July Appetizers

The
Midnight
Moon
by
Gerri Hill
2014
Copyright © 2014 by Gerri Hill
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
First Bella Books Edition 2014
Editor: Medora MacDougall
Cover Designer: Judith Fellows
ISBN: 978-1-59493-410-0
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet
or via any other means without the permission of the publisher
is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized
electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic
piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is
appreciated.
chapter One
Peyton Watts gave her assistant a puzzled look. “A vacation?
Alone? To a lesbian hot spot?” She shook her head. “Don’t be
ridiculous.”
“How long are you going to continue to sulk over her?”
“Sulk? I’m certainly not sulking. It’s been eight months
since…since—” She threw up her hands. “It was my best friend,
for God’s sake. Have I said that?”
“About a hundred times,” Susan murmured.
“She was sleeping with my best friend,” Peyton continued.
“Right under my nose. Did I tell you that?”
Susan gave her an amused smile. “A hundred times. And as I
said before, she wasn’t really your best friend.”
Peyton lowered her head to her desk and closed her eyes, still
able to see them in her bed; Alicia with a stunned expression on
her face and Vicky trying to lay the blame on her, as if she had
been the one in bed with her best friend. “Oh, God, I am still
sulking, aren’t I?” She opened her eyes to peek at Susan. “I kinda
miss her.”
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Gerri Hill
“Oh, Peyton, don’t. She was a conniving bitch. I never did
like her. I told you that from the very beginning.”
Peyton lifted her head and smiled. “No. I was talking about
Alicia, not Vicky.”
“Well, I did like Alicia, I guess, but I wasn’t around her all
that much. And you’ve got to stop thinking of her as your best
friend.”
“I know.” Peyton sat back in her chair and let out a heavy
sigh. “God, I hate women.”
“Well, you could always join my team,” Susan said with a
laugh. “I could have Michael set you up.”
“I don’t hate them that much.” She turned to her and smiled.
“So you think I need a vacation, huh?”
Susan nodded. “Yes. Tax season is over finally. I know you’re
exhausted.”
Peyton nodded. Yes, she was exhausted. January through
April was always hectic in an accounting firm. But this year she’d
had no reason to go home each evening and she’d put in nearly
obscene hours. She told herself it was her firm and she needed to
lead by example, but even she knew she’d taken it to the extreme.
It was the house. She should have sold it after Vicky moved out,
but it was in the hills of West Austin and close to her office. Even
though they’d lived together only five years—five years, three
months and a handful of days—Vicky had put her stamp on it.
Vicky had the green thumb and kept the flower beds filled with
seasonal plants. Vicky was a chef and the kitchen was stocked
with every cooking gadget imaginable. Vicky supplied them with
delicious meals and frequent dinner parties. That part, she did
miss.
Now she hired a landscaping crew to plant her flowers
and maintain the lawn. And meals? Oh, she cooked some. But
cooking for one was depressing. She usually grabbed something
on her way home or, less frequently, had dinner out with friends.
Those were the times she missed Alicia the most. They’d known
each other several years before Vicky had come into her life.
Still, they’d made time for dinner at least once a week. And even
though, deep down, she knew it was Vicky’s fault, she couldn’t
bring herself to forgive Alicia. They hadn’t spoken since the
The Midnight Moon
3
night she’d caught them in bed, although Alicia had reached out
to her—at least in the beginning. Now, eight months had passed
and she doubted they could ever get their friendship back. Vicky
had moved on too, already living with someone else, an attorney
who Peyton had once dated herself.
She shook her head slowly, hating her life at that moment.
She’d be thirty-five years old by the end of summer and her
personal life was as unsettled as it’d been in her twenties. She
looked at Susan and gave her a weak smile. Susan had been
working for her ever since Peyton bought the firm from Mr.
Neely, eight years now. She knew that Susan was an excellent
judge of character and she should have trusted her when it came
to Vicky. Susan had told her once she thought Vicky was devious.
That, of course, turned out to be true. And now that Vicky was
living with someone else, it was brought to her attention that
Vicky’s past lovers were all professional women, all with nice
homes and equally nice incomes. And Peyton had succumbed to
her charm as easily as the others apparently.
“So tell me about this beach vacation,” she prompted.
Susan reached for Peyton’s laptop. “It’s on Mustang Island.
Port Aransas,” she said as she pulled up a browser.
“How do you know about it? You’re not gay,” Peyton said.
“I heard about it from Jeannie.”
“Who’s Jeannie?”
“My cousin. She and a group of her friends went down there
in March.” She spun the laptop toward her, showing her a picture
of a brightly colored umbrella stabbed in the sand with two
women lying under it. “Right on the beach. It was an old threestory hotel that was closed. They renovated it, then added these
cute cabanas and put in two pools,” she said, bringing up another
picture. “One is clothing optional. I’m sure that’s the one you’ll
hang out at,” she said with a laugh.
“Right,” Peyton said dryly. The photos did look inviting,
though, as beautiful, tan women lounged around the pools. “And
it’s marketed to lesbians?”
“Yes. Jeannie said they had a great time there. I think you
should try it.”
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Gerri Hill
Peyton hesitated. “I’m not sure going there alone sounds all
that exciting,” she said. “There’s probably going to be no one there
other than couples.” She pointed to the advertisement. “Romantic
getaway. My getaway would be anything but romantic,” she said.
“I wasn’t suggesting this to you because it would be romantic.
I was thinking it’d be a great place for you to go and recharge and
get away from Austin for a week.”
But still she hesitated. While it looked fun and all of the
women in the pictures were smiling and happy, it wasn’t really
her kind of scene. She’d never been a beach lover and she had her
own pool at her house. It would seem to be a waste to go down to
Port Aransas just to sit by a pool. Of course, the cabanas looked
inviting and the palm trees made it all appear as if it was a tropical
paradise. She supposed sitting in the sun relaxing with a fruity
drink would be refreshing.
“Well?”
Peyton stared at the scene, trying to picture herself there.
“What the hell. I guess I do need to get away.”
CHAPTER TWO
Logan Weaver knocked twice on the office door before
opening it and peeking her head inside. Emma was on the
phone and waved her in with a nod and a smile. Logan went
to the window that overlooked the pool, her gaze traveling over
the handful of women who were either splashing in the water
or lounging in the sun. Sitting nearest the window on a chaise
lounge pulled away from the others was a pretty blonde, her eyes
covered by sunglasses but her deep red bikini offering a glimpse
of a tantalizing body.
“She came in this morning,” Emma said as she joined her at
the window. “She was very reserved. Not your type at all.”
“You told me I couldn’t hit on your guests,” Logan reminded
her.
“I did, didn’t I.” Emma came closer and pulled her into a hug.
“You’re early, sis. Where’s Jay and Drew?”
“They had a project come up,” she said. “They can’t make it.”
“That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing them again.”
She tossed her a set of keys. “But I guess that frees up the suite
then. I had someone ask about it yesterday.”
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Gerri Hill
Logan looked at the key, noting the number. It was the single
room she normally stayed in when she came alone. “That’s fine.
I may not stay the whole week anyway. Ted’s been complaining
about his lack of fishing days and threatening retirement again.”
Emma smiled. “And how is your father?”
“He’s good,” she said. “You talk to Mom lately?”
“Last week. She and Dad were heading to Florida for their
annual trip.” Emma eyed her. “You really should call her more
often.”
“I know. Time gets away, though. You were always the better
daughter,” she said.
“Stepdaughter,” Emma corrected.
Logan smiled affectionately at her, this woman who’d been in
her life for as long as she could remember. Logan was five when
her mother remarried and they moved in with Emma and Dave.
Emma’s own mother had died in an automobile accident a few
years earlier. Emma was only a year older and they’d fallen into a
fast friendship, one that had endured through the years, even in
high school when they both discovered they were gay…and both
wanted to hang out with Missy Graham, the cute tennis player.
Their adult lives took them different places, though. While
her mother and Dave were happily married, Logan’s father, Ted,
was quite the opposite. Taking over his father’s painting business
in Austin, he’d nearly run it into the ground. What with him
having no formal training and a lackadaisical work ethic, the
business was barely hanging on. Responsibility wasn’t in her
father’s vocabulary. She’d found he would rather take a day off
and head to the lake with a fishing pole and a cooler of beer
than finish painting projects. So after graduating with a degree
in marketing, Logan spurned the high-paying job that couldn’t
hold her interest and decided to “hang out” with her father for a
year or so to see if she could put her education to work.
That was seven years ago. The small business her grandfather
had started—painting houses—had thrived and developed into
one of the most respected professional painting firms in Austin.
Having secured contracts with several of the big builders in town,
she’d grown their business from three workers—herself, Ted and
Juan—to four teams. They now employed nearly thirty people,
The Midnight Moon
7
and even though she ran the business part of things, she still
enjoyed going out with a team from time to time and wielding a
paintbrush. She also still liked hanging out with her father at the
lake with a cooler of beer.
“Are you still contemplating a new position with Water’s
Edge?” Logan asked, referring to the company that owned the
Rainbow Island Resort.
“I don’t know. I love it here. It’s close to Mom and Dad. It’s
close to you,” Emma said. “I don’t really want to relocate.”
“I’d prefer you stay here too,” Logan said. “The perks for me
are great.”
Emma laughed. “Yes, you are quite spoiled, aren’t you? Your
mother seems to think I should take it, though.”
“Why?”
“Because it would be at the corporate level and more money,”
Emma said. “The last time I had dinner with them, she insinuated
I was wasting my skills by managing the resort.”
“Yeah. Just like I’m wasting mine by running a painting firm.
In her eyes, you’re only in a successful career if you’re at a desk
with a computer, in some damn cubicle.”
Emma laughed as her gaze went out to the pool. “Yeah. I
much prefer this cubicle.” She sat down behind her desk again.
“I’m fairly certain I’ll turn them down.” She paused. “I’ve met
someone.”
Logan grinned. “Really? That’s great. When do I get to meet
her?”
“We’ll have dinner one night this week. She lives in Corpus,”
Emma said. Her phone rang and she glanced at it. “I guess I
should get to work. Come by my place tonight. We’ll do an early
birthday for you. I’ll order seafood,” she offered as she picked up
the phone.
Logan nodded and waved goodbye, her gaze venturing out
the window and landing on an enticing pair of tan legs. She
decided to ignore Emma’s rule about her hitting on the guests.
This woman she just had to meet.
CHAPTER THREE
Peyton sipped her drink, a blue frozen concoction that was
sweet and refreshing. She sighed contentedly as she watched two
women frolicking in the pool. For the first time in months, she
was actually relaxing.
She’d even done what Susan had suggested—turn off her
phone. Well, not exactly. She couldn’t bring herself to actually
turn it off, but she did leave it in her room. There could be an
emergency, she reasoned. But really, she wasn’t worried about the
office. She employed two accountants and Susan. She trusted all
of them implicitly but especially Susan. She knew Susan would
keep things running smoothly in her absence. She planned to
check in with them occasionally, that was all. Other than that,
she would try her best to put the office from her mind. She was
here to relax and recharge, as Susan had said. She intended to do
just that.
“You’re going to burn if you’re not careful.”
Peyton had been so lost in thought she hadn’t heard the
woman approach. She turned her head, finding an attractive
The Midnight Moon
9
young woman watching her with a lazy smile. She held up a
bottle of lotion.
“Sunscreen,” the woman said. “I highly recommend this
brand.” Another smile. “And I’ll even volunteer my services if you
can’t reach everything. You know, your back, for instance.”
While being shocked by the woman’s boldness, Peyton smiled
nonetheless. It had been far too many years since someone this
young and attractive had flirted with her. Even so, she wasn’t
really tempted to play along.
“I’m fine. Thank you, though,” she said politely. She turned
away, hoping the woman would leave.
“I know it’s not quite June yet, but you can’t be too careful.
I’m Logan, by the way.”
Peyton turned back to her, trying to estimate her age. Late
twenties, she guessed. She had an infectious smile and a hairstyle
that was just short and messy enough to leave you wanting to
brush it away from her face. She was glad her sunglasses hid her
expression; she was shocked by her thoughts.
“Peyton,” she said.
To her surprise, the woman pulled a lounge chair close and
plopped down, still holding the lotion. Peyton noted that the
woman was wearing shorts and a T-shirt and wondered if there
was a swimsuit on beneath her clothes. Everyone else in the pool
area was dressed appropriately.
“Peyton. I like it. Are you here for the week?”
Peyton blew out her breath. “While I’m flattered by your
attention, I’m really not interested,” she said bluntly, hoping the
woman would get the hint.
But the woman tilted her head, looking bemused. “Interested
in what? The lotion?”
Now feeling completely embarrassed, she turned away. Great.
She couldn’t even discern flirting from normal conversation. She
really needed to get out more.
“So? The week?” The woman—Logan—asked again. “I’m
supposed to be here until Saturday,” she volunteered.
Peyton wondered how rude it would be if she simply told
the woman to leave, that she wanted to be alone. She shoved her
sunglasses on top of her head, intending to do just that. But one
10
Gerri Hill
look into eyes that were too light to be considered brown, too
dark to be considered hazel simply stole her breath away. In fact,
she couldn’t even remember what she’d been about to say. The
words that fell out certainly weren’t it.
“How old are you?”
Logan laughed. “For future reference, that’s not a great
opening line.”
Peyton dropped her sunglasses back over her eyes, hoping to
hide her embarrassment. “Forget I asked,” she mumbled.
“It’s okay. I actually have a birthday this week. Thirty.”
“Oh? You said that pretty easily. Most women cringe at the
thought of turning thirty and try to hold on to twenty-nine as
long as possible.”
“No, I’m good. Age doesn’t mean anything really. It’s just a
number,” she said easily. “I’m comfortable with who I am and
where I am in life.” She tilted her head again. “I’m going to guess
you’re…oh, I don’t know…forty.”
Peyton actually gasped. “Forty? Forty?” God, did she look
forty?
Logan laughed. “Just kidding. I see age does mean something
to you.”
Peyton smiled, playing along with her. “Yes. And for future
reference, that’s not a great opening line.” She lightly cleared her
throat, feeling the need to share her age for fear Logan really did
think she was forty. “I’m thirty-four. Birthday in about a month.”
“Well, when you and I celebrate my birthday later this week,
we’ll include a toast for you too.”
Peyton raised her eyebrows. “You think we’ll celebrate
together? Are you always this forward?”
“Only with women whose legs look like yours.”
Peyton blushed freely now, feeling a bit out of her element.
Such unabashed attention—she was not used to it. She was trying
to think of a polite way to ask the woman to leave her in peace
when someone called Logan’s name.
It was Emma, the woman who had checked her in earlier.
Logan turned to Peyton, giving her an apologetic smile.
“I guess my room’s ready. Enjoy your sunning.” Logan gave
her a cute smile and gently slipped the lotion between her thighs.
The Midnight Moon
11
Peyton was shocked by the thrill she got from such a simple, yet
brazen act. “I’ll see you later,” Logan said with a wink.
Peyton watched her walk away, tall and confident, and was
stunned to realize her eyes were glued to not only a pair of
long legs but a very nice butt. She pulled her gaze away, quickly
snatching up her drink and sucking a generous amount through
the straw.
Yes, she really needed to get out more.
From the author of the '"impossible to put down''
Growing Up Delicious!
KEEPSAKE
SELF
STORAGE
MARIANNE BANKS
KEEPSAKE
SELF
STORAGE
MARIANNE BANKS
~
I?sJ~
2014
Copyright © 2014 by Marianne Banks
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
First Bella Books Edition 2014
Editor: Katherine V. Forrest
Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles
ISBN: 978-1-59493-395-0
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet
or via any other means without the permission of the publisher
is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized
electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic
piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is
appreciated.
Chapter one
May Hammond stood on the dike overlooking the
Connecticut River and wondered what was floating in the
water. It was caught in a tree beached on the shore a few months
back during a particularly violent thunderstorm. It couldn’t be a
body could it? Too bad she hadn’t brought her binoculars. She
wondered if she could make it down there. The grade was kind
of steep. Maybe she should call the police but she didn’t want
to be accused of being a hysterical old lady thinking she’d seen
a body when it might turn out to be nothing more than a trash
bag full of clothes.
Darn it all but she just didn’t trust herself anymore. On her
last birthday she’d turned eighty-three and generally felt fine.
Her eyes were as blue as they’d ever been but now seemed to
require glasses for everything, not just reading. Thankfully her
hair was still thick though as white as dandelion fuzz. It was her
knees that caused the greatest trouble, they just weren’t what
they used to be. The last thing she needed was to fall in the
river. She had plans later with Avola and she had a few things
2
Marianne Banks
to do around the house before that. In her younger days she
wouldn’t have hesitated. Things were different at this stage.
She’d just go home and call the authorities, have breakfast, and
let them handle it.
***
May could see from the dishes in the sink that her son,
Earl, had had cereal for breakfast, Raisin Bran from the look of
the crumbs on the counter. She popped a sugary raisin in her
mouth. Would it ever be possible to get him to put his breakfast
things in the dishwasher?
Just as she put the kettle on to boil she noticed the flash of
a car pulling into the driveway. Gosh darn it. Now who could
be here? She squinted through the crack in the kitchen curtains.
It looked like Vera Henderson. What the gracious would bring
Vera by on a Friday morning? Vera always cleaned her house on
Fridays, no matter what. That kind of cleanliness tired May out.
Not that she didn’t appreciate a well-kept home but Vera took it
a step, well a lot of steps, too far. Any woman who stripped and
waxed her kitchen floor every week didn’t have imagination for
the more enjoyable aspects of life.
“What brings you out so early?” May asked, opening her
kitchen door just as Vera raised her hand to knock.
Vera burst into tears.
After finding the Kleenex and helping Vera out of her
overcoat, which was too warm for the weather, and getting
her aspirin and pouring them both a cup of tea and then
remembering Vera needed cream and sugar, after all that Vera
said, “My Hoover gave up the ghost.”
Vera’s Hoover was a relic from the 1950s when Vera was
raising her eight children. Vera’s husband, Chester, was a devout
Catholic who believed in habitual fornication without benefit of
prophylactics.
“Do you think it can be fixed?” May asked, thinking it
unlikely, as there weren’t repairmen around anymore, let alone
someone old enough to have ever seen a Hoover Canister with
a roar like a cornered bear.
Keepsake Self Storage
3
“Oh, May, I don’t know. I plugged it in like usual and turned
it on and it was working as good as ever. All of a sudden I smelled
something burning. You know that electrical smell? I figured
I vacuumed up some panty hose or something when the wall
outlet exploded.” Vera took a shuddering breath. “Next thing I
knew, my drapes had caught fire. I ran to the phone and dialed
911 but you know that old rotary phone I have? It’s been acting
funny lately and it cut out on me after the 91. I had to dial three
times before I could get the 911 out.”
May realized she should have made a pot of tea. Usually one
cup was enough but she had a feeling that wasn’t going to be
the case today.
“By the time I made the lady on the phone understand my
draperies were gone and the fire was working on that rag rug
I made out of Chester’s old tweed suits, she told me to get out
of the house. I just had time to grab my coat, purse and bag of
crocheting.”
So much for keeping a clean house, May thought. “How
extensive is the damage?”
“Lots of smoke and water damage but the firemen were able
to keep it all from going up in flames. I’ll call my insurance
company after nine o’clock; I don’t imagine they’re open before
then.”
“This is terrible news. Would you like some cinnamon toast,
Vera? You need fortification.”
“Thank you, May. But, what I really need is a place to stay.
Could I use your guest room?”
***
Auction day at Keepsake Self Storage always brought out
the weirdos. Fortunately Earl Hammond didn’t mind weirdos.
Good thing too because there was a bunch of them milling
around the auctioneer, Bill Owens, like chickens pecking for
grubs.
“Pursuant to Massachusetts General Law, Chapter 105A,
Section 3…”
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Marianne Banks
Earl slurped his coffee and listened to the auctioneer drone
on. Bill was a stickler for doing things by the book. Even if
everybody there had been to an auction before.
“…Unit number three-thirteen…”
Earl stepped forward and used his master key. He opened
the door and stepped back so the prospective buyers could see
what was visible. It was against the law to open any boxes or
containers but nothing prevented them from shining highpowered flashlights over the contents.
“I see an air-conditioner and some pretty nice cedar boards.
A ten-speed bike and a pair of hip boots,” Bill intoned, craning
his neck. Before Bill became an auctioneer he had been a
regular, bidding at auctions when a unit’s contents looked
promising. He’d told Earl that he made more than a little bit
of money selling the crap he picked up at auctions all around
western Massachusetts, to say nothing of the money to be made
in scrap metal. Earl wasn’t sure he believed him. If there was so
much money in buying delinquent units why did he become an
auctioneer. Earl suspected Bill was one of those big talkers. The
type who always got the best deal, ate the biggest steak, screwed
the most gorgeous woman.
“Bidding to start at fifty dollars…”
Earl’s mind drifted. As manager of the Keepsake he’d been
to many of these. There was an auction every three or four
months. Sometimes it was the only way to get people to pay.
He felt sorry for some folks and tried to keep them off the list
but his boss was a real bitch. Underneath her nice little old lady
exterior was an A-Number-One Capitalist. Her favorite saying
was, “I pay my bills and they can damn well pay theirs.” Then
she’d drive away in her old Caddie, country-western music
blaring out of her CD player and cigarette smoke billowing
behind her.
So, Earl did as he was told because he didn’t want to lose his
job. It wasn’t that he liked the job so much but he didn’t hate
it either. Besides, everybody knew looking for a job was a real
headache. It’s not like there was a perfect job anywhere on the
planet.
Keepsake Self Storage
5
Earl had to admit he was a bit bored. There was only one
interesting thing about his life and it wasn’t his job and it wasn’t
his home. Sometimes that one thing wasn’t enough to keep him
interested and he found himself adrift from one end of the day to
the other. He wondered how this had happened. It seemed like,
last he remembered he was eighteen and ready for adventure
and the next thing he knew he’d woken up this morning in a bed
with sheets that needed changing and he was forty-seven. What
happened to all that time in-between? Where had he been while
it was passing?
Whew, the dairy farm up the road was really stinking this
morning. They must be cleaning the barn or spreading manure.
Some days cow shit was all you could smell though this odor
seemed to have a little extra rank in it, kind of like when you got
a whiff of road kill as you drove by.
“Sold to Mr. Walker for two hundred and fifteen dollars.”
Bill flipped to the next page on his clipboard. “Let’s proceed to
unit two-ten.”
Earl led the way, squinting into the morning sun. He’d
better adjust the timer for the security lights since it was only
a couple weeks or so until the clocks turned back to Standard
Time.
Time was another thing. It always bit you in the ass. Even if
it was on your side for a while, it wouldn’t stay that way forever.
Like when he was in high school. He’d had no trouble staying in
shape. He could eat whatever he’d wanted and his Levis always
fit right. Now? Shit. Now, he had to take Lipitor for his high
cholesterol and stay away from cheeseburgers and fries.
In a way, his father was lucky he died so young. Before some
doctor told him to give up this and give up that. Pop just went out
and got hit by a Hampshire County Transit bus one Wednesday
morning after his standard breakfast from Harold’s Diner. Earl
thought of Pop’s Breakfast as The Heart Attack Special. Three
pieces of bacon, three sausages, three eggs fried hard because
that was how he had liked them, white toast burned black and a
quart of coffee with cream. Pop thought oatmeal was for sissies.
What would his father think of Earl’s Breakfast Special, Raisin
6
Marianne Banks
Bran? On Sundays, his one day off, he allowed himself a trip to
Harold’s and had Pop’s breakfast and read the Sunday Republican
except Harold fried his eggs over easy.
Sometimes he felt hopeless and he didn’t like admitting
that especially because you never knew if You-Know-Who was
around. Whether she was around or not she always seemed
to know what he was thinking. She’d say something like
hopelessness wasn’t a worthwhile emotion for human beings.
Not very comforting. Next time they got together he would
try to explain that he was having difficulty realizing that he was
going to die, if not from a stroke or heart attack then surely
from this dissatisfaction rumbling around inside him. He’d
made a vow to have a heart-to-heart chat with You-Know-Who
next time he saw her and see if she could offer any words of
wisdom. He knew she had the power.
“Ahem?” Bill cleared his throat. Earl realized he had
completely zoned out and he and everybody else were standing
in front of unit two-ten. Whew. Something smelled to high
heaven, definitely different than Mr. O’Brien’s dairy. Jesus, it
was enough to gag a maggot.
He unlocked and pulled up the door. The stench washed out
of the unit like a tsunami. Earl fought the impulse to gag.
“What’s that stink?” Bill asked no one in particular as he
shined his high-powered flashlight over the contents of the
storage unit. Nobody offered a guess though everybody did step
back three paces.
That’s when Earl noticed the shoes: cordovan wingtips, sole
side out, toes pointing up with two legs coming out of them and
disappearing under a twin mattress that had a bookcase and a
box of Encyclopedia Britannicas leaning against it. The hairs on
the back of Earl’s neck stood up. He’d had a feeling when he got
up that today was going to suck. No shampoo, his two percent
curdled over his Raisin Bran and Dunkin’ Donuts was out of
cinnamon rolls, his special treat on auction days. And now this.
Suspicious feet.
“Uh, Bill. Let’s skip this one.” Earl lowered the door.
“What do you mean skip it? Look at that nice Naugahyde
recliner,” some asshole with a goatee said.
Keepsake Self Storage
7
“Yeah. I don’t think you can stop one of these once they get
started,” another asshole said, waving the stem of his pipe at
Earl.
“Bill?” Earl locked the door. “We’ll do this one next time
around, huh?”
Earl and Bill exchanged a look.
“Certainly. By all means. Well, that was our final unit.
Anyone who has purchased the contents of a unit must remand
payment to me in cash and clear out said unit by the close of
business today…”
Earl walked back toward the office. If he remembered
correctly, unit two-ten was owned by a Vietnam War vet who
got behind on his payments during a hospitalization at the VA
in Leeds. Earl had let him ride for months figuring the guy
deserved a break. But, his boss had found out and pitched a hissy
fit. Now, what was two-ten’s name? Bob? No. Brad. That was it.
Brad Nelson.
***
“Al-lo?” Avola had set down her hammer and upholstery
tacks and answered the phone on the third ring.
“Hi, honey, it’s me.” May’s voice crackled through the phone
line.
“Oh, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you might be Mr.
Alberti calling to see if his ugly recliner is ready. What explains
a man’s fascination with plaid?”
“I wonder if they like the dependability of a geometric
design…” May’s voice trailed off.
“It is hard to ascertain and though I was married to Louie
Mr. Big-Boy-Liquors LeFebre more years than I care to admit I
still do not understand men. He, too, was very fond of the plaid
sport shirt so perhaps you speak the truth,” Avola said.
“Frank was, too. Listen, honey, the reason I’m calling is to
tell you that I have an unexpected houseguest.”
“Yes? Who?”
“You remember my friend, Vera…we’ve known each other
since school.”
8
Marianne Banks
“Yes, I remember.”
“Well, her house…she started a fire with her Hoover…”
“The vacuum?”
“Yes and what with the smoke and water damage she can’t
stay there until the contractor gets things fixed up,” May said.
“So, she is staying with you, eh?” Avola thought Vera was
a ditzy woman, reminding her very much of her sister Mary
Christina, a woman who cared for appearances more than
substance. They had never gotten along even as children.
Avola’s marriage to and then divorce from Mr. Big-Boy hadn’t
improved their relationship. Mary Christina was a nun and
disapproved of divorce.
“Does she not have half a dozen children?” Avola turned on
the coffeemaker she kept in the corner of her workshop.
“Yes, but only two of them live locally and she’s fighting
with those. What could I say? No to a woman who’s lost the use
of her home and her Hoover in the same morning?”
“My dear May, you could not say no to Attila the Hun if
he asked you for help.” Avola wasn’t sure why she was being
so uncharitable toward the unfortunate Vera. Perhaps it was
nothing more than feeling ornery because she couldn’t get the
box pleat on Mr. Alberti’s chair to hang correctly.
“I don’t know why you’re upset, Avi…I—”
“Upset! I am not—”
“Well, you sure sound upset. I don’t know why I even called
to tell you…”
“If you do not wish to speak to me then I will go back to this
plaid monstrosity.”
“It’s not that I don’t—”
Avola hung up. Not nice but she was afraid of what she
might say. It was easier to apologize for hanging up than to say
the wrong thing and have the words take on form and mass
and become something no one could forget. Avola knew it was
unreasonable to be jealous of Vera but jealousy did not seem
ruled by the intellect. It grew like a dandelion, anywhere it
could get a foothold. She knew she should call May back and
she would, later, after she remedied Mr. Alberti’s box pleat.
Chapter Two
When he noticed a cruiser out in the parking lot, Earl
opened the security gate. They must be here about unit two-ten.
He ambled out to meet the cop, who rolled down his window
but made no attempt to get himself out of the cruiser.
“Are you the individual who called about a unit having a
peculiar smell?” The cop looked like he was about fourteen,
though everybody looked fourteen to Earl since his fortyseventh birthday. The poor guy also had a wicked rash on the
underside of his chin.
“Yes. I’m Earl Hammond.”
“I’m Officer Deats. What’s the trouble?”
“We had an auction this morning and when we unlocked
unit two-ten there was a horrible smell and a pair of wingtips
that seemed to be facing the wrong way. It looked to me like
someone is dead in there.”
Officer Deats unfolded himself from the cruiser.
“You related to a May Hammond over on East Street?”
Earl wondered what that had to do anything.
10
Marianne Banks
“Yes. She’s my mother. Why? Is something wrong?”
“She called in a report of something floating in the river
this morning. She wondered if it was a body or something.”
Officer Deats chuckled. “Turned out to be nothing more than a
scarecrow got loose from somebody’s garden.”
Jesus, what were the chances. Some days it was hell living in
a small town.
“My mother takes a walk almost every morning down by the
river. But this isn’t any scarecrow. Let me show you. It’s kind of
hard to explain.”
Their feet crunched in unison on the gravel driveway. Earl
unlocked two-ten and rolled open the door. The smell was more
cloying than before.
“Hmmm. Whew, I see what you mean about the odor. Those
must be the wingtips.” Officer Deats removed his mirrored
sunglasses.
“Yup.”
“Wait here. I’m going to move these things out of the way.”
Earl watched as Officer Deats pushed aside the box of
encyclopedias and moved the bookcase. At that point the
mattress slid down the wall revealing Brad Nelson, or what
was left of him, reclining on an unrolled sleeping bag. His head
rested on a sack of potting soil and he wore a T-shirt with a
faded The Few, The Proud, The Marines across the chest. A
pair of plaid shorts and the wingtips completed his outfit. There
was an empty Jack Daniels bottle leaning against Brad’s deflated
thigh. The smell amplified. Earl wondered if he was going to
puke.
He had never seen a dead body before. Well, take that back.
He’d been to wakes and funerals and done the obligatory looksee into an open casket. All the deceased had been tidied up.
Even Pop looked neat though a bit swollen. But Brad Nelson,
the poor bastard, hadn’t been tidied up. This was one of those
things that a person could go their whole life without seeing
and not be the worse for it. Well, at least he’d have something
to report at dinner tonight when Mother asked him how his
day went. Usually he had nothing to say. His mother had more
going on than he did.
Keepsake Self Storage
11
“You have an idea who this is, Mr. Hammond?”
“I think it’s Brad Nelson, though it’s hard to say with his face
like that. He’s the guy who rented the unit.”
“I’m going to call this in.” Officer Deats slid his shades back
in place.
“I’ll be in the office, if you don’t mind, looking up his
paperwork,” Earl said to the twin reflections of himself in
Officer Deats’s sunglasses. He lowered the door and slid the
lock into place giving the key to the officer.
Earl glanced at the security monitor and watched Officer
Deats block off the access road around unit two-ten with yellow
crime scene tape. He wondered if Officer Deats thought the
death was foul play and that he’d done it. Thanks to the Law &
Order reruns on cable, he knew the person who finds the body
is the person the cops always suspect first. Thankfully he had
no motive. He didn’t really know Brad except to harass him on
the phone whenever Brad got behind with his payments or say
hello to him when he came by to access his unit and sometimes
stopped in the office to pass the time of day. Sure, they got
high a couple times behind the 700 building. But that was on a
Saturday after closing time. And as for means, well, that would
be the Jack Daniels, wouldn’t it? Earl didn’t drink Jack Daniels.
Not since high school when he and his friend Jerry stole a quart
from the package store and drank it one Sunday afternoon at
Jerry’s place when his folks were out of town. Nothing like
puking your guts up to cure the whiskey habit.
The problem was pretty obvious even if you’d never seen
an episode of Law & Order. It had to be murder. If that poor
bastard Brad got so drunk he passed out, then who could have
closed the door and locked it? The units weren’t airtight. Brad
couldn’t have suffocated. So why didn’t he come to and start
yelling? Nope, it seemed pretty obvious that Brad was probably
already dead when whoever it was closed the door and locked
the padlock.
Who’d want to kill Brad Nelson?
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Marianne Banks
***
Vera Henderson was dismayed at the condition of May’s
guest room. There were dead flies on the windowsills. How
would she ever be able to close her eyes, much less sleep, in
a room with dead flies on the windowsills? She hung her
overcoat in the closet, which was empty except for a few boxes
of Christmas decorations and some wire hangers.
Thank goodness she’d had the presence of mind to take her
coat when the fire broke out. If it hadn’t been by the door to
take to the drycleaners it would’ve been ruined. Vera sank down
on the bed to catch her breath. Goodness, she was going a mile
a minute.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” Vera called.
May opened the door. “Here are some towels and a
nightgown and robe I thought you might need,” she said, laying
them on the foot of the bed.
“Thank you, May. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
Vera’s lip quivered. It really was too much to think of the house
she’d lived in with Chester, where they raised their children,
almost burnt to nothing.
“Is there anything else I can get for you?” May asked.
“No. I don’t think so. I went to Target and got some
underclothes and a couple housedresses to tide me over until I
can get up to Wilson’s in Greenfield.”
“Well, you get settled. I’m going to go and start supper.”
May started to close the door.
“Wouldn’t you like some help?”
“Now, Vera, I can manage peeling a few potatoes. And pork
chops practically cook themselves. You settle in and relax.” The
door closed.
Vera nodded and dabbed her eyes with the handkerchief
she’d found in the bottom of her handbag. She inhaled the
lavender aroma and felt a little better. Where in the world
would she find lavender sachets? She just couldn’t abide bureau
drawers without lavender sachets. It was a safe bet that May’s
Keepsake Self Storage
13
guest room bureau had no sachets and was probably unlined as
well.
Poor May just wasn’t a housekeeper. She was forever reading
to patients at the nursing home or gardening or volunteering at
the library or taking Tai Chi at the senior center. Just last winter
May had taken a cooking class from an Indian woman from
India and made something green and runny for Vera to try. May
swore up and down that it was spinach but Vera preferred her
vegetables recognizable. How May could do all that gallivanting
and have dead flies on the windowsills, unlined bureau drawers
and those awful wire hangers in the closet was beyond Vera.
***
May made a beeline for the Jim Beam she kept in the pantry.
She filled an old-fashioned glass with ice, a jigger of whiskey
and topped it off with some ginger ale. She felt the carbonated
bubbles popping against her upper lip as she took a healthy sip.
Well, it was more than a sip.
“Give me strength,” May mumbled.
She spent the afternoon all discombobulated thanks to her
awful conversation with Avola. That feeling hadn’t faded despite
Avi having eventually called her back to apologize or rather her
version of an apology which felt more like an excuse. May had
learned years ago that Avola was jealous. That’s why she had
wanted to tell her about Vera so her appearance wouldn’t be so
surprising when Avola came over to pick May up for their lunch
date earlier today.
Lunch had been strained, May felt hurt and Avi seemed
distracted. She swore up and down that it was a bothersome
upholstery job but May didn’t believe it. It was awful when the
two of them weren’t getting along. At times like this she tried
to remember their train trip to Montreal about twenty years
ago. They’d gone to a lesbian bar. It was down some alley off
a street May could no longer remember the name of, in the
basement of a hair salon owned by the sister of the bartender.
14
Marianne Banks
The ceiling was low; the place was filled with cigarette and
cigar smoke. They drank and danced to some foreign-sounding
music that seemed as smoky and dark as the bar. May didn’t
speak French and though she had no idea what was going on
she never felt unsettled.
Avola had looked handsome in her navy blue doublebreasted suit. Her white shirt gleamed and her red silk tie had
small gold hourglasses scattered across it. Avola’s dark hair was
slicked back, her eyes glistening with excitement and the red
wine they were drinking. She’d sewn May a dark green dress
with a scooped neckline cut so low May knew she should’ve
been embarrassed but instead felt like dessert—a wicked, highcalorie concoction that you’d never make for yourself but would
order at a fancy restaurant.
There were other women there dressed as they were. Some
were kissing and groping each other in the booths that lined the
dance floor. May was too shy to do that but it was wonderful to
dance, pressing their breasts and bellies together, turning her
insides to liquid. They had barely made it back to their hotel
room where they spent the next two days quenching their pentup desire. Avi still had that power over her. That’s why it was
almost funny for Avi to feel jealous of Vera. But May knew Avola
could never tolerate her making light of it.
And if today’s argument wasn’t bad enough she could feel
Vera’s disapproval coming at her like a thunderstorm. May wasn’t
able to call her on it. After all, her house had just burned and
couldn’t be lived in. Vera had to be upset, had to be wondering
what she was going to do next.
Better start the potatoes. May was partial to potatoes. Baked,
boiled, fried or mashed. White or sweet, Yukon gold, russets,
red or the all-purpose. Since she’d learned she had too much
potassium in her blood she’d had to cut back. Now it was rice
on the plate twice a week and pasta, as Earl referred to anything
noodley, twice a week. Consequently, May really went to town
on her potato days. Strictly speaking this was not a potato day
but a whiskey and soda could only do so much. Sometimes
mashed potatoes were required. No doubt Vera would benefit
Keepsake Self Storage
15
from some as well. Earl would too. He’d had an auction this
morning which usually made him cranky as all get-out.
May had known Vera for decades but had never cooked for
her besides that shrimp saagwala she’d made as an experiment.
They’d always gone out for dinner and Vera always had broiled
scrod with baked potato and pickled beets. Well, she’d make
mashed with lots of butter and sour cream and some fresh
picked chives from the garden.
Once the potatoes were on to boil, she sliced some onion and
garlic and started browning it in the cast-iron fry pan that had
been her grandmother’s. Now, there was a woman who could
cook. Her specialty was making something out of nothing. What
Gramma could do with salt pork and cabbage was some kind of
miracle. Good thing too. Otherwise they would have starved.
The smell of frying onions filled the kitchen. May finished her
whiskey and ginger.
“Hey, Ma. Whose car is parked in the driveway?” Earl
slammed through the kitchen door. “Boy, something smells
good.”
“How was your day, Sonny?”
“Shitty. You’re not going to believe it when I tell you.” Earl
opened the fridge and looked inside.
“Have a drink with me. I just had a highball and I’m going
to have a second.” May unwrapped the pork chops, rinsed and
dried them and sprinkled them with salt, pepper and a bit of
paprika. She pushed the onions to the side and put the chops in
the fry pan.
“Two highballs? Something go wrong at bingo today?” Earl
chuckled to himself.
“Don’t be a wise guy, Earl. I’m in no mood.”
“Sorry, Ma. I couldn’t resist. I’ll make the drinks.”
The sounds of ice cubes cracking almost drowned out the
sizzling pork fat. Earl offered his mother her drink, his eyes
glowing so she knew he had big news or good gossip. They
clinked glasses and said “Nostrovia.”
May turned the pork chops. Good, nice and brown. “Sonny,
will you get me a can of cream of mushroom soup from the
pantry?” She poured the soup over the chops and added a half
16
Marianne Banks
can of skim milk, covered everything with foil and put the pan
in the oven.
“So, Ma, you’ll never guess who we almost sold at today’s
auction.” Earl drained his glass and set about making another.
“Who or what?”
“Who.” Earl told her about Brad Nelson.
“Oh, that poor boy.” May poked a simmering potato. Done.
“Sonny? Drain these for me, would you?”
“Sure, Ma. But he wasn’t a boy. He was a poor middle-aged
bastard who lived at the VA and drank too much.”
“Earl, if some stranger was standing in this kitchen with us
they’d be thinking you and I drank too much. Maybe Brad just
had a bad day. Make sure you get all of the water out. I don’t
want soggy potatoes.”
“Brad had a lot of bad days, Ma. Not that I saw that much of
him. But, when I did he was usually drinking something out of
a brown paper bag.”
“Thanks, Sonny.” May began mashing, threw in a half stick
of butter, a dollop of sour cream and a drizzle of milk. Salt and
pepper. She took a taste. Perfect. Put the cover back on the pot
and slid it into the oven to keep warm along with the chops.
“How about peas?”
“Okay with me.”
May peeked under the tin foil. The pork chops were
bubbling. She took the bag of peas from the freezer and
sprinkled them around the chops, gave everything a stir and
put the foil back on.
“You had a bad day too?” Earl sucked on an ice cube.
“In a word, yes. My morning constitutional was disturbed
when I thought I saw something I couldn’t identify floating in
the river.”
“Yeah, the cop who came by about Brad mentioned it.”
“The worst part is…” May couldn’t tell him about Avola.
He knew they were friends but nothing more about their
relationship. May wanted to keep it that way.
“Vera Henderson will be staying in the guest room for a
while. She had a fire.” May took her drink to the table and sat
down.
Keepsake Self Storage
17
Earl made a face. It was a mystery whether it was because
of the fire or because Vera would be upstairs at the other end
of the hall from his room. She surmised it had to do with their
houseguest and decided she didn’t want to think about it just
then. He would just have to get a grip and adapt. It wasn’t like
she was thrilled with Vera’s presence either.
***
Earl took the trash from under the kitchen sink and scraped
the pork chop bones and hard nuggets of mashed potatoes into
the bag. He rinsed the plates and put them in the dishwasher
along with the glasses and utensils and anything else he could
cram in. Except for the cast-iron fry pan which Mother protected
with her life. After filling the soap dispenser he pushed the start
button and listened with satisfaction as it wheezed to life.
“Anything else to go out to the trash?” he yelled in the
vicinity of the living room where Ma and Vera sat watching the
local news. Next was the national news, Wheel of Fortune and
Jeopardy. No answer. Sometimes he was convinced that Mother
was as deaf as a stone and then she’d hear some comment he
made under his breath. Her mission in life seemed to be always
to keep him guessing.
Trash taking was an opportunity for smoking. Mother
forbade smoking in the house and since she didn’t forbid much
Earl thought it respectful to honor her wishes. Thankfully
she wasn’t a prude about alcohol. In fact, if tonight were any
indication, there’d be a lot of highball drinking going on while
Vera was staying with them.
Vera was one of those old ladies Earl didn’t like. Picky and
opinionated but never saying anything directly, forcing a person
to guess what they wanted. Since Earl worked six days a week, he
wouldn’t have to put up with her much. Though having her just
down the hall meant he’d have to turn down his music and not
walk naked from the bedroom to the bath. Mother had already
lectured him on the condition of the bathroom, returning the
toilet seat to the down position being the most important detail.
Apparently Vera might die if she saw a dribble of urine.
18
Marianne Banks
Earl dropped the trash bag into one of the barrels that
stood shoulder to shoulder along the side of the garage. Good
thing tomorrow was trash day. After his cigarette he’d drag the
barrels out to the curb and hope some dog didn’t get into them
overnight.
He lit his butt and wandered out behind the garage to smoke.
There was that old pile of bricks he got from one of the storage
units when the guy who rented it died and the family came to
take the stuff out. He’d brought them home figuring to make
a brick patio or walkway through one of Mother’s flowerbeds.
That was three years ago and he hadn’t got to it yet. Oh well,
it probably didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. Who
knows, maybe he’d get to it now that watching a game wouldn’t
be as enjoyable with Vera hanging around. Especially since
Mother was often gone visiting one of her old lady friends.
The sky was pretty tonight. He wondered when he’d see
You-Know-Who again. There was no rhyme or reason to her
appearances. He came out here every night as a signal that it was
okay to approach. But her visits seemed timed to some cosmic
schedule he had no knowledge of. Earl crushed his butt into the
ground and dropped the filter into a coffee can he kept just for
that purpose.
Guess tonight wasn’t going to be the night. Better get to
those trash barrels. He didn’t want to get up any earlier in the
morning than he had to.
TAKErm~;p
PICTUJtES
Laina Villeneuve
~
Bella
BOOKS
2014
Copyright © 2014 by Laina Villeneuve
Bella Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 10543
Tallahassee, FL 32302
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in
writing from the publisher.
Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
First Bella Books Edition 2014
Editor: Cath Walker
Cover Designer: L. Callaghan
ISBN: 978-1-59493-414-8
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet
or via any other means without the permission of the publisher
is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized
electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic
piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is
appreciated.
Chapter One
Kristine felt her father stop in the doorway, but she kept her
back to him and continued piling clothes into her duffels. She
counted out her underwear, hoping to make him uncomfortable
enough to leave. Her subtle gesture did nothing to throw him
off.
“You planning on staying there the whole summer, or do
you even have a plan?” Cliff Owens demanded, no amusement
in his deep voice.
She faced him squarely. Even in socked feet, his frame filled
her doorway, a technique which once cowed her into seeing
things his way. Though she’d physically grown to almost match
his six-foot stature, he still treated her like a teenager.
“There are two ways off a horse, you know.”
“When it’s their idea, and when it’s yours,” she recited,
knowing that in his eyes, she was letting her little brother
control her life. He hadn’t approved of or understood why she
returned from her summer job years before. She had failed his
expectation to get back on the horse when the next season rolled
2
Laina Villeneuve
around and she refused to go back. Trying to acknowledge his
concern, she said, “This is my idea.”
“Gabe’ll get over his heartbreak like he always does. Put
your things away.”
Kristine recalled how free she had felt at seventeen when
she’d first accepted the job offered by her father’s top buyer.
She spent that whole summer, as well as the following three,
out from underneath her father’s thumb. She clenched her jaw
and added more underwear to her bag. His attitude cemented
her resolve to get away. “I promised Gabe I’d be there for the
summer.”
“And I told Leo to hire another packer,” Cliff said, running
his hand through his coarse, near-black hair in agitation.
“You’re the one who needs to hire a hand here on the ranch.”
“You said that six months ago when you finished your
internship.”
“That was a job…temporary, but still a job,” Kristine argued.
“You live here, you work for me.”
“I help out here. Leo’s offered me a job.”
Cliff scoffed. “Till it gets too tough like it did last time? You
have no idea how long it took to live down that embarrassment.”
Kristine bristled, knowing that he and the entire staff still
believed she’d left because she’d been injured by a horse in the
backcountry. “I expected you to be happy that I’m getting back
on the horse.”
“It’s time you committed yourself here to the ranch.”
“I’ll find something in photography. I still have applications
out.”
“When are you going to give up that childish dream?”
“I’ve been called back for a second interview several times.
I’m close.”
“You’re ignoring the fact that you belong here.” He
punctuated his sentence with a sharp thwack of his palm to the
doorjamb before disappearing down the hallway, giving her no
opportunity to engage further in their recurring dispute about
why she, and not Gabe, had to be the one to take over the ranch.
She kept telling her father that it was his dream not hers, but
he always countered with a horse analogy about how a horse
Take Only Pictures
3
is only capable of being a horse—you don’t try to make him
something he isn’t. According to her father she had a gift with
horses. It was in her blood, thus she belonged on the ranch not
goofing off with a camera.
Arguing with him was pointless. Her father understood
livestock, not art. Art was foreign and held no weight with him.
To suggest otherwise just got a tired dismissal and his usual
disappointment. She was used to seeing it in his eyes. However,
this morning, she’d seen his anger, and anger, Kristine decided,
was good. Anger might help him see that she was serious about
walking her own path, not the one he’d put her on.
Being passed over after what she considered successful
interviews with the message that she had talent but just wasn’t
the right person had made her angry, too. She embraced the
feeling, pushing out the self-doubt her father had been fanning
since she’d come home. More importantly, she felt this anger
replace the worry and dread she felt whenever she pictured
returning to The Lodgepole Pine Pack Outfit. She reminded
herself that she was different now, not the tagalong girl who felt
like she needed to prove herself. At least that’s what she wanted
to believe.
Arms wide, she bowed her head and took deep breaths,
bracing herself against the bed. She felt as sick as she had when
she’d taken off from the Lodge, run home from the last trip
she’d done. She hadn’t thought she’d ever go back, but here she
was answering Gabe’s call, not just for him but for herself.
A warm hand settled between her shoulders. “Are you sure
about this?” Roberta Owens’s calm voice washed over her.
She turned and sat on the edge of the bed. Her mother
followed suit and stroked her hair. She had her father to thank
for her height and thick hair, but in coloring and features, she
and her mother matched. When she’d worn her light brown
hair long like her mother, people often mistook them as sisters,
noting the same pixie shape of their faces. “I’ll be okay,” Kristine
said.
“Your father’s right. I know Gabe’s been looking forward to
running the Aspens, but he’ll be fine at Leo’s main outfit.”
4
Laina Villeneuve
“I know he’d be. It’s just that…” Kristine couldn’t explain
how she was motivated by more than the fact that Leo was
giving the autonomous position at the smaller outpost to an
established team if Gabe was returning to the outfit by himself.
She owed it to Gabe to go back. She studied her mother’s
strong hands hoping she took some of that strength with her
because her future depended on being able to confront the past.
Once she put things right, she knew she’d gain the confidence
she needed to land the job that would take her away from her
father’s ranch forever.
***
Kristine’s journey to the Lodge was a study in contrasts.
Previously, she would have been blazing the road with an eye
out for cops, blaring the radio and singing at the top of her
lungs to the songs she adored. When the season started early
enough, she could drive to Mammoth straight from her college
campus, first at the local community college in Quincy and later
when she was studying agriculture at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo.
The school year drained her, juggling the demands of her
coursework and what social life she could piece together. The
Lodgepole Pine Pack Outfit offered the complete opposite.
She thrived at the outfit that offered an array of day rides led
on horseback as well as all kinds of guided trips out into the
backcountry. At school, she learned equine training techniques
and some of the basics for packing. The Lodge offered total
immersion to the art of taking a pile of camp gear and loading
it into two balanced packs onto a mule to carry into the
backcountry. She learned some hitches from the old-timers that
her professors back at school had never even heard of.
Each summer she gorged herself on the social opportunities
first denied by her small-town origins and later by her heavy
course load. Her gregarious nature was an asset in interacting
with the tourists who chose to experience the backcountry on
horseback instead of by foot.
Since she’d left the Lodge so abruptly six years ago,
her summers had been completely different. She’d done
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photography internships that were often so rigorous she was
relieved to get back to school. The last one was a position at a
museum. Unfortunately, it ended when the funding to keep her
permanently had fallen through, and she’d reluctantly returned
to the ranch. For a few weeks, she’d enjoyed its quiet, but while
her days were peaceful, her mind was not. She sensed her father
watching her. If she could have simply accepted her place on the
ranch and settled happily into the work, she would have been
fine, but they both knew she was biding her time, wanting to be
anywhere but rural Quincy, California.
She eyed the speedometer and applied the gas, climbing
back up to the speed limit. Clearly, her feet were not anxious
to make good time on the five-hour drive. She could have
explained it as her maturing in the years since she’d been gone
if only the increased speed didn’t make her break out in a sweat.
She should have felt relieved to be back on these once-familiar
roads, snaking her way through the mountains. But she was not
the innocent girl who had last driven there, and, she hoped, not
the terrified one who had hightailed it back home.
That was the only time she’d driven the route in the dark,
and when she’d arrived as the sun broke over the familiar valley
of home, she’d hoped it was a symbol for leaving it all behind.
The truth was, she’d never been able to put it fully to rest. It
still ran inside her like a dark and cold undercurrent, one she
constantly tried to avoid, fearing if she stepped back into it, it
would suck her in completely.
Now that she was finally returning, she dreaded the
questions she knew would come. They’d be on her like a bear
who remembers scoring at a Dumpster. Every summer since,
the staff had peppered her brother with questions even though
he had never had anything to offer them. It didn’t matter. She’d
been the one to feed them something in the first place, making
her an easy target. Now that she was there in person, would
the questions come immediately, or would they wait? In her
worst possible scenario, their anger washed over her from the
moment she arrived. Her former friends might bombard her
with accusations and insults. She braced herself, knowing she
would not be able to defend any of their charges.
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Laina Villeneuve
Steeling herself, she pulled off at the Devils Postpile parking
lot about a mile from the Lodge and a good fifteen miles from
the outpost she would share with Gabe. Stock wasn’t allowed
near the national monument, a stand of symmetrical columns
created by lava flow, so she had only ever viewed the natural
wonder on horseback from the trail way over on the other side
of the San Joaquin River.
She rolled down her window, filling her lungs with the crisp
pine-scented air before flipping open her phone, pleased to find
she had service. She dialed the outfit’s number and asked for
Gabe, waiting as the employee with an unfamiliar voice went to
track him down. “Gabe here,” he said.
“Give it to me straight. Who’s back, and what are they
saying?”
“Where are you, sis?” he asked.
“Almost there,” Kristine answered honestly.
“Dozer’s still chewing on why you left, but the others are
just curious about you being back. It won’t take long for them to
come around. And hell, we’ll be up at Aspens most of the time,
so fuck ’em if they’re pissy.”
She tipped her head back against the headrest, grateful for
his unquestioning support, but he’d only answered the second
question, the one she considered less important. What she
really wanted to know was who was back, banking on a passing
comment her dad had made about the possibility of Nard buying
a tourist shop up in Mammoth with his stepsister instead of
spending the summer at the Lodge. It would be so much easier
to make peace with the way she left without having to confront
him, but she feared that if she asked about him specifically, her
brother would suspect the truth about why she had bailed and
make it his responsibility to protect her.
“Thanks, Gabe. I’ll see you soon.”
“Drive safe, hear?”
“I will.”
“Can’t wait to see you.” She could hear his beaming smile in
his words. “We’re going to kick some serious ass this summer!”
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That made her laugh out loud. “I sure hope so,” she said,
soaking in his enthusiasm.
She grabbed her camera and walked the short trail to the
Postpile to grab some shots before she finished the drive and
faced the past head-on.
Chapter Two
Gloria woke with hard nipples and the mouth that had
brought them to attention kissing its way down her abdomen.
She parted her legs, groaning as her sometimes lover rolled
between them and pushed against her center with her breasts.
“What time is it?”
Meg crawled up her front, pulling again at Gloria’s nipples
with her lips and a little nip of her teeth. “You seriously want to
know what time it is?”
“I’m due in Mammoth tonight. I have to get on the road.”
Though she protested verbally, she raised her hips, grinding
into Meg.
“I don’t think it’ll take long to get you there.”
Gloria gasped as Meg entered her with two fingers. She rode
the hard thrusting, climaxing quickly as Meg had predicted.
“God, you’re good at that.” She scooted her hips and rocked
Meg onto her back, stretching her out in the morning light.
Meg’s confidence in her body and what she wanted made it easy
for Gloria to fall into bed with her whenever she was home
from her research projects. She traced one finger from clavicle
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to navel before wrapping her hands around Meg’s bountiful
hips.
“Inside. Now,” Meg growled as Gloria teased her, tracing a
finger through her folds. “I’m so ready for you.”
Gloria gave Meg what she wanted. They had explored each
other’s bodies enough times to know exactly what the other
liked and needed, and the familiarity was part of being home.
She was aware of the curve of Meg’s hip, the arch of her back
as she got close, how she held the sheets, tilted her head back,
enjoying Gloria’s touch. When Meg tipped into her own climax,
Gloria held her palm tight against Meg’s curls, waiting for the
shudders to stop before she stretched out next to her.
“How long are you going to be gone this time?” Meg asked,
turning to face Gloria.
“Couple of weeks, maybe a month.”
“Depending on what the pickings are in Mammoth?”
Gloria swung her feet over the edge of the bed and began
collecting her clothes, not wanting to deal with the undercurrent
of insecurities that resurfaced for Meg when she traveled away
for work. She threw on some sweats and a tee and folded her
work clothes over her arm.
“I’m due at work,” Meg said, backpedaling. “Want to grab
a bagel?”
“I need to check in with my folks and get on the road. I’m
heading in for a shower.”
“My cue to leave.” Meg flopped back across Gloria’s bed,
brown curls splayed across the pillow. She was short enough
that she looked comfortable stretched out in the cramped bed.
Gloria could only almost achieve that if she lay diagonally.
Gloria tried to tamp down her frustration. She pulled her
shoulder-length blond hair into a messy ponytail. Meg knew
that she had already kept her longer than she should have this
morning. As much as she enjoyed the alive hum in her body
from the morning sex, she hated the guilt that came with it.
She should feel a pang in leaving instead of relief to be away
again, but she’d never made any promises to Meg. She tried
redirecting to the positive. “Thank you for a lovely wake-up.”
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Laina Villeneuve
Meg frowned. “I miss you when you’re away. I only feel
complete when you’re home. When are you going to get
something permanent here? There’s probably something at the
local field office.”
“You sound like my mother,” Gloria sighed. She rested her
hip against the bed but didn’t sit down.
“Good,” Meg said, stroking Gloria’s thigh.
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Good?”
“I have this theory,” Meg said, lounging back against
the pillows. “If a straight girl supposedly marries her father,
wouldn’t it stand to reason that a gay girl marries her mother?”
“First you need the marrying kind,” Gloria said as gently as
she could. She leaned in for a quick kiss, escaping before Meg
could wrap her arms around her and pull her back into bed. “I’ll
call you when I’m back in town,” she said at the doorway.
Stepping out into the heavy mist, she let the door to her
camper slam shut, hoping it would jar Meg from her bed and to
work. It would be hard enough to say goodbye to her mother.
She didn’t need another Meg extraction to worry about before
she made the ten-hour drive from Eureka to Mammoth.
The camper was already packed, so once Meg was gone,
she was ready to take off on her latest field project. In between
projects, it stayed in the shed that she and her father had built
together when being a helper had meant handing him nails.
The shed protected the camper they had bought for their
summer family vacations. Walking to the house, she noticed
that Richard Fisher’s car wasn’t there, so she knew he’d already
gone to work.
Still, she held her breath as she eased shut the back door
of her parents’ house behind her, not wanting to disturb her
mother if she was still sleeping. Before the tongue had even
engaged the jamb, her mother’s voice carried from the kitchen,
startling out the breath she’d been holding.
“Eggs for Meg or just for you?” Kate Fisher called.
“Just me.”
“That’s too bad,” her mother continued. “I’ll have to stop
by the bagel bakery later to tell her not to be a stranger when
you’re away.”
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Gloria rolled her eyes. “I’m grabbing a shower.”
“My bet is you need it. Hurry up, I’m cracking the eggs.”
She paused, considering whether to complain about her
mother’s observation but continued without saying anything,
knowing how lucky she was to have parents relaxed enough
about who she was to joke with her about it.
Freshly scrubbed, she scooted onto a stool opposite her
mother, and dug into breakfast. Gloria found a note on the
counter from her father wishing her well on her journey and
felt only mildly guilty about the reason she wasn’t in the house
earlier to say goodbye in person.
“Ready to take on a new set of bears?” her mother asked,
sweeping from her forehead her wispy bangs that were
surprisingly more gray than blond. She, too, was dressed for the
day in her gardening jeans and one of Richard’s old sweatshirts
that she more than swam in now.
Gloria smiled, grateful that she didn’t pick back up on the
Meg topic.
“I have to get acquainted with the staff there first.”
“And that’s what’s got you nervous?”
Quizzically Gloria looked at her mother, who motioned to
Gloria’s plate with her fork.
Gloria answered the motion with a smirk and tried to eat
as if her stomach wasn’t full of butterflies. She concentrated on
her toast, hoping it would settle her belly.
“You don’t have to worry about me, you know. I’m a tough
old hag who didn’t even need you to fly halfway across the
country, and now you’re just across the state.” Though her
face was lined, much thinner since before her fight with cancer
began, her jaw was strong and firmly set.
Gloria’s mouth was so dry she couldn’t even swallow. She
sipped some coffee, trying to force the solids into her stomach.
“There’s still the issue of my being out of cell range a good
amount of the time.” She’d inherited her mother’s stubbornness
along with her slim nose, high cheekbones and dark blue eyes.
Her father often joked that he wasn’t sure he’d contributed
anything, but since her mother had become sick, Gloria had
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Laina Villeneuve
begun to see more of her father in herself, the way they both
worried.
“I’m sure the Forest Service in Mammoth is every bit as good
at tracking you down as they were in Tennessee. If you’d been
up early enough, you could have heard all of this when I covered
it with your father…” Her knowing eyes pinned Gloria’s and
forced a blush from her. Gloria couldn’t help but glance out
back, wondering if Meg was still in the camper. “She’s already
gone,” her mother said, rising to clear her dishes. “She cleared
out while you were in the shower. You know you could have let
her shower here.”
“I wanted to talk to you, just you, before I go,” Gloria said,
tackling a small bite of egg.
Her mother’s eyes brightened. “Why? Are you finally
thinking of settling down with her when you get back?”
“Mother.”
She frowned. “I keep telling both you and your father to
quit worrying about me. You, especially, need to worry about
yourself. How long do you think Meg’s going to let you treat
her like a plaything you can pick up and discard whenever you
feel like it?”
“I know you don’t understand our arrangement,” Gloria
began.
Her mother waved her off. “And I don’t need to. But
pretty soon, she’s going to find the person who can give her
everything.”
“And I wish her the best when she does,” Gloria interrupted.
“I just don’t understand why you distract yourself when you
know she’s not your forever.”
“So now you want the details.” Gloria wiggled her eyebrows,
and her mother threw a dishtowel at her. When she busied
herself with the breakfast dishes, Gloria felt chagrined. She
carried the towel and her plate to the counter, leaning her back
against the surface to try to catch her mother’s eye. “I’m sorry,”
she said.
Her mother shrugged, refusing to look at her. “You avoid
forever just because it doesn’t come with a guarantee.”
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“I’m not avoiding. I’m open to the idea, but you know that
my work…”
“Don’t. If your work was your real priority, you wouldn’t
have quit Tennessee. Your idea of family is this circle, this tiny
circle. It scares me to think of you and your dad…”
Gloria wrapped her arms around her mother, resting her
chin on top of her head. “I don’t think I should marry someone
so you think I have someone to take care of me.”
“I know you can take care of yourself,” her mother said,
swiping away a tear. “So you quit worrying about me, and I’ll
try to quit worrying about you.”
“Deal,” Gloria said. She glanced at the clock.
“Get going. I taught you better than to be late your first
day.”
“My first day is tomorrow.”
“Then get out of here so I can get on with my morning.”
Gloria gathered her toiletries and paused at the back door,
her eyes resting on a photo album that sat by the couch.
“I can’t wait to see where you’re going,” her mother said.
Gloria nodded because she was sure if she answered, her
voice would crack. She readied her camper for travel and opened
up the gates. Her mother remained inside, never one to make
a big deal of her departures. Gloria pursed her lips as she eased
out onto the road, plenty of time ahead of her on the long drive
to work through all her mother had given her to think about.
Chapter Three
It’s funny how quickly it all comes back, Kristine thought,
bent down on one knee next to the sorrel mare. Like riding a
horse…or is it supposed to be a bike? Having been on a horse
since the time she could sit up, years before attempting to ride
a bicycle, had forever ruined the phrase for her. She smiled to
herself and turned to the task of getting her tiny rider into the
saddle.
“Trust me,” she said to the adorable pigtailed young girl
whose head tilted all the way back to get a look up at the
saddle. She had her father’s jet-black hair and almond eyes and
her mother’s dimpled chin, Kristine noted, patting her chapcovered thigh. “Put your right foot here. Left foot in the stirrup,
and swing aboard.”
The girl’s feet followed orders, and the seven-year-old sat
proudly in the saddle.
“A natural,” Kristine said, making sure the girl’s feet were
secure in the stirrups. She handed her the reins. “You remember
her name?”
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“Goldie!” she shouted.
She could feel both the approval of the little girl’s mother
and the scrutiny of Brian, the young cowboy learning the ropes
who would be making this same trip at least two hundred times
over the course of the summer. He at least had the costume
down with his Western brushpopper shirt, Wrangler jeans and
black felt hat. When they got back to the corrals, she’d let him
in on some of her secrets to securing better tips from the dudes
who did the shortest of their rides down to Rainbow Falls and
back. So many of the kids Leo hired cared only about spending
the summer in the saddle. They treated the guests, who very
often had never been on a horse, disdainfully simply because of
their lack of experience, their being “dudes.” But he surprised
her, dropping to his knee in front of the beautiful twenty-someyear-old woman whose horse he had pulled around.
Kristine dipped her hat to hide her embarrassment for
him. Though the young woman was short, she was clearly
experienced. He might have noticed that if his eyes had gotten
past the vest zipped tight over her long-sleeved polo shirt and
her form-fitting riding pants tucked into her paddock boots.
She proved Kristine’s intuition true when she took the reins,
captured the stirrup and launched herself into the saddle.
They finished loading the rest of the riders, Brian leading the
three other dude horses to the stump that served as a mounting
block. He and Kristine rode the as yet untried horses from the
employee corral. The willowy redhead who had refused Brian’s
leg up angled her horse behind Kristine for the loop down to
lower falls.
“How long have you been riding?” Kristine asked, turning
in her saddle to make sure the whole group fell in behind her.
“Since fourth grade,” she answered, “but all English, hunter/
jumper.”
“Clearly, the skills translate to Western,” Kristine said with
a quirk of her eyebrow, smiling at the blush the woman didn’t
try to hide.
They fell into easy discussion about the different riding
styles, horses they’d owned, how great it must be to get to ride
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all summer and get paid for it. Engaging her in discussion had
been easy, and, as usual, it made the ride go so much faster.
Kristine had always had a knack for being able to find something
to talk about with anyone. She pointed out wildlife and flowers
and hollered the story of the fire that raged through the forest
in 1992 and what the outfit had done with the stock. It was a
talent that had been rewarded with rave reviews from the guests
and extra cash to help with her college expenses.
They returned to the Lodge via the wagon trail and riding
between the mule corral on their left and the horse corral on
the right. The horses automatically lined up at the tie rail by the
horse corral. Kristine wasn’t surprised when she circled around
to tie them up and Miss hunter/jumper handed her some bills.
She also wasn’t very surprised when she whispered that she was
in campsite seventeen and would really like to get to know her
better. The guest winked and sauntered away as the little squirt
ran over with her own fistful of bills.
“Don’t go asking mom for a pony,” Kristine said to the
youngster, tucking the money into the breast pocket of her
plaid shirt. As mom smiled on, she bent down to whisper just
to the little girl, “tell her to start you on a horse.” The little girl
beamed and galloped off toward the café.
“How do you DO that,” Brian grumbled.
“Get tips or get campsite invites?” she asked.
Brian’s head snapped in the direction of the young woman
he had attempted to help. “She invited you over? YOU?” The
scrawny teen tipped his hat back and scratched his red hair.
Feeling like she had shared too much with the newcomer,
Kristine slipped off Rip’s bridle before tying it to the saddle,
steering the conversation away from the personal. The tack
shed behind them held four-by-four beams, two high, to house
the saddles. Kristine heaved the first saddle onto a top rung.
Brian followed her lead, grunting to push the saddle into place.
“Watch your guests,” Kristine said, as they worked on the
next two horses. “You pick up on little things. Bigger kids like to
try on their own. They’re independent—as are most women.”
He hung his head. “You’ll get the hang of it, and fast with three
rides down to the falls every day.”
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“You make it look so easy.”
Kristine shrugged but remembered very well feeling awestruck by the day-ride crew years ago when she herself had
been the newbie, learning the trails, the horses, the soap-opera
dynamics of the people she worked with.
“Teeny!” a deep voice barked.
She groaned at the annoying nickname of her youth. “Where
the hell you been, girl?” The voice came from a cowboy so old
and bent by time that he had to peer up at her. She saw the smile
behind his eyes, his brown skin darkened and wrinkled from
years in the sun and couldn’t deny him a hug. She snapped his
red suspenders as they pulled apart.
“How’r you, Sol?”
“Still dodging the question, I see. I knew your daddy made a
mistake listening to Leo about going to school. Can’t see what
they have to teach you that you haven’t already learned from
us…”
“How are my mules?”
“Yeah, I figgered that’s why you were back. Not for us
geezers. C’mon.” He tugged at his battered baseball cap and
limped across the yard.
Kristine gave Brian instructions for putting up the stock and
joined Sol down at the mule corral. She scampered onto one of
the felled trees that served as the corral and gazed out over the
stock.
“Suuuuuuuzy-Q! Scooter!” Out of the thirty head in the
corral, four long, dark ears swung her way. The pair broke from
the herd and strolled over to put their faces in Kristine’s lap,
snuffing for treats in her chap pockets. Most of the mules in the
corral were bred and trained by Kristine’s father, but Kristine
considered Suzy-Q and Scooter her babies since they were the
first her father had let her train on her own. Amazingly, they
had not forgotten her.
“You been spoiling this year’s foals, too?” Sol grumbled.
She shoved him with her shoulder. “I don’t have the time to
live down at the corral like I did when I got these guys. I grew
up with them. I learned a hell of a lot having free rein with their
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training. They taught me about boundaries, so no. No more
spoiling. Don’t go telling my dad he was right.”
Sol worked the chew in his lip a minute his eyes still on the
mules in the corral. “How’s the old man?” he finally asked.
“Same pisshead he’s always been.”
“You watch your mouth, girl,” he growled.
But Kristine laughed at his attempt to scold her. “And who
taught me about pissheads?”
He hmphed and joined Kristine in scratching the ears of the
mule in front of him. “Clifford might be an asshole, but he sure
breeds a fine mule.”
“You’re the only person in the world I know who calls him
that.”
“You talk him into doing a draft horse cross, get something
a more respectable size?” he asked. “Get a Belgian mare and
one of those Mammoth jacks. He’s got more than those bitty
donkeys now, right?”
“We picked up a Mammoth jack stud.”
Sol rubbed his hands together. “A cross like that would
make a fine mule.”
“Only problem is how attached we are to our Morgan
mares on the ranch. They’re always going to throw a smaller
mule, and there are plenty of people who agree that it’s a great
cross. Not everyone thinks bigger is better,” Kristine said even
though Sol was one of the few packers who agreed with her. She
straightened Suzy-Q’s forelock. “They all need haircuts.”
“Unlike you.”
Kristine hid her smile by tilting her hat, shading her face
from Sol.
“You got any hair under that hat, or’d someone scalp you?”
“Not scalped, Sol. Just grown up.”
“You sure about that?”
“Hell, I’m not even sure you’re grown up, old man.”
He laughed then, his eyes disappearing into his weathered
face and chins multiplying. “C’mon, young ’un. You can call me
anything you like…”
Kristine smiled and couldn’t resist completing the sentence.
“But don’t call me late for supper.” She swung her arm around
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Sol, always thankful for his support. She’d missed the gruff
cowboy and felt guilty for the years she’d let pass without at
least contacting him. Her mules a close second, he’d been the
hardest part to leave, especially since she’d lied about why she
had to go. She knew he’d suspected but hadn’t pushed, for which
she was grateful. His questioning eyes resurfaced time and time
again in her mind. When it came to flight or fight, she’d chosen
to run, and she’d always wondered what would have happened
if she’d stayed instead.