What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (27 page)

Susan Winslow squinted against the bright rays of morning sunlight that hit her eyelids like pellets. She’d gone to the trouble of painting her walls black for this very reason: to absorb sunlight and keep it away. It seemed instead, however, to be acting like the perfect slick surface to ricochet the beams.

She groaned and pulled the black bed sheet over her face. The flesh around her new nosering was still sore, and she cursed as the soiled linen dragged across the inflamed area. Lifting the sheet gingerly, she tried to open her eyes.

Blinking, she was greeted by the garish display of favorite rock-star posters on the wall opposite her bed. Now they
seemed to leer at her, mocking her discontent like haughty creatures looking through from another dimension.

If there
were
another dimension, I’d be recognized, valued, understood
. If the force of her thought could have propelled her through the wall and into the future, she’d have landed in 2000, as a rock star—adored by her fans, pursued by men, her every whim indulged.

As it was, she had only forty minutes to get to work. She rolled across the thin mattress, cursing again at the inadequate cushioning it provided against the bare floor, and struggled to stand. A minute later she was in the fiberglass shower-tub, enduring but not enjoying the rush of warm water.

Why didn’t that drummer agree to take me with him?
She’d met him at Wing Ding’s bar. He and his band would’ve packed up their equipment and left town at around four this morning. By now, she’d have been on the road with them—out of this black hole of a town. She’d already escaped the impoverished Chumash Reservation down in the Santa Ynez Valley, only to find herself stuck in a white man’s world.

And the white woman I work for is a control freak. But that’s okay, I’ll show her
. And with that, Susan smiled for the first time that morning.

She dressed quickly, pulled a brush through her long black hair, and was leaning toward the bathroom mirror to rim her eyes in black liner when her gaze caught the red numerals on her digital clock: 8:39.
Damn! I’m late again
. Though the EPC office didn’t technically open until nine, Samantha liked for her to be at the office by eight thirty. It was true, some obnoxious people started calling at eight in the morning.
Since I’m running behind, I better check messages from here, so Samantha doesn’t
figure out how late I am. Good thing she gave me the remote code for the office answering machine
.

Crossing the hardwood floor toward her unmade bed, she threw aside the crumpled sheet and blanket then sank onto the edge of her mattress, her micro-skirt rising up her thighs. She lifted the receiver and hit the speed-dial button.

“Hello. You have reached Samantha Hugo at the Environmental Planning—”

“Blah blah blah,” Susan talked back to the machine, interrupting the message to key in the playback code.

“You have one message,”
the monotoned electronic voice reported,
“Sent Friday, October twenty-fifth at 8:09 a.m
.” At this point the electronic voice was replaced by a human one.
“Hey, Ms. Hugo, this is Al down at CC Auto. The wiper blades you ordered have come in. And, uh, by the way, your Cherokee is due for an oil change. We’re open all day, seven to seven.“
The machine clicked off.

“As if I don’t have enough to do.” Susan muttered. “Now I’m supposed to take care of Samantha’s car. Geez, I don’t even have time to take care of my
own
car. Besides, I can’t afford to get it fixed.” She exhaled, stood, and straightened her skirt. Sliding her feet into her Doc Martens, she clomped back to her small dining table and lifted her leather jacket from a chair to shrug into it. One of the few possessions she took good care of—she’d recently cleaned it with a leather-balm—it squeaked reassuringly as she settled it on her shoulders.

Grabbing her backpack and pulling her front door shut behind her, she felt her stomach rumble.
Hungry. But no time to eat. Nothing in my fridge anyway
. As she negotiated the long exterior flight of stairs down to her parking place.
After I show
my face at the office, I can sneak out to get a muffin-to-go at Sally’s
.

Susan Winslow stood in front of the washroom In the Environmental Planning Commission, inspecting her nose. The new hole in her left nostril was still surrounded by puffy redness, and she tried to decide how worried to be.

Pushing away her concern, she looked herself in the eye to rehearse the first version of her speech. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Samantha.”
No way. Polite never gets you anywhere
.

“It’s been thirteen months and three days, Samantha, and in view of the indispensable service I provide to you and the Environmental Planning Commission, I think it’s appropriate to request an adjustment to my salary.”
Oh, puh-leeze! No way can I pull off the logic act
.

Raising her voice a bit, Susan tried a third time. “What you pay me doesn’t come close to compensating me for all I do around here, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” Pleased with herself, she saw the left side of her mouth pull into a wicked smile before she exited the washroom, allowing the door to bang shut behind her.

“You’re not going to take what anymore, Susan?”

“Geez!”
When did
she
come in? And what is she doing at my desk?
“I… I’m,” Susan stammered, “not going to take your always stalking me, and scaring the … scaring me … anymore.”

Samantha looked at her, seeming unimpressed. “I thought it’d be nice to bring in some food for us.”

“You already got a message this morning.”

“Okay. But have something to eat while you tell me.”

“To eat? Food?”
She’s never brought in food to share before. What’s she up to now?

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m sometimes too rushed in the morning to eat breakfast. And they say it’s the most important meal. So I stopped at Sally’s and got a fresh egg sandwich on whole wheat toast to share. I also picked up what she calls her ‘fabulous gooey cinnamon sticky buns.’”

“They are, too.”

“Pardon?”

The delectable sugar-and-spice aroma of the buns lifted from the box Samantha now opened. Susan swallowed as saliva rushed into her mouth, and she did her best to suppress the enthusiasm she heard creeping into her own voice. “Sally’s cinnamon buns. They’re good.”

“So I hear.” Samantha used a napkin to lift one from the box. A moment later she was chewing, her eyelids fluttering closed in obvious pleasure.

Unable to resist another minute, Susan reached for the other cinnamon bun and sank her teeth into the soft dough, at which point she was unable to suppress the little moan that reverberated in her throat.

“You didn’t make coffee yet, did you?” Samantha asked between bites.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve had
time to—”

“Good,” Samantha interrupted. “Because I brought us each a cup to go.”

Samantha reached down toward the floor then produced a paper bag that rattled as she placed it on the desk. Lifting out paper cups, she pushed one toward Susan and carefully peeled
back the lid on the other. “There are packets of cream and sugar in the bag too, if you need them.”

As they finished their pastries in silence, Susan peered uneasily at her boss, and attempted to do the math. Things were adding up.
One, she brings me food. Two, she doesn’t get mad about what she overheard me say in the bathroom. Three, she’s being too damn polite. She must want something
.

“Susan, I want to talk with you about something.” Samantha held her cup. “How about if you put the sandwich in the fridge for later. Then do you mind coming into my office?”

I knew it! Here we go. Either I’m getting fired, or I’m getting scolded. All this buttering me up won’t work!
Without giving a reply, Susan pushed her chair back, picked up the sandwich and stomped off to the kitchen.

Sighing, Sam picked up her purse and briefcase, then went into her office and pulled her chair from behind her desk until it faced the guest chair. When Susan came in, Sam gestured toward it. “Have a seat.”

Putting her coffee on Sam’s desk, Susan said, “You know, Samantha, I can just stand here while you tell me whatever you have to tell me. Let’s just get it over with.”

Samantha Hugo studied the young woman in front of her.
Good Lord, that nosering looks infected. Now here she stands: her hip is thrust out farther than a runway model’s; her fists are clenched; and that lower lip just about to tremble. It’d be funny, if it weren’t so sad
. Awash in sudden compassion, Sam chose her words carefully. “It’s not like that. This has nothing to do with your job. This is something … personal. Personal to me—not to you. I … I have to tell you something in confidence.”

Apparently dumbfounded, Susan thumped down into the
chair. “Why?”

Sam inhaled, exhaled, and sat, bringing her eyes level with her assistant’s. “Honestly, I wish I didn’t have to. But I’m afraid if I don’t, you’ll hear about it some other way. I’ve sometimes asked you to trust
me
. Well, it’s time I learn to trust
you.”

Susan’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Hmph. That’s a twist.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“So what is this, a secret or something?”

“A secret …yes.” Tension began to pinch in Sam’s abdomen until it roiled through her viscera, a serpent trying to uncoil itself and having nowhere to go. She stood to stretch for a moment, taking a couple of deep breaths. Then she sat in her chair again and looked down at her hands. “Many years ago,” she began, “I … I did something awful.”

Susan gasped.

Glancing up sharply, Samantha was quick to add, “It wasn’t a crime or anything like that. I … I had a child, you see. And then gave him up for adoption.”

Susan let out a long breath as though she were deflating. “Sometimes I wish
my
parents had given me up for adoption. Then maybe they wouldn’t have … maybe my mother …. Anyway, why is that bad?”

Sam looked at this young woman she was still coming to know.
Her own childhood was so troubled, it’s probably no surprise she’d wish someone else had adopted her. I forget sometimes I’m more than old enough to be her mother. But let’s hope my own child was adopted by a better parent than I was
. “You’re right. It’s not always bad when someone gets adopted. At the time, I didn’t think I could handle raising a child on my
own. But I … I don’t know—may never know—whether or not I did the right thing.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Well, Susan is nothing if not blunt
. “The problem is that I’ve decided to look for my son. And I’m thinking of contacting an agency that looks for lost relations.”

“Lost? You mean, you don’t know who adopted him?”

“I have no idea. And the official adoption records were apparently destroyed in a fire.”

Susan’s eyes snapped up to Sam’s. “The letter you got the other day?”

Sam couldn’t help but smile at the lightning-speed of her assistant’s mind. “That’s right.”

“So? That’s the big secret?”

“Yes, Susan, that’s
one
big secret.”

Leaning forward, Susan demanded, “You mean, there’s more?”

Oh, brother. She may not have had much reaction to hearing I had a child. But wait’ll she hears who the father is
. “Yes, I’m sad to say there is. You know that my job is a political appointment, right?”

“Duh.”

Sam squinted at her assistant as though it might help her to refrain from further derogatory comments. “And you also know that people who have political ambitions would like nothing better than to push me out of my job?”

“Yeah, I guess. But it seems like the main person you always have trouble with is Jack Sawyer. And that’s not because he wants your job, it’s because he wants you to quit doing your job so he can get away with stuff.”

The smug expression on Susan’s face showed how certain she was that she’d figured it all out. Here they were, the two super-powers of Milford-Haven: the environmentalist on one side of Main Street and the builder-developer on the other.
Susan’s got all the ingredients in this small-town stew lined up except one. And here comes the hot chili powder
.

“You see, there’s more to my relationship with Jack than anyone realizes.”

Susan’s eyes widened. “You mean … you and Jack used to be … no way!”

“Way.” Sam waited for the next penny to drop.

“So that means … the baby you had was—”

‘Yes, he was Jack’s.”

“Way to rock the house, Samantha!”

“That wasn’t my intention, I assure you. And here’s the final piece of information. Because Jack and I divorced
before
the baby was born, he doesn’t
know
about him, and thus doesn’t know I gave him up for adoption.”

Susan sat back in her chair and rolled her eyes. After a moment she said, “Okay, lemme get this straight. Jack Sawyer used to be your husband. You got pregnant, but you got divorced so fast he didn’t know. Then you had the baby. Then you gave it up. Wow! I don’t even need to watch my soap opera anymore!”