Sweet Hearts (16 page)

She pulled a scrap of paper from
her pack and jotted down the cities and dates of the postmarks. Maybe she and
Beau could put together a trail of Tito’s movements for the FBI man to follow.
The only problem was that the trail would end abruptly twenty-seven months ago in
Denver.

What could this mean? How on
earth would they come up with a man who clearly wanted to stay hidden?

Unless it wasn’t Tito himself who
wanted to hide. Perhaps someone else wanted to be sure he stayed away. Maybe
permanently.

She slowly folded the slip of
paper and stuck it back in her pack. How could she locate evidence that would
help Beau and his contact in Albuquerque find Tito? She glanced into Marla’s
closet but it felt too invasive to start going through her things. Wandering
back to Jolie’s room she noticed that the closet door stood open.

Well, I don’t have any problem
looking through a kid’s stuff,
she decided
. I’m a mom. I’ve done this.

The girl was no more or less
messy than any pre-teen, Sam decided as she surveyed the clutter. Blouses hung
one-shouldered, barely clinging to their hangers. Jeans sat in lumps on the
floor. And a tangle of belts seemed permanently snaked around the strap of a
purse. On the shelf above, the grandmother’s hand was a little more evident.
Clear plastic bins held art supplies and photographs. In the far corner was a
cardboard box, labeled in kid writing, “Mommy and Daddy’s Things.”

Sam felt her throat tighten. How
hard it must have been for this little one. Her daddy gone since before she
could remember and her mother dying when she was in kindergarten. Their
memories condensed into a twelve-inch cube of a box. She debated whether to
touch it, but the thought that Tito might have left something with his
daughter, something even his mother didn’t know about, won out.

Pulling the carton from the
shelf, Sam carried it to Jolie’s bed and set it down.

A sheet of pink tissue paper with
Happy Birthday printed in bright purple covered the contents. Beneath it, the
kinds of memorabilia that a kid would choose: a box of Emeraude bath powder
with an elegant screen-printed design, two lipstick tubes as reminders of her
mother’s face and her scent. A preschooler’s gift project, Jolie’s small
handprint inked onto a sheet of paper with a verse neatly written by the
teacher, the whole thing rolled like a scroll and tied with red ribbon.

Sam set each object carefully on
the coverlet with the idea that she would replace them exactly in the order
she’d found them. It wasn’t until near the bottom of the box that she came
across anything masculine: an old sports sock, dirty and wadded, and a comb.
The cheap black plastic kind that men often tucked into a pocket. It didn’t
seem likely that the old objects would comfort Marla now.

She diligently replaced
everything into the carton and set it on the shelf in the exact spot where
she’d found it. Back in Marla’s bedroom Sam gathered the envelopes. Locking the
front door again, she headed toward town.

It was well after noon when she
arrived at the hospital. A nurse was in the room with Marla, trying to coax her
to take a bit of soup for lunch. The patient leaning against the steep angle of
her bed, propped with pillows, clearly had little taste for the food. She
brightened when she saw Sam in the doorway.

“Would you like to give this a
try?” the nurse asked, holding up the soup spoon.

“Sure.” Sam glanced at Marla.
“I’m sure we can manage something.”

Once the lady in blue-flowered
scrubs bustled out, Marla smiled. “I’m so glad you came back, Sam.” Her voice
seemed a little stronger now.

Sam laid the envelopes on the
nightstand. “Are you sure you don’t want some soup? Or maybe the crackers?”

“Stuff tastes like water. I don’t
know how they expect a sick person to find this appetizing when it’s so bland
even a two-year-old wouldn’t want it.”

Sam nodded sympathetically. No
doubt the nurse had already tried all the arguments about how Marla needed
nutrition, ought to build her strength.

“Maybe I should smuggle in some
enchiladas.” She gave a conspiratorial wink.

Marla smiled for the first time.
“I would love that. But I don’t think they’d stay down. I can’t eat the things
I used to.” Her gaze went somewhere to the middle of the room.

“Maybe if you ate the soup first?
Get your stomach used to food again?”
Come on, Sam. You’re not dealing with
a toddler. Let the woman do what she wants.

After a minute Marla shook her
head. “I think I’d rather just look at my cards.”

Sam pushed the meal table aside
and placed the envelopes by Marla’s side.

“I’ll go then. You enjoy your
cards.”

“Is there any word about Tito
yet?” The wistful look on her face nearly broke Sam’s heart.

“Not yet. We’re still looking.”

She leaned over and gave Marla a
hug then left the hospital, wondering whether her friend would ever get to go
home again.

*

In her own bedroom, Sam stared at
the cardboard boxes she’d left lying around, half packed. Earlier she’d
wondered what was holding her back from finishing the job and simply hauling
everything to Beau’s house. Now, for some reason, her own concerns didn’t seem
nearly as important, not in comparison with the Fresques family’s misfortunes.

She thought of Jolie, that
twelve-year-old who’d already suffered too much loss. For the third time in her
life, she would soon lose the person most important to her. She was too young
to be going through this.

Sam realized that she’d not yet
had the proper conversation with Marla. Instead of buying into the idea that
Tito would come back and raise a daughter on his own, maybe Sam needed to find
out if Marla had any alternate plan at all. When the day came, with the father
gone, who would actually take the girl in? It was sad to think of her becoming
a ward of the state and being shipped off to a foster home somewhere.

She picked up the phone and
dialed Diane Milton. This time there was an answer.

“Diane, can you talk for a
minute? I mean, without the girls around?” she asked after re-introducing
herself.

“Sure, Sam. My husband took them
into town for a movie. I was sitting here with my feet up, enjoying a cup of
tea.”

“Do you know if Marla has a will?
What provisions she’s made for Jolie?”

There was a space in which Diane
must have taken a sip of tea. “I don’t know. She’s a little bit old-school that
way, a little superstitious about bringing on bad luck by planning for it.”

Sam itched to tell the neighbor
what serious consequences that could have but Diane seemed aware of it.

“I’ll talk to Marla more
seriously about it when I go see her tomorrow. We’re got a good attorney. Maybe
I’ll see if he can go along with me.”

Sam thanked her and said she
would let Diane get back to her relaxing afternoon. With that burden
temporarily transferred to someone else, Sam remembered that she owed Delbert
Crow a weekly report on the two properties she’d checked earlier in the day.
She switched on the computer and began typing. By four o’clock when Sam hit the
Send button on the email she felt ready for a respite herself.

She’d no sooner brewed her own
cup of tea and headed toward her favorite corner of the sofa than the phone
rang.

“Samantha Jane, what’s this about
canceling your wedding?”

Sam sighed. Her mood sank about
five notches.

“Didn’t Kelly explain it to you
last night, Mother?”

“Well, she called and talked to
your daddy, and all I got out of it was that you and Beau aren’t getting
married.”

“We will, Mother. It’s just that
this particular week has gotten to be a bit too much for me.”

“Sugar, every bride feels that
way. I tell you, I’ve seen it a hundred times. But there are just certain plans
that can’t be undone once they’re set in motion. Aren’t you concerned about
having to cancel your caterer, your photographer? What about the limo, or, I
don’t know, out there you probably have a horse and carriage.”

Sam pressed deeper into the sofa
and rolled her eyes heavenward.
Lord save me from her preconceived ideas of
what a wedding should be.

“You might not be able to get the
top people back once you’ve cancelled them, Samantha. Your pastor might not
ever speak to you.”

She could picture her mother,
dithering. She would have the phone propped between her ear and shoulder, pacing
the kitchen floor, literally wringing her hands.

“Mother, there are no ‘top
people’ involved. Beau and I planned a very simple ceremony with a judge and a
few friends at a local bed and breakfast—”

“Oh my, that sounds plain. No
rehearsal dinner, no orchestra, no wedding dance?”

“No, Mother. We aren’t into all
that stuff.”

“I’m putting your daddy on the
line.” Sam heard an uncharacteristically shrill “Howard!” in the background,
followed by some fumbling of the phone.

“Okay, Samantha, you tell your
father what all you just told me.”

“Hi, Daddy. How’s everything
there?” Sam could hear the resignation in her own voice.

“Just fine, honey. The car’s
unpacked and we spent the day—”

“Howard! That’s not what I meant.
I want her to tell you— Oh, I don’t know. I’m just so very upset about this.”
There was a click on the line.

“I’m still here, Sammy. Don’t you
fret. It’s just that she bought a new outfit. Got some pointy-toe shoes to go
with the dress and all, had her nails done with that awful plastic-like stuff.
Painted ’em purple to go with the dress. She’ll get over it.”

Nina Rae would not get over it,
Sam knew, and she was likely to be hearing about this for years.

“Daddy, just try to convince her
that I don’t need a big fancy wedding to make me happy. Beau and I will
reschedule. I was silly to ever think I could pull this off on Valentine’s Day.
My business is just too crazy right now.”

“I know, honey, I know. And
whatever you decide to do is fine with us.” He lowered his voice. “Well, it’s
fine with me. And I’ll work on your mother.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

She hung up, wondering how on
earth this always happened. Her mother had a way of erasing fifty years of
Sam’s life, sending her right back to childhood. Could the woman not trust that
Sam might just have some inkling about managing her own affairs?

Her tea had gone cold by the time
she set the phone receiver down and she didn’t have the energy to walk as far
as the kitchen to reheat it. She closed her eyes, but the jumble of thoughts
about her family, Marla’s situation, finding the missing Tito, and the mountain
of work at the bakery all formed an unsettling mishmash of a dream.

The room was growing dark when
Sam stirred, feeling guilty that she had napped away a couple of hours that
could have been used more productively. She stretched, her limbs feeling heavy
and useless.

The back door clicked shut.

“Kel?”

“Hey, Mom. I’m home.” Her voice
had a dreamy quality.

Sam knew she better get rid of
the rest of those chocolates before her daughter turned into a full-fledged
nymphomaniac.

“Whatcha up to?” Kelly asked,
drifting into the living room and finding Sam sprawled on the sofa.

“I guess my mind shut down after
the call from your grandmother.”

“Oh god, I bet that was fun.”

“The usual, how could I do this
to her?”

“Mom, haven’t you already figured
this out? It’s always about her.”

“I know. And that’s fine. She
went to a lot of trouble to get ready for the wedding and I didn’t give her
much notice.”

“Yeah, but did she once ask how
you’re doing, how you feel about canceling the plans?” Kelly plopped onto the
armchair across from Sam. “No, I can bet that she didn’t.”

“It’s just her way. Heaven knows,
I should be used to it by now.”

“How was Grampa? Did you talk to
him?”

“He said she got her acrylic
nails painted purple.” She caught the snicker from Kelly and they both burst
out laughing.

“Gramma and those silly nails,”
Kelly gasped. “I swear she does not see herself—”

“Okay, now, be nice.” But Sam
couldn’t keep a straight face. She pictured her very proper mother decked out
in something that had required a trip to Neiman Marcus, the shoes that would
match perfectly, the large precise hairstyle, and those nails which were really
done mainly as a backdrop for the big jewelry that Nina Rae managed to get for
every birthday. Each time Sam looked toward Kelly they started laughing again,
until Sam rolled off the sofa and landed on her hands and knees on the floor.

Kelly keeled back in the
armchair, her amusement completely out of control now. As Sam used the coffee
table to hoist herself off the floor, her daughter managed a straight face.

“I’m starving,” Kelly said. “Have
you eaten yet?”

Sam remembered something about a
bowl of soup, but recalled that was Marla’s soup, at the hospital, hours ago.

“Pizza. That’s what I’m craving.
I’ll call.” Kelly got out of the chair and headed toward the kitchen phone.

“Everything,” Sam called out.
“Get the works.”

While Kelly left to pick up the
pizza, Sam washed her face and ran her fingers through her hair. No wonder her
mother felt so superior; she’d raised a daughter who frankly didn’t give a whit
about being stylish. Her mouth relaxed into her usual smile. But then a picture
of Felicia Black, with her fur coat and designer accessories, flashed into
Sam’s head. She tossed the washcloth into the sink and went to the kitchen
where she poured two glasses of wine.

An hour later, the wine bottle
was empty and the pizza was gone.

“I think I needed that,” Sam
said.

She and Kelly had carried their
food to the living room where they sat on the floor by the coffee table,
leaning their backs against the sofa.