What I Remember Most (15 page)

“Yes, you do.” And there went the reasonable, condescending tone, as icy rage took its place. “You left me. A marriage is forever, no matter what. Times get tough and you leave.”

“Times get tough? You are a criminal who is dragging his soon-to-be ex-wife into this mess. How could you?”

But I knew how he could do this. It was a control thing. Covey had sensed in the weeks leading up to this that I’d had enough and was going to leave him. We had been fighting ferociously. He was livid that he couldn’t spy on me anymore with the GPS and cameras. His toy and possession, me, was breaking away. His own abandonment issues were flaring like a bonfire in his sick brain.

By not exonerating me, he had control over me, now and in the future.

I did not completely trust Covey when I married him, but I thought that was because it was not innately in me to trust the vast majority of people on the planet. I never expected him to do this.

“You get yourself and that rack of yours home, trailer lady.”

“Don’t ever call me that.” Trailer trash lady. That’s what he meant. It only came out when he was steaming at me, his ability to control me slackening.

“If you don’t come home and it looks like I’m going down, I will tell the prosecutors about your role in this.”

I sucked air in, my body instantly cold, cold, cold. “What are you talking about?”

“You helped me plan all of this, Dina. You were the mastermind. The brains behind it all. I couldn’t have done this without you. We went to parties together, even when we were dating, and you met people. The country clubs. The golf club. You smiled sexy, walked sexy, talked sexy. You brought men to me. They followed that rack around wherever you went. We wined and dined them together, then they invested in our company. You were the sales and delivery person.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came out. I felt like I’d been hit with a stun gun. “That is not what happened.” My whisper was strangled.

“We made the perfect team. Perfect couple. Without you, Dina, I wouldn’t be half the man—no, not even a quarter of the man I am now. You were key to the success of Hamilton Investments.”

“That’s a lie, Covey.” I slumped against the wall. The room actually wobbled, as if two giant hands had tipped it back and forth. “Why would you lie about me like that? What did I ever do to you?”

“What did you do to me? Ah, you left me. That’s what you’ve done. And I’ve got a whole stack of papers here from that bitch, Cherie Poitras, saying you’re divorcing me.”

I heard that sharp edge in his voice, his obsession, the possession.

“You’ll get nothing if you divorce me, Dina, nothing.”

“There is nothing. We have nothing. Everything we have will go to your ripped-off clients. We’re bankrupt.”

“Divorcing me will be a long and torturous process. Your legal fees will hit fifty thousand before you blink.”

He would do that. I would have to make payments to Cherie and pay court costs for years to come. He knew exactly how much money I had. He had to win. That’s what he wanted.
To win.
When I was broke, when I was smashed, when I was in jail, he would back off, but first he had to punish me for leaving.

“You had me sign those papers to frame me.”

“Not to frame you. But to make sure you saw the value in staying with me. I will never give in. I will never let you go, Dina.”

He thought he had my future in his hands. He had power over me. I knew he thrived on that. I was at his mercy. It was sexy for him.

“I love you, Dina. It’s you and me, babe. And if you don’t want to be together then you’ll stand on your own and go to jail on your own. I won’t protect you unless you come home.”

“No. I’m not coming home, and if I go to jail, you will, too.” I could not get air into my lungs. I felt panicky. Move in and hope that his slick attorneys could work something out or that, in the end, if he went to jail he would spare me? Or stay here and risk him frying me alive?

“Exactly—you go, I go. I don’t go, you don’t go. How do you think you’ll fare in jail, Dina? How did you like all your new dyke friends there? How did you like those bars? I know you’re claustrophobic. What about isolation? Heard you ended up there. How was that? You like things organized. You’re an interior design queen. Jail’s not like that, is it? And no art, Dina. No paints. No collages. Art is the only thing that keeps you sane, isn’t it? You’ll be reminded twenty-four hours a day where you came from: Nothing. White trash. Trailer park.”

“Shut up.” I pictured Covey. Teeth gritted. Face tight. I heard him exhale.

“I miss you in our bed. I bet you miss it, too, you nymphomaniac. Oh, and how is work at The Spirited Owl? You’re back where you were years ago, aren’t you, Mrs. Waitress?”

“I hate you. How did you find me?”

“Easy, Dina. A little P.I. work. See you and that tight little ass soon, or I will send that tight little ass to jail. I think my phone is bugged by the government, so be careful what you say to me when you call and beg my forgiveness.” His voice lowered. “I love you and I miss you.”

He hung up.

I was so angry. If it looked like he was going to jail, he’d take me with him. If he couldn’t have me, no one could.

The fear of being locked up like an animal, suffocating, dealing with rules and guards and cavity checks, of not being able to work, or live in my own home, or be independent and free, terrorizes me to my core.

I was scared to pieces.

That night I had a nightmare. I woke up not being able to breathe. I’d heard them shouting again, in horror, panicked.

Run, Grenadine, run!

Carlton Jags fell off his stool and was sprawled on the floor about eight the next night. He was drunk.

Tildy groaned. “Not again. Last time he tossed his cookies in here.”

“I got him.” I do not like tossed cookies. I might have to clean them up. I went around the bar with Tildy, and together with two men we grabbed Carlton and pulled him outside.

“I served him only two beers, Tildy.”

“He was probably drinking away in his truck, crying on his steering wheel, before he even stepped his sorry ass inside.”

“This is not gonna solve anything, buddy,” Tildy said to him.

“Never has in the history of mankind, never will.”

Carlton didn’t answer Tildy, as Carlton was too out of it. Carlton also did not respond to an eighty-year-old woman named Mrs. Shomoto, who clucked at him and called him a “poor, dear, heartsick idiot.”

We put him in one of the Adirondack chairs. Tildy went to call his mother, and the men went back inside. Vaguely I registered that three men were walking toward the restaurant.

I took Carlton’s car keys out of his pocket, then made sure he was as comfortable as he could be. I tilted his head so he wouldn’t get a crick in his neck.

Carlton, who is about thirty-five, is an online computer technician by day and a musician who wallows in his emotions and sings about them by night. His wife, Chandra, left him three months ago for a lovely woman, and things had gone downhill from there. Apparently he rarely drank before Chandra took off. Chandra was a cheerful and loving person and an elementary school teacher. The whole town, including Carlton, adored her.

They did not have children, and Chandra and her girlfriend moved to San Francisco. “What a cliché!” Carlton had cried, then pounded his head on the bar. “I’m a cliché!”

I went back in the bar, grabbed two blankets from the back that we keep for this purpose, and put a few slices of cheese bread in a baggie. I don’t believe in enabling drunks, and Carlton had to hit bottom to get back up, but I had a lot of sympathy for him and his broken heart. Plus I liked his mother, Joann.

“Hang in there, Carlton,” I said out loud, putting my hand on his cheek. “You can get through this.” I put the bag of cheese bread in his lap, then covered him with the blankets.

When I stood up I locked eyes with Kade Hendricks. He was with two other men. They were towering giants, like Kade, not a pansy in the bunch. One hundred percent tough male.

“Hello.” I wiped my hands on my apron. “Kade.”

He nodded. “Hello, Grenady.”

I tried to smile. I knew I hadn’t gotten the job. It was obvious. Too much time had gone by. It sucked. “How are you?”

“Fine. Looks like you’re busy tonight.”

“Yes, uh. Well, he had a few too many. Needs some air. He’ll be fine. I’ll check on him. Tildy called Joann.”

Kade nodded. His eyes did not leave mine. I tried hard not to look away or tilt my head down.

“Hello, I’m Rick.” The man next to Kade smiled.

“I’m sorry,” Kade said. “Grenady, this is my friend, Ricki Lopez, and this is my friend, Danny Vetti. They’re visiting from Los Angeles. We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“Hi. Welcome to Pineridge.” I shook hands with both of his friends. They seemed friendly, tough like Kade but not so overwhelming.

“This is part of your job description, then?” Rick laughed.

“Sometimes.” I forced myself to keep smiling. I had wanted that job. “Are you coming in?”

They were. I managed to collect myself enough to introduce them to our hostess, a college girl named Marnie, with dreadlocks. She was majoring in Japanese art history, which meant she would probably be working for Tildy after graduation.

Marnie found them a table in the restaurant. A few times, as I smiled and served drinks, I could feel Kade watching me. Not in a weird way, not like Covey did, but definitely watching.

I always worked hard, but I decided to show Kade what he was missing in not hiring me. I wasn’t mad at him. I was sad. That would be the word for it. I liked him; he had not liked me. He had seen something in me that wasn’t competent enough, smart enough, good enough. And he knew I was hiding something. Smart man. I felt my heart clench and I sighed, then caught myself midsigh and told myself not to be irritating and pathetic.

People were chatting with me a lot now. They were getting to know me, saying hello and good-bye to me by name as they came and went, which made me feel more at home.

We had a bowling team in that night, and they were beer guzzlers. They had lost. Again. They raised their beers to me before one stood and bellowed out, “To Grenady, best damn bartender to us losers,” then clinked their mugs together.

We also had a group of women there who were “sick of baby showers” and had come to divide pitchers full of strawberry daiquiris. The expectant mother was not drinking. “This is my fifth,” she told me. “Five kids. I am never having sex again. Never. I told that to my husband before I left and he said, ‘Okay, baby,’ then he stuck his hand up my shirt!”

I brought her a virgin strawberry daiquiri, on the house. “No alcohol. Just pretend.”

About an hour later I was distracted by Moose Williams, who was sitting in the middle of the bar with his buddies and family. Moose had introduced me to many of them. Most were married with kids, one divorced, one widowed. Three were his brothers, six were cousins. His father was there, and so were three uncles. It was Moose’s birthday. He’d had a wee too much to drink.

“Grenady, Grenady, Grenady,” Moose sang. He started out low and sweet first, then with each “Grenady,” his voice grew louder, until it thundered in an operatic, melodious sort of way, all around the restaurant. “Grenadddddy!”

His oldest brother, Chad, put his arms up in victory and yelled, “Sing it, brother!” The youngest brother, Arty, winked at me and said, “We told him when we left he was not to flirt with you. We tried, Grenady.”

I rolled my eyes at Tildy.

“Red hair . . .” Moose warbled, standing up, arms flung out.

“Green eyes . . .” He held the note, splendid and deep. “A mermaid’s body . . .” He hit a high note, pitch perfect, and those easily entertained customers laughed and clapped.

I kept pouring beers and shook my head. I wished he’d keep it down. I knew Kade and his friends could hear him at their table in the restaurant, and I didn’t want him to think I was encouraging this.

“You haunt my dreeeeeams!” Moose shot his voice down to a gravelly roar, and I was struck by how on tune he was. The man actually sounded like an opera singer.

“Can’t help that, Moose.” Oh, please, Kade, don’t look over here.

“You follow me around toowwwnnn. . .” Moose put a hand to his chest.

“I never follow you, Moose.” I grabbed three wineglasses from the rack over my head.

“Your spirit does!” The word
spirit
bounced along the walls.

“It’s beeaautifffull to mmmeeee . . .”

I was so embarrassed. I don’t like being the center of attention. Ever. “Thank you for the solo, Moose, now chill out.” I hurried to the other end of the bar to work. This was Moose’s sign to stand up across two stools and continue singing, his cackling cousins holding his legs so he wouldn’t fall.

“Grenady, Grenady, Grenady, I want you for my wiiiifee!” His friends hooted as he stood
on the bar.

“Oh, fry me a pig and shut up,” I muttered, and shook a martini.

Tildy said, “Don’t fall. If you do, you may not sue me. I am warning you, Moose.”

“We could live in the country. We could have chickens and coooows!” The word
cows
was held, his voice reverberating, low and deep, in his chest. “We could have a hundred children,” same with the word
children,
“if you’ll only say yeeess to meeeee!” Oh, how he held that note.

“No, Moose, sorry. No chickens, no kids.” I was blushing. I did not dare peek at Kade. I served the martini to a woman, and she said, “Take him. I’d take him. He looks well hung.”

I headed to the other end, and he followed me strutting
on top of the bar.

Moose puffed out his chest, the whole place enthralled, cheering, as he finished his mini-opera so dramatically with, “You are my laughter, my smile, my love and my desire, please, Grenady, Grenady, Grenady, say yes to me tonight!”

The customers clapped, pounded the bar and tables. I thought his brothers and cousins were going to wet their pants, they were laughing so hard. I rolled my eyes and poured vodka shots.