Lucky You (35 page)

“Exactly! Praise God!”

“Marva,” said Mary Andrea, “I’ve never witnessed anything like it. Never!” Not since the last time I ate at Denny’s, she thought.

The omelette looked like absolutely nothing but an omelette. The woman was either a loon or a thief, but who cared?

“Bless you, child.” Shiner’s mother, slapping the lid on the Tupperware and burping it tight. In this manner she announced that the high-heeled pilgrim had gotten her three bucks’ worth of revelation.

Mary Andrea said, “I’d love for my friend to see. Would you mind?” Waving gaily at Katie, she thought: At least it beats sitting alone at the Hojo’s.

“Katie, come over here!”

But Katie Battenkill was otherwise engrossed. The queue at the weeping Madonna had dissolved into a loose and excited swarm, buzzing toward the moat.

Shiner’s mother shrugged. “Crying time. You better get a move on.”

Mary Andrea found herself feeling sorry for the wacko in the wedding dress. It couldn’t be easy, competing with a weeping Virgin. Not when all you had was a plate of cold eggs in Tabasco. Mary Andrea slipped the woman another five bucks.

“You wanna see Him again?” Shiner’s mother was aglow.

“Maybe some other time.”

Mary Andrea began working her way to the house. She walked on tiptoes, trying to spot Katie among the surging pilgrims. Even in their fervor they remained orderly and courteous; Mary Andrea was impressed. In New York it would’ve been a rabid stampede for the shrine; like a Springsteen concert.

Suddenly Mary Andrea found the sidewalk blocked—a tall man lugging, of all things, an aquarium filled with turtles.

Boy, she thought, is this town a magnet for crackpots!

Mary Andrea stepped aside to let the stranger pass. He was lifting the tank high, at eye level, to protect it from the jostle of the tourists; apologizing to them as he went along.

Through the algae-smudged plate of aquarium glass Mary Andrea recognized the man’s face.

“Thomas!”

Curiously he peered over the lip of the tank. Her husband.

“I’ll be damned,” he said.

Cried Mary Andrea Finley Krome: “Yes, you will! I believe you will be damned!”

Angrily she snapped open her pocketbook and groped inside. For an instant, Thomas Paine Krome wondered if irony could be so sublime, wondered if he was about to be murdered for real, with an unexplained armful of baby cooters.

30

Leander Simmons and Janine Simmons Robinson were miffed to learn Bernard Squires had withdrawn his offer for their late father’s property. In a conference call with Clara Markham, the siblings said they didn’t appreciate getting jerked around by some fast-talking Charlie from up North. They’d gotten their hopes sky-high for a bidding war, and now they were stuck with one buyer and one offer.

“Which,” Clara reminded them, “is more than you had two weeks ago.”

She didn’t let on that JoLayne Lucks was sitting in the office, listening over the speakerphone.

Leander Simmons argued for rejecting the $3 million offer, as the old man’s land obviously would fetch more. All they needed was patience. His sister argued strenuously against waiting, since she’d already pledged her share of the proceeds for a clay tennis court and new guest cottages at her winter place in Bermuda.

They went back and forth for thirty minutes, the bickering interrupted only by an occasional terse query to Clara Markham on the other end. Meanwhile JoLayne was having a ball eavesdropping. Poor Lighthorse, she thought. With kids like that, it was no wonder he spent so much time skulking in the woods.

Eventually Janine and Leander compromised on a holdout figure of $3.175 million, to which JoLayne silently assented (flashing an “OK” sign to Clara). The real estate agent told the siblings she’d bounce the new number off the buyer and get back to them. By lunchtime the deal was iced at an even three one. The new owner of Simmons Wood got on the line and introduced herself to Leander and Janine, who suddenly became the two sweetest people on earth.

“What’ve you got in mind for the place?” the sister inquired cordially. “Condos? An office park?”

“Oh, I’ll leave the land the way it is,” JoLayne Lucks said.

“Smart cookie. Raw timber is one helluva long-term investment.” The brother, endeavoring to sound shrewd.

“Actually,” JoLayne said, “I’m going to leave it exactly the way it is …
forever.
”

Baffled silence from the siblings.

Clara Markham, brightly into the speakerphone: “It’s been a joy doing business with all of you. We’ll be talking soon.”

Moffitt was waiting outside. He offered JoLayne a lift, and on the way apologized for searching her house.

“I was worried, that’s all. I tried not to leave a mess.”

“You’re forgiven, you sneaky little shit. Now tell me,” she said, “what happened between you and Bernie boy—how’d you scare him off?”

Moffitt told her. With a grin, JoLayne said, “You’re so bad. Wait’ll I tell Tom.”

“Yeah. The power of the press.” Moffitt wheeled the big Chevy into her driveway.

“How about some lunch?” she asked.

“Thanks, but I gotta run.”

She gave him a kiss and told him he was still her hero; it was a running gag between them.

Moffitt said, “Yeah, but I’d rather be Tom.”

Which gave JoLayne a melancholy pause. Sometimes she wished she’d fallen for Moffitt the way he’d fallen for her. He was one of the best men she’d ever known.

“Hang in,” she said. “Someday you’ll meet the right one.”

He threw his head back, laughing. “Do you hear yourself? God, you sound like my aunt.”

“Geez, you’re right. I don’t know what got into me.” She slid from the car. “Moffitt, you were sensational, as usual. Thanks for everything.”

He gave a mock salute. “Call anytime. Especially if Mister Thomas Krome turns out to be another sonofabitch.”

“I don’t think he will.”

“Be careful, Jo. You’re a rich girl now.”

Her brow furrowed. “Damn. I guess I am.”

She waved until Moffitt’s car disappeared around the corner. Then she jogged up the sidewalk to the porch, where the mail lay stacked by the front door. JoLayne scooped it up and unlocked the house.

The refrigerator was a disaster—ten days’ worth of congealment and spoilage. One croissant, in particular, had bloomed like a Chia plant. The only item that appeared safe for consumption was a can of ginger ale, which JoLayne cracked open while thumbing through letters and bills. One envelope stood out from the others because it was dusty blue and bore no address, only her name.

Ms. Jo Lane Lucks
was how it had been spelled, in ballpoint.

Inside the blue envelope was a card that featured a florid Georgia O’Keeffe watercolor, and tucked inside the card was a piece of paper that caused JoLayne to exclaim, “Oh Lord!”

And truly, devoutly, mean it.

Amber kept the engine running.

“You feel OK about it? Tell the truth.”

Shiner said, “Yeah, I feel pretty good.”

“Didn’t I tell ya?”

“You wanna come in? It don’t look like she’s home.” All the lights were off, including upstairs.

Amber said, “I can’t, hon. Gotta get back to Miami and see if I’ve still got a job. Plus I’ve already missed way too much school.”

Shiner didn’t want to say goodbye; he believed he’d found his true love. They’d spent two more nights together—one at a turnpike rest stop near Fort Drum, and the other parked deep in the woods outside of Grange. Nothing sexual had occurred (Amber sleeping in the back seat of the Crown Victoria, Shiner in the front) but he didn’t mind. It was rapture, being so near to such a woman for so long. He’d become intimate with the scent of her hair and the rhythm of her breathing and a thousand other things, all exotically feminine.

She said, “We did the right thing.”

“Yep.”

“But I still wonder who that was in the other car.”

I don’t know, Shiner thought, but I guess I owe him. He bought me a few more hours with my darling.

The first time they’d cruised past JoLayne Lucks’ place, the other car was idling at the crub, a squat gray Chverolet sedan.
 
The buggy-whip antenna said cop. Shiner had cussed and stomped the accelerator.

They’d tried again later, with Amber at the wheel. This time the watcher had been parked around the corner, by a newspaper rack. Shiner had gotten a pretty good look at him—a clean-cut black guy with glasses. “Don’t stop! Keep driving!” Shiner had urged Amber. He’d been too freaked to go directly home. He feared that the Black Tide (and who else could it be, lurking around JoLayne’s?) would ransack his house and kidnap his mother to the Bahamas. Amber had been anxious, too. To her, the guy in the gray sedan looked like heavy-duty law enforcement—and he could be looking for only one thing.

So she’d kept driving, all the way past the Grange city limits to a stretch of light woods off the main highway. She’d spotted a break in the barbed-wire fence, and that’s where she’d turned. They’d spent a clear chilly night among the pines and palmettos; no big deal, after Pearl Key. Through the wispy fog at dawn they’d seen a herd of white-tailed deer and a red fox.

It was still early when they’d arrived back at JoLayne’s place. The gray cop car was gone; they’d circled the block three times to make certain. Amber had backed the Ford up to the house, getaway style, and said: “Want me to do it?”

Shiner had said no, he wanted to be the one.

The way she’d looked at him, damn, he felt like an honest-to-God champ. When all he really was trying to do was make something right again.

She’d passed him the blue envelope and he’d trotted to JoLayne’s porch—Amber watching in the rearview, to make sure he didn’t get any cute ideas. Afterwards they’d gone to breakfast, and now home. Shiner wished it wouldn’t end.

She motioned him closer in the front seat. “Roll up your sleeve. Lemme see.”

His muscle was a marquee of contusions, the tattoo lettering crusty and unreadable.

“Not my best work,” Amber remarked, with a slight frown.

“It’s OK. Least I got my eagle.”

“For sure. It’s a beauty, too.” With a fingertip she lightly traced the wings of the bird. Shiner felt strangled with desire. He squeezed his eyes closed and heard the pulse pounding in his ears.

“Whoa,” Amber said.

A stranger was peering through the windshield—an odd fellow with fuzzy socks on his hands.

“Hey, it’s Dominick,” said Shiner, pulling himself together. He rolled down the window. “How’s it goin’, Dom?”

“You’re back!”

“Yeah, I am.”

“Who’s your friend? Geez, what happened to your thumbs?”

“That’s Amber. Amber, this here’s Dominick Amador.”

The stigmata man reached into the car for a handshake. Amber obliged politely, although her face registered stark alarm at the creamy glop that oozed from the stranger’s sock-mitten.

Shiner told her not to worry. “It’s only Crisco.”

“That would’ve been my second guess,” she said, wiping it brusquely on his sleeve.

Dominick Amador was unoffended. “You lookin’ for your ma, Shiner?” he asked. “She’s over at Demencio’s. They hooked up on some kinda co-op deal.”

“What for?”

“The state come in and paved her stain. Didn’t you hear?”

“Naw!”

“Yeah, so she’s over with the Turtle Boy.”

“Who?”

“Y’know, it was me that first give Demencio the idea for the cooters—a Noah-type deal. Now you should see what they done with JoLayne’s bunch! It’s a damn jackpot.”

Amber had heard enough. She whispered emphatically to Shiner that she had to leave. He acknowledged with a lugubrious nod.

“That’s where I’ll end up, too,” Dominick rambled, “workin’ for Demencio, I ‘xpect. He’s got a good setup, plus on-street parking for them pilgrim buses. Him and me got a ‘pointment tomorrow. We’re pretty close on the numbers.”

Amber was about to interrupt even more forcefully when the man flung himself on the grass and thrust both legs in the air. Proudly he displayed his bare soles. “Look, I finally got ‘em done!”

“Nice work.” Shiner forced a smile.

Amber averted her eyes from the stranger’s punctured feet. Surely this could be explained—a radiation leak in the maternity ward; a toxin in the town’s water supply.

Dominick hopped up and gave each of them a pink flyer advertising his visitations. Then he limped away.

Shiner felt himself being nudged out of the car. Slump-shouldered, he circled to the driver’s side and rested his forearms on the door.

He said to Amber, “I guess this is it.”

“I hope things are OK between you and your mom.”

“Me, too.” He brightened at the sight of the three roses in the back seat. They were gray and dead, but Amber hadn’t discarded them. To this slender fact Shiner attached unwarranted significance.

Amber said, “If it doesn’t work out, remember what I told you.”

“But I never bused tables before.”

“Oh, I think you can handle it,” she said.

Certainly it was something to consider. Miami scared the living piss out of Shiner, but a gig at Hooters could be the answer to most, if not all, of his problems.

“Are they like you?” he asked. “The other waitresses, I mean. It’d be cool if they all was as nice as you.”

Amber reached up and lightly touched his cheek. “They’re all just like me. Every one of them,” she said.

Then, leaving him wobbly, she drove off.

Later Shiner’s mother would remark that her son seemed to have matured during his mysterious absence from Grange, that he now carried himself with purposefulness and responsibility and a firm sense of direction. She would tell him how pleased she was that he’d turned his heathen life around, and she’d encourage him to chase his dreams wherever they might lead, even to Dade County.

And not wishing to cloud his mother’s newfound esteem for him, Shiner would elect not to tell her the story of the $14 million Lotto ticket and how he came to give it back.

Because she would’ve kicked his ass.

It wasn’t a loaded firearm in Mary Andrea’s purse. It was a court summons.

“Your attorney,” she said, waving it accusingly, “is a vicious, vicious man.”

Tom Krome said, “You look good.” Which was very true.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“OK. Where did Slick Dick finally catch up with you?”

“At your damn newspaper,” Mary Andrea said. “Right in the lobby, Tom.”

“What an odd place for you to be.”

She told him why she’d gone there. “Since everybody thought you were dead—including yours truly!—they asked me to fly down and pick up your stupid award. And this is what I get: ambushed by a divorce lawyer!”

“What award?” Tom asked.

“Don’t you dare pretend not to know.”

“I’m not pretending, Mary Andrea. What award?”

“The Emilio,” she said sourly. “Something like that.”

“Amelia?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

He shot a wrathful glare toward the house, where Sinclair was holed up. That asshole! Krome thought. The Amelias were the lamest of journalism prizes. He was appalled that Sinclair had entered him in the contest and infuriated that he hadn’t been forewarned. Krome fought the impulse to dash back and snatch the yellow-bellied slider from the editor’s grasp, just to see him whimper and twitch.