Mad River Road (12 page)

The next half hour passed uneventfully—she said hello to the people who came in, good-bye to those who
left, answered the phone, did one load of wash and started another. She wondered how Michael was doing in school, he’d taken his new Kermit the Frog puppet in for show-and-tell; what Jan was doing that she’d needed luck for; and whether she should attempt to write another story. She had lots of ideas, although most of them were pretty far-fetched. What was it they always said? Write about what you know? Could she do that? she wondered. Could she be that brave? That stupid?

She shook her head, inadvertently glancing toward the exercise room just as Jeff Dawson raised himself up and sat straddling the bench. Immediately the bench became a motorcycle. Lily gasped, brought her hand to her mouth. Of course he rode a motorcycle. He was a cop. Riding a motorcycle probably came with the territory. She turned away, refusing to dwell on such possibilities. What difference did it make, since she had no intention of going out with him?

“Everything okay?” he asked, appearing suddenly at her side.

For such a big man, he moved very gracefully, she thought. “Everything’s fine. Why do you ask?”

“You look a little pale. You feeling okay?”

“Do you drive a motorcycle?” she heard herself ask.

If he was surprised by the question, he didn’t let on. “No. Not since I had kids.”

Lily nodded and looked toward the phone, as if begging it to ring.

“Does this mean you might reconsider going out with me tomorrow night?” he asked after a pause.

“Sorry, I can’t,” Lily said as the outside door opened and her neighbor Emma Frost walked through. “Emma!
Hi,” Lily greeted her, smiling at the woman as if she were her best friend on earth. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d check out where you work, maybe see about signing up.” Emma’s huge eyes wandered aimlessly around the premises.

“That’s great. We’re having a special introductory offer right now. Just two hundred and fifty dollars to join, and thirty dollars a month.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars?” Emma repeated, eyes coming to a stop on Jeff Dawson.

“It’s a good deal when you compare it to other clubs in the city,” Jeff chimed in.

“And you are?”

“Jeff Dawson, member in good standing.”

“I’m sure it is,” Emma said playfully, extending her hand. “Emma Frost.”

“Have we met before?” Jeff asked, shaking Emma’s hand and staring at her intently.

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“You just look so familiar to me.”

“Emma’s eyes used to be on all the packages for Maybelline mascara,” Lily volunteered.

“I don’t use a lot of mascara,” Jeff said with a laugh. “At least not lately. My boss kind of frowns on it.”

Emma dropped her gaze to the floor. “And what is it you do, exactly?”

“Jeff’s a police detective,” Lily said. Was it her imagination or did she see Emma flinch?

“I better get going,” Jeff said, pushing himself away from the reception desk. “You have my number in your files,” he told Lily. “Call me if you change your mind.” He needed only three steps to reach the front door.

“Nice tush,” Emma said as the door closed behind him. Then, “Change your mind about what?”

Lily shook off the question with a toss of her head.

“You two have something going on?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Then why are you turning all shades of purple?”

“I am not,” Lily said, sounding just like her son.

“Okay.” Emma shrugged. “Maybe I will come to that book club thing you mentioned earlier, if the invitation’s still open.”

“Sure. Great. Any chance you’ve read
Wuthering Heights?”

“Are you kidding? It’s one of my favorites.”

“Terrific. Then I’ll see you later.”

Emma walked to the door, stopped, and turned back. “You don’t want to get involved with a cop,” she said.

“You have something against the police?” Lily asked, trying to sound casual.

Emma shrugged. “Just never found them to be very useful.”

T
he main difference that Jamie could determine between Florida and Georgia, at least along this section of I-75, was in the ubiquitous billboards punctuating the flat landscape along the side of the busy highway. Georgia tree-ripe peaches had replaced Florida juicy oranges as the highly trumpeted fruit of choice; Vidalia onions now filled the void left by the Sun Pass when it disappeared, along with the turnpike, at Wildwood; instead of signs counting off the miles till Yeehaw, there were countless billboards hailing the arrival of peanuts and pecans—WE’RE NUTS! WE SHELL! YOU CAN PECAN! There were also an alarming number of ads for what appeared to be pornographic truck stops—CAFÉ RISQUÉ—WE BARE ALL, and its sister club, CAFÉ EROTICA—WE DARE TO BARE. COUPLES WELCOME, several signs encouraged, while others bragged of GREAT FOOD along with the nude women. These women—COEDS, one sign promised, although JAILBAIT was probably a more apt description, Jamie thought, judging by the pictures of the puffy-haired, pouty-lipped young girls staring down at her from their cardboard perches—were available all day
and night for the jaded traveler’s entertainment, along with a wide selection of ADULT TOYS AND VIDEOS. These roadside oases were OPEN 24 HOURS, serving up heaping portions of FOOD-N-FUN.

“Food-n-fun,” Jamie repeated, shaking her head at the number of cars parked outside each such establishment they whizzed past. It was almost six o’clock, although the sky was still as blue and as bright as it had been at noon. Jamie stretched her legs, arched her back, and rotated her neck in a wide semicircle, hearing her various muscles groan and her bones crack. She was weary of sitting in the same position, even though it was Brad who’d been doing all the driving.

“Tired?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts.

“A little.”

“We can stop at the next ‘risky café.’ ” Blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Are you serious?”

“You know I’d do anything to make you happy.”

Jamie smiled. “I love it when you say things like that,” she said, and he laughed. Jamie loved when he laughed. In fact, she’d pretty much decided there was nothing about Brad Fisher she didn’t love. Was it possible to fall head over heels in such a short time? Less than twenty-four hours, to be precise. Her sister would undoubtedly insist she was in the throes of infatuation, that she was rebounding from her last, ill-fated affair, which was also not real love, her mother would have added. Real love was built on a foundation of trust and truth. It took time to develop and was based on common goals and interests, respect as well as chemistry. Besides, any idiot could fall in love, both would have agreed. It was the
staying
in love
that was the hard part. “So, what are your hobbies?” Jamie asked now, in an effort to silence their nagging, all-knowing voices.

“My hobbies?”

“Do you have any?”

“Do you?”

“Not really,” she admitted after a pause. “I guess I should.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. My mother loved to play Scrabble. She used to talk me into playing with her. But then she never liked the words I put down—she said they were too simple and that I needed to make better use of my letters—so she’d end up making the words for both of us, and I’d just kind of sit there until it was over. She always won. And my sister plays bridge. She’s always trying to get me to take it up, but I don’t know. She and her husband are always screaming at each other when they play. I used to collect Barbie dolls when I was little,” Jamie continued, smiling at the distant memory. “Does that count as a hobby?”

“Do you still collect?”

Jamie shook her head.

“Then I don’t think it counts.”

Jamie frowned, wondering what had become of her collection of Barbies. She hadn’t seen the dolls—hadn’t even thought of them—since she’d moved out of her mother’s house. Probably they were still there, she realized, nestled securely among her mother’s belongings. Those same belongings she and Cynthia were supposed to be going through this very evening. “Your turn,” Jamie said to Brad, mentally tossing her old collection of
Barbies through the car window. They were part of her past. The man beside her was her present. Maybe even her future, she allowed herself to think. “I’ve talked enough. It’s your turn.”

“What is it you want to know?”

“I don’t know. Stuff.”

“Stuff?”

“Yeah. Stuff. Details.”

“Details?”

“Life’s in the details. Isn’t that what they say?” Is that what they said? Or was it God? God was in the details. Or was it the devil?

“Life’s in the details,” Brad repeated. “I like that.”

Jamie felt a flush of pride. She’d said something he liked. No point in changing it now. “What are some of the things you like to do? Aside from … you know.”

“Aside from making love to you?” His head swiveled toward her, his tongue resting provocatively between his teeth.

“Aside from that,” Jamie said quickly, feeling the familiar stirring between her legs. “Watch the road.”

“Why? Is it doing something interesting?”

Jamie smiled. “I mean, I already know you like computers.”

“Computers?”

“Well, you design software. Isn’t that what you said?” Had she misunderstood?

“Sorry, I thought you asked about my hobbies.”

“I thought you said you didn’t have any.”

He smiled. “Well, I like movies.”

“Yeah? What kind?”

“The usual guy-kind. Action, war movies, thrillers.”

“I like thrillers,” Jamie agreed. “Maybe we can go to one later. Maybe there’s a drive-in.”

“A drive-in? They still have those?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there’s one along the highway somewhere.” She stared at the strip of long grass that divided the north and south traffic, saw nothing but the lines of cars moving steadily in both directions.

“How’d your mother die?” Brad asked suddenly.

Jamie released a deep breath of air. “Cancer. It started in her left breast about five years ago. The doctors operated, thought they got it all. But it was only hiding. Cancer’s real sneaky that way.”

“It came back,” Brad stated.

“This time right between her lungs, so there was nothing they could do.”

“Must have been hard for her.”

“I guess. She didn’t believe in complaining. Said facts were facts, and you had to accept them. She was a judge,” she added.

“What kind of judge?”

“Criminal court.”

“Sounds like one tough lady.”

“She wasn’t easy.” Jamie shrugged. “I think it’s hard when you’re in a position of power, you know, when you have that kind of control over other people’s lives, and you spend all day telling people what to do, and then you come home and you’ve got to deal with this wiseass kid who thinks she knows everything. I mean, here the woman is in court, where nobody so much as goes to the bathroom without her permission—I mean that literally—and everyone’s deferring to her left, right, and center, hoping to get a favorable ruling, and here she’s got this
daughter who’s always arguing with her, and who never listens, let alone takes her advice, so it’s got to be hard.”

“On both of you, I would imagine.”

“She used to throw her hands up in the air, like this.” Jamie illustrated, extending her arms and stretching her fingers, as if she were tossing confetti. “And then she’d stomp out of the room, muttering to herself. ‘Fine. Have it your way. Do what you want.’ You could just picture her judge’s long, black robes trailing after her.” Jamie shook her head. “She said I was incorrigible.”

“Meaning?”

“Willful, uncontrollable.” She sighed. “Impossible to rehabilitate.”

“Impossible to rehabilitate,” Brad repeated, smiling. “I like that.”

“I don’t know. I like to think I’m a good person.”

“Which is exactly your problem.”

“What is?”

“You think too much.”

“What about
your
mother?” Jamie asked, finding it vaguely curious that every time she asked about him, they ended up talking about her. Was she really so self-centered?

The skin around Brad’s mouth tensed, pulling back into a stiff smile. His fingers tightened their grip on the wheel. “What about my mother?”

“Well, you told me about your sisters, but you didn’t say anything about your mom and dad.”

“That’s because there isn’t much to say. They’re just typical, upstanding, hardworking, God-fearing citizens of this great country of ours.”

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“Why would I be sarcastic?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re thinking too much again.”

“Where do they live?” Jamie persisted, trying a different tack.

“Texas.”

“I’ve never been to Texas.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’ve never been a lot of places.”

“Then I’ll have to take you there someday.”

Jamie smiled. “I’d like that.”

“You’ve lived in Florida all your life?”

“Most of it. My mother wanted me to go to Harvard, of course, but I opted to stay in Florida. I lived in Atlanta for a while,” she added, almost reluctantly.

“What’s in Atlanta?”

“My ex-husband.”

“And his mother,” Brad said, lowering his voice.

It all comes back to mothers, Jamie thought. “Let’s not go there,” she said.

“On the contrary,” Brad said. “We’ll be passing through Atlanta in another few hours. Maybe we should drop in and say hello. How’d you like that?”

“I wouldn’t,” Jamie said. “Is that a cop car?” She pointed toward a black-and-white sedan at the side of the highway.

“Shit.” Brad pumped the brake in a futile effort to reduce his speed before being tagged by radar.

Too late. The cruiser was already behind them, lights flashing.

“Shit,” Brad said again, banging the palm of his hand against the steering wheel.

Jamie held her breath as Brad brought the car to a halt, frightened though she wasn’t sure why. She swiveled around in her seat as the officer approached, a visor and helmet covering his eyes. Brad lowered the window as the officer leaned inside.

“License and registration, please.”

Brad reached in his pocket as Jamie popped open the glove compartment and retrieved the car’s registration.