Just Flirt (31 page)

Someone walks in.

Don’t panic, oh, for the love of God, don’t panic.

The desk chair squeaks. My lungs ache from holding my breath as Larson picks up the phone and dials. “Henry! It’s Larson, calling to let you know I’ll be mailing the interest payment for the second mortgage on Monday. And thanks for being patient, Henry, I can assure you there will be no more late payments. I have everything under control.”

Yeah, that’s what he thinks.

Larson hangs up and taps his desk a few times, his chair squeaking again as he stands and walks back out of the room. When he closes the door behind him, I swat Sabrina in the rear. “I thought you said he was on a business trip and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow night!”

“Well, golly gee, he must have lied, imagine that!” Sabrina whispers back, kneeling to unlock the window. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

No. The check in my hand. We can’t leave without a copy for proof. “Dee, let’s go!” Sabrina pleads when I creep to the copier and place it on the glass.
Please be a quiet one!
Thankfully, the copier doesn’t rumble and groan like ours does, but a red light comes on, saying the machine needs to warm up.

Come on, come on!

The light finally turns green. I hit the button, grabbing the copy as soon as it comes out. “Okay, now we can go,” I tell Sabrina.

But it’s too late. The footsteps return.

There’s nowhere to hide except for beside the file cabinet. I press my back to the wall, my heart pounding like an out of control jack hammer. The copier! The copier is still on, with the check inside.
Crap, I’m going to be arrested after all
. Breaking and entering? Violating a restraining order? How many years is that going to get me?

The doorknob turns.

The door inches open.

Larson steps in, but just as if it’s God Himself coming to our rescue, someone pounds on the front door. I can hear Larson curse underneath his breath before he leaves to open it with a surprised “Roxanne, is everything okay?”

Roxanne!

“Mr. Walker, thank goodness!” she says, sounding both desperate and dumb. “One of the toilets in our new house is leaking and water’s getting all over the hardwoods!”

No way.

She’s playing the helpless card!

“Now, now, don’t panic, Roxanne,” Larson says in a condescending tone. “There’s a shutoff valve right at the base. All you have to do is—”

“You mean
inside
the toilet?” Roxanne timidly asks.

“No, it’s at the base, by the floor,” Larson chides.

Seriously, does he think she’s that stupid? No time to analyze. “Let’s go!” Sabrina whispers as she eases the window open. I grab the check, returning it to the bank bag and turning off the copier before running to the window and climbing out. We both land right in an evergreen shrub.

“Ouch!”

“Shh! Be quiet!”

We sprint across the lawn like a rabid dog is nipping at our heels, not stopping until we reach our rendezvous point at the development’s entrance. My lungs ache as we flop down by a hydrangea bush. Sabrina lies on the grass, her face beet red and her chest still heaving when Roxanne drives up in the Subaru and Natalie joins us on my bike. Nat lets it fall to the ground and slumps down beside us. “I—I—pretended to get a text from my mom, saying I had to come home, after I heard Roxanne talking to Larson,” she wheezes. “Did you find anything?”

“Oh, yes, you bet your sweet tush we did,” I tell her.

After filling Natalie in on all the juicy details, Sabrina turns to me. “Dee … I’m sorry.”

“About what? You were fantastic back there.”

She shakes her head. “No, about the letter. It drove me crazy, the way Blaine always talked about you. I wanted to humiliate you so maybe—he’d talk about me, instead. And,” she says to Natalie, “I’m sorry for taking that picture of you. I was a total…”

“Jerk?” Natalie provides.

“Yeah, a giant jerk.” She tells Natalie to get out her cell, and thrusts most of her index finger straight up her nose. “So go ahead, take your best shot. I deserve it.”

*   *   *

After our evening of misdemeanors, Natalie and Sabrina head for home, but Roxanne bravely volunteers to help me show Ivy our discovery. I’m hoping Ivy won’t scream as much over
how
we found the check if someone is with me. Yeah, right,
wishful thinking.
Before we can make it to Ivy’s RV Victoria Swain appears.

“Roxanne, there you are!” She smiles and holds up a large pamphlet. “I’ve been dying to show you what came in the mail today.”

Roxanne mumbles an annoyed “not again” under her breath. “Mom, I’m not interested in seeing any product brochures or samples for the new house right now, okay?” But when she notices an auto mechanic posing on the pamphlet’s front page, she stops. “Oh, is … is that for Lincoln Tech?”

“It sure is! Did you know there’s a branch right here in Columbia and—” Mrs. Swain stops, twisting an earring, realizing that, of course, Roxanne already knows this. She gives me a polite glance that is laced with guilt and says, “I, uh, also have an application, Roxanne, that maybe we could fill out together. And maybe you can tell me about that first female NASCAR pit chief, what was her name, Cindy Woodsy?”

It seems as though a silent truce is formed between them, one of acceptance and hope.

Roxanne takes the pamphlet. “Woosley, Mom. Cindy Woosley.”

Huh. Well done, Mrs. Swain, well done.

They leave together—which would have been delightfully touching had it not been for the fact that I now have to face Ivy on my own. Oh, well, time to put on my big girl panties and get it over with. But as I pass the playground, the Cutsons jump off the monkey bars, their foreheads slick with sweat and their capes now torn.

“Miss Dee, we did what you asked!”

“Did what?” I ask them.

“Duh! Spy on that Madeline woman,” Tanner says. “We don’t fool around with secret missions. Should we report to you now or later?”

Right, my secret “mission” for them. “Sure, what’s the scoop, fellows?”

Lyle leans forward, darting his eyes left and right to make sure there are no other spies hiding in the pine trees. “Well, she spent an awfully long time arguing on the phone with some Arthur guy. He your granddaddy? She kept yellin’ and saying it weren’t right for him to talk to their lawyer while she was gone.”

“Yeah,” Tanner says. “And don’t tell my momma I said a dirty word, but she also said to him, ‘Piss on your papers.’ So we think—”

“So we think your granddaddy got a new puppy named Lawyer who he’s trying to potty train!” Lyle finishes triumphantly.

Just hearing the word “lawyer” makes me shudder. And pissing on papers? That doesn’t make any sense. But the Cutsons look so proud of themselves that I lean forward to kiss their grubby cheeks. “Good job, guys. I knew I could count on—”

Wait. Lawyer? Papers? And the fact that she’s been here for so long without a good reason? I think I know why.

Madeline is a Miss Almond Pudding, too.

*   *   *

“Young lady, I was just about to turn in early for the evening,” Madeline barks from her open cabin door, dressed in pajamas, dirty tissues littering the floor behind her. “Is there some kind of emergency, Dee?”

I shift my weight, hearing laughter and the sound of metal hitting metal coming from the horseshoe pits. Should I ask to be invited in? No, from the way she’s gripping the doorknob, I know what her answer will be. So instead, I hold up the white box I was hiding behind my back and say, “No, I just wanted to bring you something.”

She reads the box, her brow furrowed. “Skinny Cows? You felt it was necessary to bring me junk food?”

I nod. “Yeah, they come in handy … when you’re upset or when you need to really talk about something.”

Madeline stiffens, fidgeting with her pajama collar with one hand and clutching her stomach with the other, making it look like she’s both pushing and pulling herself at the same time. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Dee. I’m not upset, nor is there anything that needs to be discussed, so if you don’t mind—”

There is no way to get to it other than the direct route.

“Is my grandfather asking you for a divorce?”

She steps back, her aloof mask refusing to budge. “Young lady, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Is that why you’re here? Why didn’t you tell us?”

Her face pales, making me realize that I am right. Madeline sucks in her cheeks and stands tall. “Well, Dee, I suppose that’s … What I mean to say is…”

She releases the death grip on her collar and tries to compose herself by smoothing out the wrinkles. She then walks to a rocking chair on the porch, sitting daintily as though she’s dressed in heels instead of sloppy pajamas. “What I meant to say is that yes, Arthur and I are separated. But I felt no reason to bring up the topic because I have the situation completely in hand.”

Uh, no. She doesn’t.

I sit beside her, saying nothing, just feeling the sweet dampness of July night air and listening to the chirping crickets.

Madeline gazes out over the trout pond, her mouth held in a grim line. After her neighbor at the cabin next door hangs wet beach towels on the railing and a round of choruses comes from the horseshoe pit over someone’s ringer, she takes a quick breath. “Yes, there’s nothing to discuss and there’s no reason for any dramatics, because I’m okay. I’m perfectly okay.”

“Oh.” I say softly. “I just—”

“After all,” she interrupts, her back rigid and ankles crossed like an etiquette school graduate. “A woman of my capabilities surely can handle life on her own … even though starting over isn’t what I expected after forty-five years of marriage.”

She clasps her hands.

“And the fact that Arthur now wants to live without me is of no consequence … even though you would
think
that a lifelong spouse who you
thought
was the one person who loved you would
at least
offer some kind of a warning that your world was about to be flushed down the toilet.”

Her lower lip starts to quiver. “And it doesn’t matter that Arthur wants to keep the RV, the only home I’ve known for so long. But securing new living arrangements will not be an issue. I can live … I can—”

She turns away, hiding the tears now streaming down her face, tears that I suspect she’s been hiding for a very long, long time. I tear open the box of Skinny Cows and hand her one. But before she can take that first bite, a voice comes from the path below.

My mother’s.

“You can live here.”

27
Sabrina

“Mom, we really need to talk.”

On Sunday evening, my mother leans close to the vanity mirror, pressing loose powder on her face, her hair up in curlers. The smells of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and rhubarb pie come from the sparkling-clean kitchen; Mom has spent the entire day scrubbing, cooking, and baking. She glances at me, the beige powder coating her bare lashes giving her a blank, creepy look. “Sorry, sugar, like I told you before, I don’t have time to talk. Larson is going to be here in less than an hour, and I haven’t even started to put my eyes on yet! And heaven’s sake alive, I forgot to make the salad.”

“But that’s who I need to talk to you about. Larson.”

I pull up an ottoman and sit, a copy of the check and the photo of Larson with Kathleen feeling hot and dangerous in my hand. Mom sweeps a makeup brush over her entire face, sending dusts of extra powder onto her shoulder. Without thinking, I wipe it away.

Mom seems startled by my touch. “Oh. Um, thank you, Sabrina. But really … I can’t talk right now.”

“Mom, please.”

She bolts from her chair, knocking over her perfume bottles. She quickly walks to her closet and begins to rummage through her clothes. “Whatever you have to say, sweetie, will simply have to wait. Larson will be here for dinner soon, and afterward, we need to plan our trip to Vegas.”

I bite my lip before asking, “And whose credit card will it all go on?”

Mom hesitates.

“Well, Sabrina, mine, of course.” She digs deeper in her closet, hiding her face from me. “Business at Larson’s inn has been slow, and since we’re about to be married, it doesn’t seem like such a big whoop-de-do, now, does it?”

I stand and unfold the copy of the check. Mom steps out of the closet with a bright yellow cardigan in her hands. When she sees what I’m holding up, she freezes, clutching the sweater to her chest. “Sabrina, what is this?”

For a second, I consider balling the copy into a tight wad and throwing it away. What if we’re wrong? What if Larson is legit? But no, we’re right, I
know
we’re right, so I say nothing as she snatches the paper and reads what is written on the check.

She raises a hand to her mouth.

“Mom … Larson uses women for money,” I whisper.

I wait for it to sink in, but she drops the paper and stalks to her full-length mirror instead, yanking the cardigan on and buttoning the front. “No. You’re wrong, Sabrina. I’m sure Larson has a perfectly good explanation and I should have known you would do this—try to ruin the one good thing I have going on in my life, just like you always want to go running back to your father, even though he cheated on me.”

“Mom, this check is from the woman in the photo, a rich widow whose husband died only last winter. This just might prove that the only reason he’s marrying you is because—”

Because of the money you could win … not because he loves you.

I can’t bring myself to say those words.

“No.” Mom sits at her vanity with a thud. She strokes bronzer on her cheeks and then grabs her eye shadow, rubbing her brush hard so that bits of shadow fall on the table. “Just get out of here and go back to your father. That’s what you want, right? That’s what
everybody
wants, for me to be out of their lives. You. Your father. Jane Barton. Larson wants me, Sabrina. Do you understand? He wants
me
!”

Tears fall down her face, smearing her makeup.

She’s right.