Once in a Blue Moon (11 page)

“Or with pink hair?” Kerrie Ann fingered the ends of her own hair.

He expertly maneuvered the Willys around a sharp bend in the road. “What I’m saying is I think you’re cool.”

“I’m not sure Lindsay thinks so. Not after last night.”

Ollie cast her a curious glance. “Why, what happened?”

She told him about the incident at the party, careful not to gloss over her part in it. “Lindsay was pretty pissed. In fact, I don’t think she’d be too sorry if I were to cut my visit short.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Why would she want you to leave after she spent all that time looking for you? Anyway, it sounds to me like the guy had it coming.”

“That’s just it. All that time she was looking for someone who doesn’t exist. Let’s be honest—I’m not what she was expecting. Not even close.” When Lindsay had last seen her, she’d been just a cute little kid. Now she was a big fat loser.

Ollie frowned. “You act like there’s something wrong with the way you are.”

She was touched, but he didn’t know her well enough to speak with any authority. “Let’s just say I don’t think I’m the kind of person my sister would choose to be friends with.”

“Give her a chance,” Ollie said. “It’s true she expects a lot from people, herself more than anyone, but once she gets to know you, she’s the best friend you could ever have.”

Kerrie Ann wasn’t sure that would hold true in her case.
Once she gets to know
me,
what if it only confirms her first impression?

They were cresting the hill when, without warning, Ollie pulled into the scenic lookout at the summit. Her dire thoughts were at once eclipsed by the dazzling view. Below them, the land dipped in a grassy slope dotted with oak trees, at the bottom of which, nestled in the crook of a long, looping curve in the road, lay the reservoir, sparkling in the midday sunshine. It was sunny, but a breeze was blowing, carrying a hint of coolness from the ocean on the other side of the hill.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starved,” he said. “How about some lunch?”

She smiled, thinking it must be his idea of a joke. “So, um, what—we’re foraging for nuts and berries?”

“Nope. I have something a little more substantial in mind.” He twisted around in his seat, producing a large paper sack from in back. “You have your choice between turkey and pastrami. Oh, and I hope you like coleslaw. It was either that or potato salad, and I pegged you as the coleslaw type.”

She stared at him in surprise. “But how? . . .”

“I think I may have mentioned the deli down the street? Well, I got the manager to throw something together while you were waiting for me to bring the jeep around.”

Kerrie Ann laughed. “Smooth move.”

They climbed out, and Ollie rummaged in back, finding an old tarp to serve as a picnic blanket. Kerrie Ann fell in behind him as he set off down the slope. Watching him bounce along ahead of her, the tarp under one arm and the bag with their lunch swinging at his side, his orange sneakers beating a path in the grass, she felt absurdly happy for some reason.

At last they came to a stop under an oak so old and huge that its lower branches curled down almost to the ground in spots. They spread the tarp over the grass and sat down to enjoy lunch. After the big breakfast she’d had, Kerrie Ann was surprised by how hungry she was. She polished off the pastrami sandwich, a small bag of potato chips, and half the coleslaw, washing it all down with a bottle of root beer. She was easing open the button on her jean skirt when Ollie reached into the bag one last time, saying, “And now for dessert.”

She groaned. “I don’t think I could eat another bite.”

Ignoring her, he produced a pair of chocolate cupcakes, which she recognized as signature Ollie creations. She took a bite of hers just to be polite, intending to save the rest for later, but as soon as she sank her teeth into its pillowy perfection, she knew she was a goner. “Amazing,” she pronounced after she’d gobbled it down. “What’s your secret?”

He grinned and settled back on his elbows, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “There’s no secret. You just have to know when to stick to a recipe and when it’s okay to experiment. Oh, and you can’t think of butter and cream as the boogie man.”

She licked the last bit of frosting from her fingertips. “I don’t know any other guys who are into baking, except for pastry chefs. I’ll bet you got teased a lot in school.”

“Mainly it was my brothers. Good thing I’m into cars, too, or I never would’ve heard the end of it.”

“How many brothers do you have?”

“Three, plus two sisters. I’m the youngest, so I was gonna get picked on no matter what, but my brothers never stopped giving me a hard time over the fact that I preferred baking to getting my knees shredded falling off a skateboard or wiping out on the waves at Año Nuevo. Of course that didn’t stop them from wolfing down everything I made. Even now they still put in requests for birthdays and stuff, or when Sean or Donnie or Stew get a craving for my peanut-butter cookies or Heath Bar–crunch pie or . . . you name it.”

“I wish I had that kind of talent,” she said. Or any talent at all, other than a talent for messing up.

“Don’t you have any hobbies?”

“Not really.” She didn’t think being addicted to crack fell into the category of a hobby. “I moved around a lot as a kid, so I was never in one place long enough to join a club or get involved in any activity. I had a hard enough time just keeping my grades up. By the time I got to high school, I’d pretty much given up even on that. My junior year, I got Ds and Fs in every course except phys ed. I spent more time in detention than I did in class.”

“You and me both.” At the look of surprise she shot him, he said with a rueful laugh, “You think I was always this nice, cupcake-baking kid? There was a time when my parents and teachers thought I was on the road to ruin. Which I suppose I was.”

“You? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it.”

“But how? . . .”

“The usual way. When I was sixteen I got into drugs—pot mainly. It wasn’t long before my grades were in the toilet and my parents on my ass. They gave me an ultimatum: If I didn’t clean up my act, I’d be spending every weekend and school vacation working on my dad’s boat, where he could keep an eye on me. Since I’m not exactly cut out for the family business—fishing isn’t my thing—I chose door number one.”

“Was it hard for you to quit?” She was thinking of the hell she’d gone through to get this far.

“No, not really. I wasn’t as into it as some of my buddies. I mostly just did it because I wanted to be cool.”

“You were lucky. It’s not as easy for some of us.” He turned to eye her curiously, and after a moment’s hesitation, she confessed, “I’m in recovery, six months clean. But for me, it was like clawing my way up a cliff with my bare hands and no rope.” She didn’t tell him about Bella; there was no reason he had to know—she’d probably be gone soon. “So you see, with Lindsay it isn’t as simple as you think. I’m not sure if she can deal with all my baggage. And I don’t blame her. It’s a lot to dump on someone all at once.”

His brow wrinkled in sympathy. “She just needs some time.”

“Maybe. We’ll see.” Kerrie Ann reached into her purse for a cigarette.

When she’d finished smoking it, they gathered up their trash and folded up the tarp. “What did you think of Lindsay’s boyfriend?” Ollie asked as they headed back up the slope.

“He seems nice enough,” she replied. The real question was, what did Grant think of
her
? Probably not much after last night.

“Yeah, Grant’s a cool guy. I’m just not sure he’s
the
guy.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

Ollie thought for a moment. “You know how two people can be in love and it doesn’t necessarily make sense? Well, it’s the opposite with Lindsay and Grant. On paper it makes such perfect sense, you can’t think of a single reason why they shouldn’t be together. Except one, and it’s the most important one—no fire.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not one to talk—my own love life is nonexistent.”

Ollie looked surprised. “You? I’d have thought you’d have guys lining up at your door.”

Kerrie Ann hastened to set him straight. “The problem isn’t with men; it’s with me.” She explained that in the twelve-step program, they warned against getting romantically involved in the first year of sobriety. Given her history, she wasn’t taking any chances.

Ollie looked a little disappointed, and she felt a little bad for bursting his bubble. Not that he would have stood a chance, under any circumstances. He was cute and kind of sexy, in his own way. But despite his less than squeaky-clean past, he was far too nice for her. She would only end up dragging him down.

“There you are,” Lindsay greeted them when they arrived back at work a short while later.

“Hey, boss!” Ollie called as they breezed in through the back door, giggling like a pair of slap-happy kids.

“What’s so funny, you two?” Lindsay’s gaze dropped to Kerrie Ann’s hand, which rested lightly on Ollie’s arm. Kerrie Ann knew that look: It was the same expression worn by Kerrie Ann’s foster mom when she’d been in ninth grade, when Jean Fowler had walked in on Kerrie Ann in the bedroom with her teenaged son. The next thing Kerrie Ann knew, she was on a bus to Carson City, where a new foster home awaited her.

Kerrie Ann let her hand slip from Ollie’s arm. “Ollie was just teaching me how to say ‘Bug off’ in Portuguese.” They exchanged another look, which prompted a fresh bout of giggles.

Lindsay smiled at them, but her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Well, thank goodness you’re back. I was beginning to think you’d had car trouble.” She was eyeing Kerrie Ann as if she thought it had been trouble of another kind. Something to do with her and Ollie, no doubt.

She thinks I’m hitting on him
. Poor Ollie, the unwitting prey of a depraved older woman. And who would want such a dear, sweet boy to get tangled up with the likes of
her
? A former junkie who couldn’t even hang on to her own kid. Kerrie Ann experienced a surge of anger. Who the hell was Lindsay to judge her? What business was it of hers, anyway?

The same contrariness that had gotten her into hot water so many times in the past asserted itself once more. Any thoughts of wanting to make a good impression on her sister flew out of her head, and before she knew it, she was leaning in to plant a light kiss on Ollie’s unsuspecting lips. “Thanks, Ollie . . . for the ride,” she said in a throaty voice, giving him a sultry look that wasn’t lost on Lindsay as she whirled away, hips twitching in her tight skirt.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

L
INDSAY DIDN’T KNOW
what to think. Was something going on between those two, or was Kerrie Ann just being flirtatious? Probably the latter. Just from the way she dressed—today’s outfit was a short denim skirt, black cowboy boots with fancy red stitching, and a yellow scoop-necked jersey that showed more than the outline of her bra—it was obvious that her sister liked drawing attention to herself. So whatever was going on with her and Ollie was probably harmless. But Lindsay felt uneasy nonetheless.
What if it isn’t so harmless?

Lindsay knew it was none of her business, but she felt responsible for Ollie. He was the closest she had to a kid brother. She’d watched him grow from a boy to awkward adolescent, shooting up faster than he could keep up with, so that he was perpetually lurching around in a body that was more like a bicycle he was learning to ride, on his way to becoming the bright, funny, outgoing young man he was today. She’d worried whenever he’d hit a rough patch or floundered in any way. And having observed over the years how he behaved around girls, she knew the difference between light flirtation and a major crush. She had no doubt that if his crush on Kerrie Ann were to cross the line into something more serious, it would spell trouble with a capital T.

Take last night, for instance. Even if her sister hadn’t knowingly encouraged Grant’s partner, she was clearly a lightning rod for that sort of thing. Poor Ollie would be in way over his head. In fact, it looked as if he was already in over his head. The expression on his face when Kerrie Ann had kissed him had told Lindsay all she needed to know: He had it bad.

What would it be like if Kerrie Ann were to become a constant presence? Lindsay’s first instinct, the night before when her sister had asked for help, had been to rush to the rescue. Having Kerrie Ann move in with her would also be a golden opportunity. An opportunity to forge a bond that might otherwise take years to establish. At the same time, a voice of caution inside her head had warned her to look before she leaped. More and more she was beginning to see how she’d glossed over her childhood memories of Kerrie Ann, using them to create an imaginary grown-up sister who in reality had never existed. She was remembering how contrary Kerrie Ann had been as a child and how prone to outbursts of temper. How Lindsay had constantly chafed under the burden of caring for her. In the real-life Kerrie Ann of today, those traits had only been compounded by a drug habit and a six-year-old child in foster care.

On the other hand, how could she turn away her own flesh and blood? Deny her sister the chance to be reunited with her child?

She was distracted from her thoughts by Miss Honi, who sailed over to mutter ominously, “Looks like we got company.” She pointed in the direction of a tall, white-haired gentleman, dressed casually but expensively in tan chinos and a cashmere V-necked sweater, who’d just walked in the door. Lindsay gave a start, recognizing him at once from his photo, though they’d never officially met: Lloyd Heywood, CEO of the Heywood Group and the man directly or indirectly responsible for making her life miserable.

He looked to be in his late sixties, with a refined, erudite presence that perfectly captured the white-shoe elegance sought by those who flocked to Heywood resorts around the world. An old-world elegance updated, of course, with such modern amenities as flat-screen TVs and wi-fi, marble baths equipped with Jacuzzis and Czech & Speake toiletries, and complimentary robes and slippers in each suite. The more scenic resorts had eighteen-hole golf courses exactly like the one the Heywood Group intended to build on what was now her land.

As Lindsay approached him, she felt as if she were encased in a blood-pressure cuff squeezing tighter and tighter with each step. It was all she could do not to shout,
Shame on you!
Instead she was careful to arrange her features in a pleasant, neutral mask. She pegged him as the kind of sharp operator who was good at reading opponents, and she didn’t intend to give him anything he could use to his advantage. At the same time, she was keenly aware of how vulnerable she was. What chance did she stand against a barracuda like him?

Until now she’d dealt only with his representatives, Ben Hammond and Stacy Jarvis, but his presence had nonetheless been felt at each of those meetings. Every sentence that came out of their mouths, it seemed, began with “Mr. Heywood would like you to know . . .” or “Mr. Heywood is prepared to offer . . .” And, more recently, “Mr. Heywood deeply regrets any inconvenience . . .”

Inconvenience? That was when you had to park a mile away because the parking lot was full, or when you had to wait in line forever at the cash register, or have your phone call rerouted for the umpteenth time after spending too long on hold. It didn’t begin to cover what these people had put her through. What they were
still
putting her through in their systematic and ruthless attempts to seize control of her property by any means.

It was like biting down on tinfoil when she introduced herself. “Mr. Heywood? I’m Lindsay Bishop. You’re here to see me, I presume?” She spoke in the crisp, cool tone of a busy professional.

He gave her a smile so warm and avuncular that she was instantly thrown off guard. “Lindsay—may I call you Lindsay? So nice to finally meet you.” His handshake was firm but not crushingly so. And his weapon of choice—a pair of laser-blue eyes—twinkled disarmingly. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel as if I know you. And may I say you’re every bit as lovely as advertised.”

Gritting her teeth, she inquired, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Actually, there is. I was hoping to persuade you to let me take you out for coffee, or perhaps an early drink. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.” He spoke with the vaguely continental accent of someone born abroad. “Is this a good time?”

“I’m very busy at the moment, Mr. Heywood. You should have called ahead to make an appointment,” she replied in a cool, dismissive tone. “Besides, I don’t know what there is to discuss. As I’m sure Ms. Jarvis and Mr. Hammond have told you, my property is not for sale—at any price. So if you’ve come all this way to make me another offer, I’m afraid it was a wasted trip.”

He regarded her kindly. “No trip is ever a wasted one, my dear. Even when one fails to achieve his or her goal. Through the years, I’ve probably learned more from my failures than from my successes.”

“Easy to say when your successes outweigh your failures.”

He chuckled. “Well said. But I suppose it all depends on your definition of failure. In my book, he who consistently fails to take action stands to lose far more than he who takes risks. So what do you have to lose, Lindsay, by letting an old man buy you a cup of coffee?”

She hesitated and saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes: He knew he had her. But what was the point of stalling him merely for the small satisfaction she’d derive from it? Sooner or later she’d be forced to hear his latest proposal. Briskly she replied, “Twenty minutes, that’s all I can spare. Which I’m sure will be more than enough time.” How many ways were there of saying no?

She noticed Miss Honi hovering nearby, giving him the evil eye, and before Lindsay could signal that she had the situation under control, her self-appointed avenger was barreling toward them like a lioness sensing a threat to her cub. She even looked the part in her wraparound jungle-print dress as she swooped down on the unsuspecting Lloyd Heywood.

“We haven’t met. I’m Miss Honi Love.” She extended her hand. “And you must be that Heywood fella we been hearing so much about. Nice of you to drop by. We was wondering when you was gonna pay us a call. Where I come from, it’s only sporting when you’re fixing to stab somebody in the back to be man enough to at least show your face.” Her tone was sugarcoated but the look in her eyes pure steel.

“A pleasure, Miss Love.” He grinned, seeming not the least bit put off. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too. Though I must say my colleagues’ description doesn’t do you justice.”

“Something tells me that ain’t a compliment,” she said with a sniff.

“On the contrary. I assure you it is,” he replied with apparent sincerity. “Would you care to join us? Your friend Lindsay and I were just about to step out for a cup of coffee.”

“Don’t know what for, when we got the world’s finest right here,” she said, gesturing in the direction of the café, where at the moment Ollie was serving up a slice of chocolate cake to a girl Lindsay recognized as Annie Saxon, a former high school classmate of his and one of his not-so-secret admirers, while Kerrie Ann operated the espresso maker, looking like a honky-tonk girl who’d stumbled into the wrong joint.

“I don’t doubt that, but perhaps it would be more private elsewhere?” Lloyd suggested.

Miss Honi smiled flatly, her blue-lidded eyes glittering like an arctic sunrise. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. Some of us got
real
work to do.” With that she whirled and stalked off.

When Lindsay went to fetch her coat from the closet in back, Miss Honi rushed to intercept her. “You sure you know what you’re doing? Because, sugar, I don’t just smell a rat, I see him walking off with the cheese.” Lindsay saw the worry in her eyes and knew Miss Honi had every reason to worry.

“In that case, let’s hope he chokes on it,” she replied with more bravado than she felt. “Can you manage on your own until I get back?”

“Sure thing,” Miss Honi assured her. “Your sister can pitch in if I get backed up.”

Lindsay hesitated, thinking of the incident earlier in the day with Leona Venable, a retired schoolteacher who liked to boast that she only read the classics. Leona had found it amusing that Kerrie Ann hadn’t seemed to know who George Sand was. And though Lindsay privately considered Leona to be the worst kind of literary snob and knew you didn’t have to be a simpleton to make the mistake Kerrie Ann had made, could she risk a repetition of that with other customers? Or, worse, a flare-up like last night’s? “I suppose it’d be all right, just this once,” she said at last with some reluctance, once more reminded of the decision she would have to make regarding Kerrie Ann.

Miss Honi helped Lindsay on with her jacket. “Don’t worry about us—we’ll manage just fine. You just go on out there and tell Mr. Rat where he can stick his cheese.”

The nearest coffeehouse, the Daily Grind, was mostly takeout and had only counter seating, so she suggested they go to the deli down the street, where Lloyd Heywood ordered coffee and a roast-beef sandwich and Lindsay a Diet Pepsi. When their order arrived at the table, she watched him sink his teeth into his sandwich with obvious relish, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if they were just two friends catching a bite to eat, and felt a grudging admiration for him. What must it take to project that breezy confidence in the face of such high stakes? She took note of the stainless-steel Rolex on his wrist—pricey without being ostentatious, the accessory of someone who didn’t believe in flaunting his wealth—and thought,
Nice touch
. He could rob you blind without looking like the greedy son of a bitch he was.

“Very tasty. The horseradish gives it a nice kick,” he pronounced, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll be sure to recommend this place to my associates.” He smiled at her across the checked tablecloth as if it had been just an innocent remark instead of a reminder that he and his people were going to be around to torture her for the foreseeable future. “Do you eat here often?”

“Not as often as I’d like,” she told him, taking a sip of her Pepsi that did nothing to quiet the roiling in her stomach. “Usually I bring a sandwich to work and eat it at my desk.”

His eyes crinkled in understanding. “You know the old saying: ‘When you work for yourself, you have a slave driver for a boss.’ All too true, I’m afraid.” He shook his head slowly, wearing a small, rueful smile, and reached for his coffee mug. “Take it from an old man, my dear—you should learn to enjoy life more. It goes by all too quickly.”