check outside as well. All secure.

  An hour later she’d completed the same routine at the second place and was on the road toward Marla’s home. Again, as she passed through the wide-spot called Arroyo Seco she caught herself scanning the few buildings for a sign of Bobul the chocolatier, but of course he wasn’t there.

  Marla’s property already had an air of desolation about it, that untended feeling that Sam always noticed first when she took on a new caretaking job. She wondered about Marla’s financial state, whether she’d written a will, how Jolie would be cared for, who would get the house. She hoped that Marla had structured her legal documents on her granddaughter’s behalf, not basing them on the belief that Tito would come walking back into the picture anytime soon.

  Sam pulled into the driveway and squared her shoulders as she got out of the truck. She couldn’t take on everyone else’s legal and financial matters. Whatever Marla had done, it was her choice.

  The key worked in the lock with the familiarity of a mechanism that had operated thousands of times. Sam stepped inside, noticing for the first time the faint air of sickness. Poor Marla, trying to brave it alone in her home, hoping to recover or at least to hang in there long enough for her son and granddaughter to put their little family back together.

  Sam stood in the dim living room, eyes closed against the sadness, finally remembering her mission. She knew the kitchen and dining areas of the house; now she walked toward the arched opening that led to a short hallway. Three bedrooms opened onto the hall. Out of habit, she peeked into each quickly to get the layout in her mind.

  The back bedroom felt decidedly masculine, had probably been Tito’s as a child, although now it contained a double bed and the minimal furnishings of a guest room. Sam pulled open drawers, glanced through the closet, in hopes of finding any little clue the grown man might have left behind. Nothing. It appeared that when Tito left the parental home he did it for real.

  A bathroom linked this room to the middle bedroom. The bath and second bedroom were very girly, with Jolie’s hair ribbons and ponytail holders strewn about. Along the edge of the tub, eight bottles of shampoos, conditioners and body washes jammed the small space, testament to a girl with the luxury of often changing her mind about her favorite fragrances. Her seven years of life at grandma’s looked to be very comfortable indeed.

  Sam exited Jolie’s bedroom into the hall, making her way forward to the room obviously occupied by Marla. Even as she’d probably waited for a neighbor to drive her to the hospital, she’d attempted to make her bed. The spread lay in wrinkles, pulled up to cover the pillows. A couple of empty pill bottles sat on a nightstand; most likely the full ones had been gathered up and taken with her.

  Across the room, a wide dresser with a mirror above it held a dusty silk flower arrangement and a small jewelry box with a crewel-work top. A cardigan sweater spilled over the edge, perhaps something Marla removed as she dressed for the trip to the hospital. Standing upright between the jewelry box and the mirror were the stack of envelopes Marla had previously showed Sam, the cards from her son.

  She picked them up.

  Flipping through the stack, she again noticed the neat handprinted addresses, the postmarks from so many different places without return addresses. She pulled out one of the untraceable cards. It was hard to imagine such a need for secrecy that he hadn’t even signed them.

  Sam pictured him, stealthily approaching a mailbox, dropping an envelope inside, looking over his shoulder in case someone should see him. Perhaps even dreading that he would be grabbed off the street, the attacker snatching the card and opening it, knowing where to find the family. A man would live in fear of such a thing.

  She ran a finger over the stamps. Without really thinking, she began to sort them in order by postmark date, seeing the postage denominations climb by a couple of pennies every two or three envelopes. When they all sat in a neat stack by date, she stared at the one on top.

  Sam flipped back through them, glanced at the dresser to be sure she hadn’t somehow missed others. The last card Tito Fresques mailed came more than two years ago.

  Chapter 17

  Sam sensed the blood pounding in her temples as she thought back over the conversations with Marla. The definite impression was that the family continued to receive these cards all along. Sam felt sure Marla had said so, but she couldn’t remember for sure.

  She pulled a scrap of paper from her pack and jotted down the cities and dates of the postmarks. Maybe she and Beau could put together a trail of Tito’s movements for the FBI man to follow. The only problem was that the trail would end abruptly twenty-seven months ago in Denver.

  What could this mean? How on earth would they come up with a man who clearly wanted to stay hidden?

  Unless it wasn’t Tito himself who wanted to hide. Perhaps someone else wanted to be sure he stayed away. Maybe permanently.

  She slowly folded the slip of paper and stuck it back in her pack. How could she locate evidence that would help Beau and his contact in Albuquerque find Tito? She glanced into Marla’s closet but it felt too invasive to start going through her things. Wandering back to Jolie’s room she noticed that the closet door stood open.

  Well, I don’t have any problem looking through a kid’s stuff, she decided. I’m a mom. I’ve done this.

  The girl was no more or less messy than any pre-teen, Sam decided as she surveyed the clutter. Blouses hung one-shouldered, barely clinging to their hangers. Jeans sat in lumps on the floor. And a tangle of belts seemed permanently snaked around the strap of a purse. On the shelf above, the grandmother’s hand was a little more evident. Clear plastic bins held art supplies and photographs. In the far corner was a cardboard box, labeled in kid writing, “Mommy and Daddy’s Things.”

  Sam felt her throat tighten. How hard it must have been for this little one. Her daddy gone since before she could remember and her mother dying when she was in kindergarten. Their memories condensed into a twelve-inch cube of a box. She debated whether to touch it, but the thought that Tito might have left something with his daughter, something even his mother didn’t know about, won out.

  Pulling the carton from the shelf, Sam carried it to Jolie’s bed and set it down.

  A sheet of pink tissue paper with Happy Birthday printed in bright purple covered the contents. Beneath it, the kinds of memorabilia that a kid would choose: a box of Emeraude bath powder with an elegant screen-printed design, two lipstick tubes as reminders of her mother’s face and her scent. A preschooler’s gift project, Jolie’s small handprint inked onto a sheet of paper with a verse neatly written by the teacher, the whole thing rolled like a scroll and tied with red ribbon.

  Sam set each object carefully on the coverlet with the idea that she would replace them exactly in the order she’d found them. It wasn’t until near the bottom of the box that she came across anything masculine: an old sports sock, dirty and wadded, and a comb. The cheap black plastic kind that men often tucked into a pocket. It didn’t seem likely that the old objects would comfort Marla now.

  She diligently replaced everything into the carton and set it on the shelf in the exact spot where she’d found it. Back in Marla’s bedroom Sam gathered the envelopes. Locking the front door again, she headed toward town.

  It was well after noon when she arrived at the hospital. A nurse was in the room with Marla, trying to coax her to take a bit of soup for lunch. The patient leaning against the steep angle of her bed, propped with pillows, clearly had little taste for the food. She brightened when she saw Sam in the doorway.

  “Would you like to give this a try?” the nurse asked, holding up the soup spoon.

  “Sure.” Sam glanced at Marla. “I’m sure we can manage something.”

  Once the lady in blue-flowered scrubs bustled out, Marla smiled. “I’m so glad you came back,
Sam.” Her voice seemed a little stronger now.

  Sam laid the envelopes on the nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want some soup? Or maybe the crackers?”

  “Stuff tastes like water. I don’t know how they expect a sick person to find this appetizing when it’s so bland even a two-year-old wouldn’t want it.”

  Sam nodded sympathetically. No doubt the nurse had already tried all the arguments about how Marla needed nutrition, ought to build her strength.

  “Maybe I should smuggle in some enchiladas.” She gave a conspiratorial wink.

  Marla smiled for the first time. “I would love that. But I don’t think they’d stay down. I can’t eat the things I used to.” Her gaze went somewhere to the middle of the room.

  “Maybe if you ate the soup first? Get your stomach used to food again?” Come on, Sam. You’re not dealing with a toddler. Let the woman do what she wants.

  After a minute Marla shook her head. “I think I’d rather just look at my cards.”

  Sam pushed the meal table aside and placed the envelopes by Marla’s side.

  “I’ll go then. You enjoy your cards.”

  “Is there any word about Tito yet?” The wistful look on her face nearly broke Sam’s heart.

  “Not yet. We’re still looking.”

  She leaned over and gave Marla a hug then left the hospital, wondering whether her friend would ever get to go home again.

  *

  In her own bedroom, Sam stared at the cardboard boxes she’d left lying around, half packed. Earlier she’d wondered what was holding her back from finishing the job and simply hauling everything to Beau’s house. Now, for some reason, her own concerns didn’t seem nearly as important, not in comparison with the Fresques family’s misfortunes.

  She thought of Jolie, that twelve-year-old who’d already suffered too much loss. For the third time in her life, she would soon lose the person most important to her. She was too young to be going through this.

  Sam realized that she’d not yet had the proper conversation with Marla. Instead of buying into the idea that Tito would come back and raise a daughter on his own, maybe Sam needed to find out if Marla had any alternate plan at all. When the day came, with the father gone, who would actually take the girl in? It was sad to think of her becoming a ward of the state and being shipped off to a foster home somewhere.

  She picked up the phone and dialed Diane Milton. This time there was an answer.

  “Diane, can you talk for a minute? I mean, without the girls around?” she asked after re-introducing herself.

  “Sure, Sam. My husband took them into town for a movie. I was sitting here with my feet up, enjoying a cup of tea.”

  “Do you know if Marla has a will? What provisions she’s made for Jolie?”

  There was a space in which Diane must have taken a sip of tea. “I don’t know. She’s a little bit old-school that way, a little superstitious about bringing on bad luck by planning for it.”

  Sam itched to tell the neighbor what serious consequences that could have but Diane seemed aware of it.

  “I’ll talk to Marla more seriously about it when I go see her tomorrow. We’re got a good attorney. Maybe I’ll see if he can go along with me.”

  Sam thanked her and said she would let Diane get back to her relaxing afternoon. With that burden temporarily transferred to someone else, Sam remembered that she owed Delbert Crow a weekly report on the two properties she’d checked earlier in the day. She switched on the computer and began typing. By four o’clock when Sam hit the Send button on the email she felt ready for a respite herself.

  She’d no sooner brewed her own cup of tea and headed toward her favorite corner of the sofa than the phone rang.

  “Samantha Jane, what’s this about canceling your wedding?”

  Sam sighed. Her mood sank about five notches.

  “Didn’t Kelly explain it to you last night, Mother?”

  “Well, she called and talked to your daddy, and all I got out of it was that you and Beau aren’t getting married.”

  “We will, Mother. It’s just that this particular week has gotten to be a bit too much for me.”

  “Sugar, every bride feels that way. I tell you, I’ve seen it a hundred times. But there are just certain plans that can’t be undone once they’re set in motion. Aren’t you concerned about having to cancel your caterer, your photographer? What about the limo, or, I don’t know, out there you probably have a horse and carriage.”

  Sam pressed deeper into the sofa and rolled her eyes heavenward. Lord save me from her preconceived ideas of what a wedding should be.

  “You might not be able to get the top people back once you’ve cancelled them, Samantha. Your pastor might not ever speak to you.”

  She could picture her mother, dithering. She would have the phone propped between her ear and shoulder, pacing the kitchen floor, literally wringing her hands.

  “Mother, there are no ‘top people’ involved. Beau and I planned a very simple ceremony with a judge and a few friends at a local bed and breakfast—”

  “Oh my, that sounds plain. No rehearsal dinner, no orchestra, no wedding dance?”

  “No, Mother. We aren’t into all that stuff.”

  “I’m putting your daddy on the line.” Sam heard an uncharacteristically shrill “Howard!” in the background, followed by some fumbling of the phone.

  “Okay, Samantha, you tell your father what all you just told me.”

  “Hi, Daddy. How’s everything there?” Sam could hear the resignation in her own voice.

  “Just fine, honey. The car’s unpacked and we spent the day—”

  “Howard! That’s not what I meant. I want her to tell you— Oh, I don’t know. I’m just so very upset about this.” There was a click on the line.

  “I’m still here, Sammy. Don’t you fret. It’s just that she bought a new outfit. Got some pointy-toe shoes to go with the dress and all, had her nails done with that awful plastic-like stuff. Painted ’em purple to go with the dress. She’ll get over it.”

  Nina Rae would not get over it, Sam knew, and she was likely to be hearing about this for years.

  “Daddy, just try to convince her that I don’t need a big fancy wedding to make me happy. Beau and I will reschedule. I was silly to ever think I could pull this off on Valentine’s Day. My business is just too crazy right now.”

  “I know, honey, I know. And whatever you decide to do is fine with us.” He lowered his voice. “Well, it’s fine with me. And I’ll work on your mother.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  She hung up, wondering how on earth this always happened. Her mother had a way of erasing fifty years of Sam’s life, sending her right back to childhood. Could the woman not trust that Sam might just have some inkling about managing her own affairs?

  Her tea had gone cold by the time she set the phone receiver down and she didn’t have the energy to walk as far as the kitchen to reheat it. She closed her eyes, but the jumble of thoughts about her family, Marla’s situation, finding the missing Tito, and the mountain of work at the bakery all formed an unsettling mishmash of a dream.

  Chapter 18

  The room was growing dark when Sam stirred, feeling guilty that she had napped away a couple of hours that could have been used more productively. She stretched, her limbs feeling heavy and useless.

  The back door clicked shut.

  “Kel?”

  “Hey, Mom. I’m home.” Her voice had a dreamy quality.

  Sam knew she better get rid of the rest of those chocolates before her daughter turned into a full-fledged nymphomaniac.

  “Whatcha up to?” Kelly asked, drifting into the living room and finding Sam sprawled on the sofa.

  “I guess my mind shut down after the call from your grandmother.”

  “Oh god, I bet that was fun.”

  “The usual, how could I do this to her?”

  “Mom, haven’t you already figured this out? It’s always about her.”

 
“I know. And that’s fine. She went to a lot of trouble to get ready for the wedding and I didn’t give her much notice.”

  “Yeah, but did she once ask how you’re doing, how you feel about canceling the plans?” Kelly plopped onto the armchair across from Sam. “No, I can bet that she didn’t.”

  “It’s just her way. Heaven knows, I should be used to it by now.”

  “How was Grampa? Did you talk to him?”

  “He said she got her acrylic nails painted purple.” She caught the snicker from Kelly and they both burst out laughing.

  “Gramma and those silly nails,” Kelly gasped. “I swear she does not see herself—”

  “Okay, now, be nice.” But Sam couldn’t keep a straight face. She pictured her very proper mother decked out in something that had required a trip to Neiman Marcus, the shoes that would match perfectly, the large precise hairstyle, and those nails which were really done mainly as a backdrop for the big jewelry that Nina Rae managed to get for every birthday. Each time Sam looked toward Kelly they started laughing again, until Sam rolled off the sofa and landed on her hands and knees on the floor.

  Kelly keeled back in the armchair, her amusement completely out of control now. As Sam used the coffee table to hoist herself off the floor, her daughter managed a straight face.

  “I’m starving,” Kelly said. “Have you eaten yet?”

  Sam remembered something about a bowl of soup, but recalled that was Marla’s soup, at the hospital, hours ago.

  “Pizza. That’s what I’m craving. I’ll call.” Kelly got out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen phone.

  “Everything,” Sam called out. “Get the works.”

  While Kelly left to pick up the pizza, Sam washed her face and ran her fingers through her hair. No wonder her mother felt so superior; she’d raised a daughter who frankly didn’t give a whit about being stylish. Her mouth relaxed into her usual smile. But then a picture of Felicia Black, with her fur coat and designer accessories, flashed into Sam’s head. She tossed the washcloth into the sink and went to the kitchen where she poured two glasses of wine.