Mad River Road (33 page)

Jamie looked aimlessly toward the side of the highway, her still-swollen eyes eventually focusing on the sign announcing the exit for Dalton, population 21,800.
THE CARPET CAPITAL OF NORTH AMERICA
, the sign read. Well, why not? she thought absently. America seemed to have a capital for everything else. Why not carpets?

“An amazing sixty-five percent of the world’s carpets are made in Dalton,” Brad said, his voice full of fake enthusiasm, as if he were auditioning for a job as a TV pitchman.

Jamie wondered if he was stating a fact or making up one to impress her. Yesterday she would have found either alternative endearing.

“I read it in a pamphlet back at the motel,” he said, as if monitoring her thoughts. “Apparently, some farm girl supported her family during the Depression by making bedspreads and rugs at home, and other women soon joined her, and before you could say ‘magic carpet
ride,’ Dalton had this booming cottage industry that eventually grew into a multi-billion-dollar business. Pretty impressive, huh?”

Jamie said nothing. Did he really expect her to talk about carpets? Was he trying to charm her by taking over her role as tour guide? Did he really think she could be placated so easily?

“I thought you’d be interested in that stuff, seeing as you’re the one who’s usually spouting off about these things,” he said, once again reaching inside her head.

Jamie froze, afraid to allow her thoughts the freedom to form words, for fear he would usurp them, claim them as his own. Without language there is no thought, she remembered reading somewhere, trying to fill her mind with white noise but unable to ignore the tone of Brad’s last statement. The tone warned he was getting impatient with her silence, starting to feel hard done by, as if he were the injured party. Worse—he was getting angry, which meant he could explode at any moment. Jamie decided her best approach was to try not to antagonize him further. If she could just hang on until their next stop, make pleasantly innocuous conversation, convince him that he was on the road to forgiveness, get him to let down his guard, she might be able to make a run for it. “What else did you read about?” she asked, forcing her eyes in his direction. He doesn’t look any different, she thought in amazement. He’s still handsome. Still radiating that boyish charm. Still smiling that devastating grin. Only her response to him was different. Longing had turned to loathing. Disgust had replaced desire. Fear had banished any thought of love.

“Well, did you know, for example, that this whole stretch of Georgia is full of Civil War battlefields? We’re doing it
backward, but I-75 actually follows the route of Sherman’s march toward Atlanta. Coming up in another couple of miles is Rocky Face Ridge.” He stared at her, as if this should mean something. “That doesn’t register with you?”

“Should it?”

“Hell, weren’t you paying attention in history class?”

“History was never my strong suit.”

He shook his head, as if she’d disappointed him. “I can’t believe you don’t know this.”

Jamie shrugged, afraid to say anything for fear of offending him further.

“Rocky Face Ridge was the scene of a huge battle between General Sherman’s army and the Rebel forces. Something like a hundred thousand men fought here. Think it was in 1864, maybe ’65.”

“Were there a lot of casualties?” Jamie asked, trying to inject some enthusiasm for the topic into her voice.

“Couple thousand, I think.”

Jamie nodded, not sure how much longer she could keep up her end of the conversation without bursting into tears.

“And coming up soon, right before we get to the Georgia-Tennessee border, is Ringgold, scene of the great locomotive chase. Surely you remember that.”

“Was that where Union soldiers stole a train, and it was chased through the countryside by its crew, half of them on foot?” Jamie couldn’t imagine what recess of her brain she’d managed to pull that one out of.

“Hey, pretty good.”

“I think I saw a movie about it.”

“I saw that movie too,” Brad agreed enthusiastically. “They played it on the History Channel one night. It starred Fess Parker. You know who Fess Parker was, right?”

Oh, God, Jamie thought. Who the hell was Fess Parker?

“Fess Parker was the guy who played Davey Crockett and Daniel Boone on TV,” Brad answered. “Now if you tell me you don’t know who they were—”

“I know who they were.”

“Tell me.”

Was this some sort of test? Was he going to pull off the side of the road and rape her again if she didn’t get the right answer? “Davy Crockett was a frontiersman.…”

“ ‘Davy, Davy Crockett,’ ” Brad sang. “ ‘King of the wild frontier.’ Go on.”

“He was born in 17—” She couldn’t do this. What if she made a mistake? What if she got her dates confused? Her voice broke off, threatened tears.

“Born in 1786 in Limestone, Tennessee,” Brad recited easily. “Served under Andrew Jackson against the Creek Indians in the war of 1813 to 1814, was elected to the state legislature in 1821, served three terms in Congress, eventually becoming a political opponent of Jackson and a voice of conservatism, ultimately defeated in 1835. He then moved to Texas, where he died defending the Alamo in 1836.”

“Wow,” Jamie said, impressed in spite of herself.

“Daniel Boone,” he continued, obviously enjoying himself. “Born in 1734, in a little town near Reading, Pennsylvania.”

“Another king of the wild frontier,” Jamie interjected, noticing Brad’s shoulders stiffen with the interruption. She held her breath.

“His family were Quakers, and they left Pennsylvania and settled in the Yadkin valley of North Carolina, where Boone became something of an explorer. He founded Boonesboro on the Kentucky River, and was elected a captain of militia in
1776. Captured by Shawnee Indians during the American Revolution and adopted as a member of the tribe, he escaped after four months and founded a new settlement, Boone’s Station, near what is now Athens, Kentucky. He served several terms as representative in the Virginia legislature.”

“He was quite a guy,” Jamie said, when it became evident she was expected to speak.

“Well, it turns out that a lot of the heroic stories you hear about him aren’t true, but so what? Man’s a legend, right?”

Jamie smiled with what she hoped passed for admiration. “Right.”

“And Fess Parker became this big-shot winemaker in California.”

“Fess Parker,” Jamie repeated, shuddering with the realization that just yesterday morning, she would have been hopelessly enthralled by Brad’s easy command of historical trivia. “How do you know all this?”

“About Fess Parker? I read it in
People
magazine.”

“About Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone,” she corrected.

He shrugged. “I had a lot of time on my hands last year. Did some brushing up on my reading.”

“A man of many talents,” Jamie said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Jamie said quickly. “Just that I’m surprised that between running your computer business and designing software programs, you actually found any time to read.”

“Sometimes it finds you,” Brad said cryptically.

Jamie nodded, too tired and too afraid to ask what he meant. “You’re also a man of many surprises,” she said finally, all she could muster.

“Not all of them bad, I hope.”

Jamie forced herself to smile. “No, not all of them.”

“Does this mean we’re friends again?” Brad asked after a pause of several seconds.

“Friends?” Jamie strained to keep the incredulity out of her voice.

“You gotta know how sorry I am about what happened.”

About what happened, Jamie repeated silently. As if it had been something beyond his control. As if he’d had nothing to do with it. “It didn’t just happen,” Jamie reminded him.

“I know that. I know I got a little carried away.”

“You hurt me, Brad.”

“I know that.”

“You really hurt me.”

“And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Jamie. Please. You gotta forgive me. I’ve been kicking myself all day about it. It’s making me crazy. You know I love you, don’t you?”

Jamie’s eyes filled with tears. Was she going crazy? Could they really be having this discussion? “I’m not sure what I know anymore.”

“Aw, come on, Jamie-girl. You gotta know I love you. You might not know anything about Daniel Boone or Davy Crockett, but you gotta know that.”

Jamie smiled tentatively.

“That’s better,” Brad said. “That’s more like my Jamie-girl.” He reached over and grabbed her thigh.

Instantly Jamie recoiled.

“Hey, take it easy. I’m not trying to start something here.” He managed to look both surprised and hurt. “I thought we were past that.”

“I guess I just need a little time,” Jamie said, her voice a plea.

“Sure. We got time.” He grinned. “At least until tonight.”

Jamie’s stomach lurched at the implications of that sentence.

“You okay?” Brad asked.

“Do you think we can stop soon? I could use some water.”

“There’s some Coke in the back seat. I bought some when we stopped for gas.”

“I’d really prefer water.”

“Maybe later.”

Jamie closed her eyes, tried counting to ten, and when that failed to calm her, to twenty. “Think we could listen to some music?” she asked when she felt more calm. Somewhere along the way, he’d turned off the radio. At the time, she’d welcomed the silence. Now it felt oppressive. As if she was expected to fill it.

Brad pushed a button and the radio sprang to life, the upbeat twang of Shania Twain filling the car. Jamie hummed along, pretending to be engrossed in the insipid lyrics. “Up, up, up,” Shania was singing.

“That’s not her real name, you know,” Brad said.

“It isn’t?”

“No. Her real name’s Eileen, if you can believe it. She comes from some little town in northern Ontario. Her parents were killed in a car crash, and she raised all her brothers and sisters by herself.”

Jamie nodded. The story sounded vaguely familiar.
“People
magazine?”

“Entertainment Tonight
.”

“You watch a lot of TV?”

“Some. You?”

“More than I should.”

“Says who? Your mother and sister?”

“I don’t remember my mother ever watching television. My sister claims she never watches anything but PBS.”

“She’s a liar.”

“I don’t think so. She’s a lawyer and—”

“What? Lawyers never lie?”

“I just meant that between her practice and her family, I don’t think she has a lot of time for TV, so she’s very picky about what she
does
watch.”

“Bullshit.”

Jamie shrugged. She never thought she’d find herself in the position of having to defend her sister. Or wanting to.

“What do you call a hundred lawyers at the bottom of the ocean?” Brad asked, already smiling at the punch line to follow.

Jamie shook her head. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.

“A start.” Brad laughed.

She wondered if her sister had heard that one. Cynthia hated lawyer jokes. She claimed they were no better than racist slurs. “My sister says everybody hates lawyers until they need one.”

“And then they hate them even more.” Brad took a deep breath. “Lying, scum-sucking bastards. Somebody should round them all up and shoot them.”

Jamie gasped at the vehemence of his assertion.

“Okay, we won’t shoot your sister,” he said, softening.

She tried to smile. “You sound like you’ve had some bad experiences with lawyers.”

“Everybody has bad experiences with lawyers.”

“I think my sister is a very good one.”

“Yeah? How would you know? You ever watched her in court?”

“She doesn’t go to court. She’s not a litigator.” LITIG8R, Jamie thought, remembering the first day of their trip, how long ago that seemed now, her misplaced hope, her lost innocence.

“What kind of law does she practice?”

“Corporate-commercial mostly, tax law, stuff like that.”

“Sounds like a lot of laughs.”

“She seems to like it.”

“She likes the money.”

“Everybody likes money.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

The truth, Jamie thought. What did that mean? Had anything he’d said to her over the course of the last few days been the truth?

Did you really sell your computer business for an outlandish profit? she wanted to ask. Did you even
own
a computer business? Are you really a designer of software? Were you really staying at the Breakers because the lease on your apartment was up?

Do you really have an ex-wife and a young son in Ohio? What really happened after she fled Laura Dennison’s house?

“Who’s Grace Hastings?” she asked, the question jumping the queue to fall from the tip of her tongue.

“What?”

“Grace Hastings,” Jamie repeated. “Who is she, Brad?” She spoke his name in a conscious effort to show that she was starting to relate to him again on a more personal level, that they were beginning to reconnect.

It seemed to work. He smiled, patted her hand as Jamie tried not to flinch or pull away. “Nobody you have to worry about.”

“You had her credit card.”

“Yeah, a lot of good it did me.”

“Still …”

“Grace was a friend of Beth’s.”

“Beth?”

“My ex.”

“Oh, right.” Jamie paused. Less than twenty-four hours ago, she’d considered Beth Fisher both the luckiest and stupidest woman on earth. Lucky for having been married to Brad, stupid for having left him. As for the title Stupidest Woman on Earth—it was all hers now. “What does she look like?”

Brad yawned, as if the topic were of little or no concern. “She’s pretty enough, I guess. What difference does it make?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say about curiosity.”

“Just that I have these opposing pictures in my mind.”

“What kind of pictures?”

“One is tall, blond, kind of ethereal.”

“Ethereal? What’s that?”

“Extremely delicate, kind of angelic.”

Brad shook his head. “Delicate, huh? Angelic?” He laughed derisively. “And the other picture?”

“She’s shorter, darker, stronger.”