Authors: Terra Little

Running From Mercy (11 page)

BOOK: Running From Mercy

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“I'll definitely get out there before I leave. I've missed talking with her,” she said, realizing that she actually had.

“Sometime next week would be good. I don't think I told you, but I'll be out of town then. Would it be all right if we changed our lunch date to the following Tuesday, instead of this one coming up?”

Pam nodded and crunched ice noisily. “I can live with that.”

“Good. Then I'll see you next Tuesday. It was nice meeting you,” Miles said, looking at Chad and Nikki. He gave them one last wave and left the restaurant. Minutes later he was in his car, feeling pleased with himself.

Inside the restaurant, Nikki aimed a speculative look at her aunt and cleared her throat. “You didn't tell me you were dating someone, Aunt Pam.”

Pam was concentrating on scooping up the last of her apple crisp and she looked up, genuinely taken aback. “What?”

“That man said you two have been going out to lunch. Is that a sneaky way of saying you two are dating?”

“Me and him?” Pam looked over her shoulder in the direction Miles had disappeared. “Nikki, please. David is nice, but hardly my type. We've met for lunch a few times, but that's it. I think he's hoping he'll get his picture in the paper or something.”

“What does he do?” Chad asked. He spotted their waitress and lifted a hand to signal for the check.

“I don't know. I'll have to remember to ask him sometime.”

“What exactly is your type, Aunt Pam?” Nikki wanted to know. “
The National Tattler
said you only date rich white men and Mr. Dixon is white.”

Pam sucked one last ice cube in her mouth and crunched into it viciously. She set her cup down with a sharp thump. “Don't believe everything you read, Nikki. Over half of the men they paired me with were only business associates.”

“What about that producer?”

“God, you're worse than the media. What
about
the producer?” She looked at Chad, whose face was blank, and rolled her eyes. “Are we ready?”

He nodded and she got to her feet briskly. But she couldn't help sliding one last look at Nikki.

“And just for the record, the producer isn't white, he's Mexican.”

TEN

Pam reached across the bed and snatched her cell phone from the nightstand. Underneath two pillows, she put the phone to her ear. “Please tell me you have a good reason for calling me at three o'clock in the morning.”

“You're never asleep at this hour,” Gillian chirped. She was wide-awake and in her home office tending to business. “What's going on down there?”

“Things are different in this backward town. If you aren't in bed by seven, they call the police on you. What's up?” She pushed the pillows aside and sat up, sweeping her wild hair back from her face.

“Personal tragedy is making you a hot ticket, Pam. Sharon Templeton's people called me today. She wants you on her show like yesterday.” Gillian was referring to the queen of daytime talk shows. “They're willing to let you write the script, as long as you agree to talk about your loss.”

“You woke me up for that? Come on, Gil, you know I don't do interviews and shit. Tell Templeton's people thanks, but no thanks. Can I get back to sleep now?”

“Sure, but first tell me when you're coming home. I need to know so I know what to book and what to toss in the trash. Dynasty Entertainment is putting together a nineteen-city tour, and they want you on the ticket.”

“What tour and what cities?” She hadn't done a tour in quite some time and a diversion might be just what the doctor ordered after she left Mercy. She listened intently as Gillian gave her the preliminary details of the tour, providing the names of the artists who were already signed on. “Sistahs of Soul, huh? Sounds interesting.”

“If you decide to do it, you'll need to be ready to go on the . . .” Gillian searched around on her desktop and found the paper she needed. “Twentieth of next month. That gives you a couple more weeks down there and then you need to haul your ass home so you can get ready. The tour kicks off in Houston, Texas.”

“I think I want to do it.” Pam could feel the thrill of anticipation flowing through her blood.

“It'll be a great start for your latest CD. Sales are good now, but with a tour to help promote it, they'll go through the roof. Your call, though. Think about it and let me know.”

Pam exhaled on a long breath and squeezed her eyes shut. “Do it,” she said several seconds later. “Sign me up, Gil.”

“You're sure? Because with everything you've been through you . . .”

“I'm sure. Something like this is just what I need. I can't stay here forever and I don't want to. Nikki will have to let me go if she knows I have definite work lined up.”

“She's still clinging, huh?”

“Not that I blame her and I'm enjoying spending time with her, but I think she has this fantasy that I'll stay in Mercy, and I just can't do that. It's been almost a month as it is and I'm starting to go stir crazy. This place depresses me.”

“That bad?”

“Worse. Everywhere I go, the old biddies are whispering and clinging to their husbands like they think I'll run off with them.”

“Women do that everywhere you go, Pam,” Gillian joked. “What about the other thing?”

Pam was quiet a long time. “Nothing that I know of. I try to steer clear of that area all together and so far I've been successful. I keep a paper bag handy though, just in case.”

“I was hoping you'd be able to get some closure.”

“I'd have to open that door again to get some closure and I'm not doing that. It's over and done with, which is why I'm telling you to sign me up for the tour. I need to start planning my escape, so give me a reason, okay?”

“If you say so. I'll do some follow-up and get back to you.”

“I'll be waiting.” Pam folded the cell phone closed and dropped it on the nightstand.

Fully awake now, she climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. She emptied her bladder, washed her hands, and picked up her guitar case on her way back across the room. She sat on the side of the bed and flipped the case open, stroking the guitar lovingly. It was the same one she'd been making music with since the days of recording demo tapes to shop to major studios, and she couldn't imagine having to replace it.

She was as attached to it as some people were to their pets.

Pam closed her eyes as she settled the guitar across her lap and let her mind take her to the stage. She strummed her fingers lightly over the strings, reacquainting herself with the chords, then she began playing. Her voice came out softly, joining the music hesitantly at first and then growing stronger the longer she played. She forgot about the other guests at the B&B as she played and sang. It was a song she'd started writing a few years ago and had only recently rediscovered, scribbled on a sheet of paper and tucked inside a book she'd started reading and quickly grown bored with. Over and over, she sang the lyrics she remembered writing, until they flowed into a melody she could work with. More lyrics came to mind and she weaved them into the fabric of the song. She had started off freestyling and playing around with the song, but she ended up scrambling off the bed, searching for a pen and paper to write the lyrics down.

She was still making music when the sky lightened and the sun began peeking from behind the clouds. Before she spread out to sleep, she named the song “Have Mercy On Me.”

The sun was peeking from behind the clouds on the morning Paris Greene rolled over in bed and realized that Chad was no longer lying beside her. She cracked her eyes open and looked around the bedroom slowly. She saw him sitting on the very edge of the bed, knees spread, hands dangling in the space between them and staring into space.

Paris recognized the defeated slump of his shoulders and wrestled with the choice to pretend that she was asleep and ignore him or to open her mouth and say something. Eventually she rolled to her side and propped her head on her hand, touched his back softly. Chad glanced back at her over his shoulder, then looked away quickly.

“Did I wake you up?”

Her eyes slid over to the alarm clock and noted the time. 5:40
A.M.
“It's almost time for me to wake up, anyway.” She took a deep breath. “This is the third time this week I've opened my eyes and seen you looking like that, Chad. Tell me what's wrong. Is it something with work?”

“No, it's not work, Paris.” He scooted around on the mattress until he was sitting sideways and could see her face without having to crane his neck. “Is everything all right with you? Are you happy?”

“Where did that come from?”

“I'm just wondering if you're happy and if you are, what is it that's making you happy?”

“What if I say I'm not? Will that make you feel better about the fact that you're not happy? Is that what you're trying to get at?”

“We've talked about this before,” he said carefully.

“Yeah, we have. Three times. I don't know about you, but I'm sick of talking about it. We're married. Is this what married couples do, sit around talking about how unhappy they are?”

“I don't know what married couples do.” He blew out a harsh breath. “But somehow I don't think they do what we've been doing.”

“What do you want me to do? What can I do to make you happy?” The beginnings of anger were in her voice. She spun away from Chad's probing eyes and rolled to a sitting position on the side of the bed.

She rooted around on the floor for her slippers and pushed her feet into them.

“It's not that you make me unhappy, Paris. Why is it that every time this subject comes up, you immediately assume that the problem is with you?” He watched her come around the bed and storm past him to the bathroom.

“Why is it that this subject keeps coming up, Chad? It's like an every three-month thing now. Everything is fine for a while and then, wham, you hit me with this. Why can't we find a good place and stay there?”

Chad rose from the bed and went to stand in the bathroom doorway. Paris squeezed a line of toothpaste on her toothbrush and looked at his reflection in the mirror. The first time he'd told her in that roundabout way of his that he was unhappy she hadn't known what to do with the information, so she'd stored it away and ignored it. Maybe he was having trouble adjusting to married life, she thought. He just needed a little more time to get used to the responsibilities of a new house and a family.

But they were settled into a groove by now. He was teaching at the high school and coaching the girls' volleyball team, and he said he enjoyed working with the kids. She was working as a social worker at the children's home right outside of town and she loved her job too. In another year or so she planned to apply for a supervisory position, and they had already discussed his intention to apply for the position of school principal after the current one retired, which was expected in the next five years. They lived in a nice home, spacious and tastefully furnished, and one they had picked out together and decided on buying. Nikki was almost five and flourishing, looking more like her father every day and reading already. And he still wasn't satisfied.

Theirs was an easy relationship, mainly because Chad didn't mind sharing in the household chores and he insisted on being a hands-on parent. He started dinner as many nights as she did, he did laundry, ironed most of his own clothing and helped Nikki with her homework, all without having to be asked. When she'd discovered that he also left the bathroom as neat as he found it, Paris had considered herself lucky to have him. She didn't nag him and she gave him plenty of space to move around in. What else did he want?

“Something's missing, Paris. Don't you feel it?”

Paris turned on the tap and dampened the bristles of her toothbrush, then bent over and went to work brushing her teeth. She used the time to consider his question carefully.

She recalled the first time she'd ever laid eyes on Chad, coming across his porch and jogging down the steps casually. Though she didn't think she'd had a crush on him all those years ago, she did remember thinking that he was nice to look at. Like a painting that drew the eye back to it time and time again, but you couldn't really say why. For a fourteen-year-old boy, she had thought him surprisingly appealing to the eye. He'd had none of the unchecked scruffiness the other boys she knew had, and he was always meticulously groomed. She had always believed that was part of what Nate had initially liked about Chad, too. The two of them running around together had attracted more than a few appreciative feminine glances, from both young and old.

In high school and then again in college, Chad played basketball and his body was well-formed and leanly muscled as a result. Long hands and feet, once dangling from his extremities awkwardly, now fit his frame perfectly. He treated himself to a manicure once a month in Atlanta, while he was receiving a pedicure, and he was fastidious about keeping his hair shaped and trimmed. He never skipped out on his biweekly barber appointments and his infatuation with clothes and shoes rivaled that of any woman's. He had what some would call presence. He turned heads just by walking into a room. Paris knew of at least two women who regularly flirted with her husband, despite his married status, but she tried not to let it bother her.

She couldn't blame those women for noticing that Chad was easy on the eyes. When he was fourteen he was cute, but as a fully-grown man he was magnetic. She thought it had something to do with his eyes and the way they stared out of his face like lasers. They were an average shade of brown, except they were remarkably expressive and framed with long, thick lashes. If he allowed himself to give in to anger, which he rarely did, they could cut like knives. When he was passionate about something or someone, they could made you lose track of your train of thought, and when he was indifferent, their affect was flat, almost like he was in a trance.

His smile, when it came, was wide and slightly tilted to one side, sandwiched between deep slashes in his jaws and flashing brightly out of a longish cocoa-brown face.

She liked to see him smile, liked to come upon him in the middle of laughing about something silly, and thought with more than a little sadness that she hadn't had the opportunity to do so in quite a while. Maybe in years.

“Yes, I feel it,” Paris eventually said. His eyes were expressionless now, which meant that he was indifferent and seeing it made her angry. Her hands shook as she replaced her toothbrush in the holder.

“What do you think it is?”

“Don't try to turn this around, Chad. You're the one who brought the subject up, so why don't you tell me what you think is missing?” She reached for a tube of facial cleanser and squeezed a dollop in her hand, smoothed it into her skin with small circular motions as she caught his eyes in the mirror. “What about sex? That's something that's noticeably missing. Do you miss that?”

Chad's eyes widened slightly. He shifted and leaned against the doorjamb. “Of course I do.”

“Just not with me, right?”

BOOK: Running From Mercy

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