Justified (4 page)

Chapter Nine

The coach got on my nerves. As I drove into town late the next afternoon, I thought about his visit. I appreciated him fixing my steps, but I got the feeling he had assigned himself to watch over me when I didn't need, or want, the attention. And he always seemed to be laughing at me.

I pattered into the Trapp Laundromat carrying a flimsy plastic basket full of secondhand maternity clothes Velma had scrounged. As I lifted the lid of a washer, I thought of the designer brands I used to wear. Closets full. I gripped a T-shirt by the shoulders, scrutinized it, then shoved it into the machine.

I missed the designers. When I left home, Mother had been gracious enough to send my wardrobe, but my Miss Me Jeans and Anthropologie dresses were currently stuffed in a closet, waiting for the day I got small again. I wiggled my toes in my sneakers. At least my Kate Spades still fit.

I kicked them off and settled into a blue plastic chair in the corner, easing my back pain. The soapy, clean scent of detergent cleansed my mood, and I settled down with my history textbook, but soon my attention wandered from the dull pages to a poster hanging on the bulletin board to my left. The homecoming street dance. Ruthie and Dodd would probably go. I would stay home.

Traffic passed the front windows. Mostly pickup trucks. A few SUVs. A delivery truck headed to the United grocery. But then my mother's Audi crept by, stuck behind a slow-moving cattle trailer. My father sat behind the wheel, his eyes focused on the bumper in front of him, but Mother pointed at my Chevy and pursed her lips.

Wouldn't they have been shocked if they could see me? Barefoot and pregnant. My dad had used that phrase to describe me, and at the time I found it offensive, but now I only snickered. He had been right after all.

About some things.

I ran my finger down the page and began reading again. He hadn't been right about the church. He'd said they would cast me out with the other sinners, yet I had been there every time the doors opened. The members had limits to what they could overlook, but apparently I fell within the boundaries of grace. Or maybe my last name simply granted me special treatment. I wouldn't be surprised.

The Laundromat door swung open, and the shrill blast from a train two blocks away disrupted the monotonous churning of the washer.

My mother.

She flashed a fake, almost desperate smile that sent a metallic taste to the roof of my mouth. “Fawn, honey.” Her gaze bounced from me to the old machines to the dirty floor, where powdered laundry soap gritted beneath her sequined sandals.

My tongue felt swollen and dry in my mouth. “Hello, Mother.”

She scrutinized the wall above my head. “Are you well?”

“Awesome.” My remark came out more sarcastic than I intended, but the irony of my mother asking about my welfare was just too much.

And yet I wanted her to care.

She stepped forward as though to sit next to me, but my legs were draped across the seat. Instead, she perched two seats down and peered at my feet.

She would view my behavior as rude—rebellious—and she really didn't deserve that. After all, she hadn't kicked me out of the house. She merely went along with it, so submissive she couldn't stand up to her husband.

Not even for me.

Turning, I tucked my feet beneath my chair, and Mother managed to convey both approval and disgust with her lipstick smile.

“Are you still staying with Ansel and Velma Pickett?”

“No, I've got my own place.” If she'd socialized with the working class, she would've heard it by now.

Her eyes widened in surprise. “How can you—” She looked away, unable to hide the raw emotion. Something like jealousy. “Where?”

“It's a small house up on the Caprock, half a mile past the scenic overlook. It's not much, but it's all right for the baby and me.” I peered at her, evaluating her mood and weighing my options. “You could come up sometime. To see the place.” I laughed, feeling exposed. “I make a mean iced mocha.”

She ran her fingertip along the edge of my book resting on the chair between us. “I … I know that house. I've been there.”

I held back a laugh. She couldn't have surprised me more if she'd stood on a washer and danced a schottische. Even though she had lived in Trapp her entire life, my mother never set foot in real estate less than a certain square footage.

“You've been in that house?”

She snatched at her purse. “Your father insisted I give you some cash. It's not much, but it will help with rent and groceries.” And just like that, her stoic indifference fell into place.

“I'm not taking his money.” I couldn't take it. My father made it clear there were expectations attached to anything I accepted from him.

“Fawn …” She dragged out my name, shredding my nerves as she pulled me through memories of arguments.

“He can't even bear to look at me, Mom.”

Her shoulders dropped a half inch. “He's not heartless, only disappointed.”

“He's always disappointed.”

She almost leaned back in the blue chair but caught herself before her tanned shoulder made contact. “I know.”

Yes, she knew exactly what I meant. We may have never enjoyed the kind of mother-daughter relationship where we stayed up late and discussed girl problems, but we could empathize about my father without ever speaking a word.

“I ran into Lynda Turner,” I said. It was a low blow, and I knew it, but the endless list of forbidden topics had worn on me during our short separation. “Tell me what he did to that woman.”

My mother inspected the cuticle of a painted fingernail. “I don't see how that matters.”

“Obviously it matters to Lynda.”

“Then ask her, not me.”

“I shouldn't have to.” I leaned back so forcefully, the plastic popped, and I wondered if I had broken the blasted chair. My mother never really talked to me. When my pregnancy test came back positive, I thought we might finally have common ground, but no, she only pulled further away.

“Calm down,” she purred. “The fact is, your father dated Lynda Turner when we were young, but he broke up with her to date me.” She rubbed her cuticle again, adjusted her blouse, cleared her throat. “But I wouldn't mention it to him if I were you.”

She left something out, I knew it. Her explanation sounded too simple, too clean, and way too forthcoming. I knew better than to think they had kept a simple love triangle a secret for so many years.

“How is Dad?” One little question with many layers.
Is he well? Has he humbled himself at all? Has he hurt you lately?

“He's fine.” Her face matched the plastic seating, hard and cold.

I noticed him on the sidewalk then, dragging his boots arrogantly as he spoke into his cell phone.
Always the businessman.
He kept his back to the window, head held high, laughing.

I cut my eyes back to my mother. “Nothing's changed?”

Her gaze skittered to the sidewalk, and she lowered her voice. “He may never come back to church, but he apologized to the preacher.”

“Well, that's a start.”

“It's huge,” she snapped. “These things take time, Fawn.”

These things. Things like change. Like forgiveness. Like heartfelt repentance. I wondered if
these things
would happen in my lifetime. “Will he ever speak to me again, or is he just going to send cash through you?”

“He's coming in here, actually. He has something to say to you.”

Her voice faltered, matching the trembling in my legs, and I almost felt bad for giving her a hard time. But not quite.

As if on cue, he sauntered through the Laundromat door, setting off a chain reaction of heat up my neck and cheeks. In contrast to my mother's entrance, he looked at nothing in the room but kept his eyes focused on me. “Good God, Fawn. Surely you've heard of dry cleaners.”

A nervous chuckle forced itself, unbidden, from deep in my lungs. “Good to see you, too.”

“Your mother says you talked to Tyler.”

My washer finished its cycle. “We've had words.”

“Good.”

He paused, and one of my bare feet vibrated against the metal bracket that bolted the chair to the floor. I knew he was deliberately stalling, waiting for me to look at him. My father had always demanded eye contact, but I didn't want to give him that much power.

My foot bounced slightly, and the row of plastic seats shook from the movement. I locked my knees together, willing my muscles to comply. My mind rebelled against him while my body yearned to obey … out of sheer habit.

I lifted my eyes to meet his, and he nodded his approval.

“In spite of the depth to which you've lowered yourself, you and Tyler are still a match. You should do what you can to make things happen with him.”

“Make things happen?” His words struck me as crude, but he waved away my question.

“You know what I'm saying. He'll take care of you … and your child.” He said the last words as though they were a disease that must be dealt with. “In the meantime, I'll see you have what you need.” He cocked his head toward my mother. “Did you give her the money?”

“I tried.”

Everything always came back around to money. “What about love, Dad? Does that matter at all?” To gain confidence, I fled to the washer and lifted the lid.

“Apparently you loved him enough to sleep with him. Surely you can muster enough love to marry him.”

“Neil …” My mother moaned.

“Don't get me wrong, Fawn. I'd be tickled pink for you to live happily ever after, but you're not living a fairy tale.” His key chain jangled. “Tyler Cruz wants you, and I don't see any other men standing in line.”

A drop of sweat trickled down the back of my knee. “Well, Dad. Now that you put it that way, you've made me all mushy inside.” I pulled wet laundry from the washer, dropping each item in the basket at my feet.

“Don't be sassy.” Mother hissed the reprimand as she stood, but I had already heard it in my head.

“She can't help it, Susan.” He lurched away from me as though to distance himself from my shame, and Mother followed after him, straightening her back uncertainly.

And then they were gone.

A hot breath of air gusted from the sidewalk as the door closed behind them, and already a grin covered my father's face as he lifted his chin in greeting to a passing friend. But Mother, ever the worrier, glanced back at me with a pained expression.

I peered down at my bare feet, embarrassed they had seen me like this, figuring it only added to my father's perception that he had been right all along. My damp clothes lay heaped in the basket, needing attention, but I ignored them and stumbled to a chair.

Slipping on my shoes, I rested my elbows on my knees, head in hands. I had loved Tyler once. Maybe I still did. He understood the deal about my parents, and he always shared my dreams and worries.

But he had broken my trust. Not once or twice but over and over.

The first time, our junior year in high school, he spent thirty minutes with Hannah McGready behind the show barn at the stock show, effectively ending the ten months we'd sat next to each other in church. The second and third times, he screamed hateful things at me, once when we were alone and once in public. After that, there was Ashley Alvarez my first year at Tech.

But the fifth time, he struck me. And to make matters worse, the preacher had seen it. A few days later, when Tyler denied the baby was his, I thought I would never take him back, but he had come to me, heartbroken and sincere. And he seemed so sorry.

But then he hit me again. He hadn't hurt the baby, of course—Tyler would never do anything except slap my face—but I couldn't get over the idea of it. The thought of him lashing out when I carried something so precious—a tiny person who needed to be protected and nurtured.

I called off the wedding that day because a hungering desire had welled up inside me. A yearning to be protected and nurtured myself … and
cherished
. But nobody had come along to do it.

In the past few months, I had demanded to do things on my own, trying to prove I didn't need Tyler, and certainly didn't need my parents. Yet I hadn't proved anything. Not really. Ruthie took me to garage sales. Velma loaned me her car. Coach Pickett repaired my steps. But I never stopped needing someone. I merely transferred the caretaking obligation to my new friends.

The baby kicked, and I pressed a palm against the movement, wishing Tyler could somehow become everything the baby and I needed. “I know, little guy. I've made a mess of things.”

Chapter Ten

Twenty minutes later, Ruthie sat cross-legged on a washing machine while I checked messages on my phone. I'd dumped my laundry in a dryer, then watched the clothes swirl while I relived my parents' intrusion. When I finally snapped out of my pity-induced trance, I called Ruthie to come keep me company.

“Which do you like better—ball gown or mermaid?” she asked.

I glanced at the bridal magazine open across her lap. “My favorite is Empire. Fitted at the top but not as dramatic as trumpet.”

Ball gown, Empire, mermaid, trumpet—all styles of wedding dresses familiar to me from the years I'd anticipated a marriage proposal from Tyler.

Everyone had anticipated it. A huge ring, a huge wedding, a huge fuss.

I leaned against the change machine. “Has Dodd asked you … anything?”

“Not officially, but we've practically planned the wedding.”

“But you're both staying in school, right?”

“Of course.”

“So what are you planning?”

“Just a small ceremony in Uncle Ansel and Aunt Velma's backyard.”

“Their backyard?” I turned the idea over in my head, knowing everyone would expect the minister to marry in the church building. “I like it.”

Ruthie's smile wavered. “This is going to be my day, not the church's.”

“Right.” The raging fire between the Turners and our small congregation had gradually diminished over the past few months, but there still remained a slow burn that would take years to extinguish.

Her shoulders drooped apologetically. “Do you still think about a wedding?”

My core suddenly felt cavernous, but I chewed my peanuts, swallowed, shrugged. “If I ever get married, we'll run off to the courthouse by ourselves, then go on an exotic honeymoon and lay around half naked for a week.”

“The scandalous vacation sounds amazing, but the justice of the peace? I know you, and you're a church-wedding type. No matter what order you're doing things.”

“I don't know. These days I think more about finding a man than planning a wedding.” I wadded my wrapper and studied the resulting cellophane ball. “Besides, everyone would talk.”

“Who cares?” She held up her right hand in what looked like an
Okay
sign, except her pointer finger and thumb were separated.

“Is that supposed to be a panther claw?”

She frowned at her fingers. “No, it's WC for
Who cares?
See, these three fingers make the
W
, and the pointer and thumb make the
C
. If I could make an
S
and a
U
with the other hand, I could give you
Who cares? Shut up
.”

I threw my trash in her direction, but it fluttered to the floor halfway between us as the door of the Laundromat banged open. We both startled.

Tyler strolled in wearing cargo shorts, a polo shirt, and leather slides.

A low-pitched humming filled my ears and vibrated my skull. It was too much, seeing Tyler. Now. Right after my parents.

“What are you doing here,” Ruthie said flatly.

Tyler's mouth curved into an easy smile that showed his teeth. “Checking on my girl.”

I had always liked his teeth. Almost perfectly straight, but not quite. One tooth in front slanted ever so slightly, and it gave him a rakish look.

Ruthie glared at me. “You're back together?”

“No,” I said quickly.

“We're working on that.” Tyler's words overlapped mine as his gaze dropped to my stomach. “Are you all right, babe?”

“I'm good.” When my dryer stopped spinning, the room filled with thick stillness. I picked up the laundry basket and scuttled to the back wall.

“Don't you have somewhere you need to be?” Ruthie asked him.

Tyler stared at her for a count of three before he spoke. “Yes, when a man has the amount of property my father left me, it requires fairly intense management skills. I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

“Yet here you are … at the
Laundromat
.”

He had never gotten along with my friends. Not in high school. Not in college. Not now. He turned his back to her. “Are you busy next Monday?”

Ruthie stepped around him. “We have class.”

My laundry crackled as I pulled it from the dryer. Ruthie was up to something, but it didn't matter. “I have a doctor's appointment.”

“What time?” Tyler asked.

“Eleven.”

“Perfect. We'll go together.”

Ruthie's voice sliced. “Are you asking her or telling her?”

“Dads are supposed to go to these things. Seems like you would be impressed.”

I bent down to pick up my basket and noticed Tyler's neatly trimmed toenails. “It's all right, Ruthie.”

He glanced at the basket in my arms. “Let's grab lunch after and hit a few stores. You could use a couple new outfits.”

A tiny voice in the back of my head said he couldn't be trusted, but a louder voice reminded me he loved me, in his own way. “I need to think about it.”

“No rush. I'll call you.” He smiled his almost perfect smile as he pushed through the door.

It happened so fast. He spiraled in then out in less than five minutes, and my heart and mind spun in crazy circles, unable to make sense of it. As he walked across the street, I gripped the laundry basket and watched him, wondering if his body language might reveal his intentions.

He waved at Old Man Guthrie, so maybe he had become more caring. And surely his steady gait indicated a greater sense of purpose.

Ruthie cleared her throat. “He's bribing you with clothes.”

I plopped the basket down and started folding laundry, not wanting to discuss it, but after a few minutes, she moved to stand across the counter.

Her hand rested on a laundry cart, and she squeaked it an inch forward, an inch back. “He bumped into you the other day at the diner, and today he
happens
to see you at the Laundromat. Is he stalking you or something?”

“It's not like that.”

She raised an eyebrow in typical Ruthie fashion, and an invisible cord tightened around my neck. She meant well, but I needed to go home, sit on my porch, and stare over my cliff where I could see for miles. Where I could breathe.

“He doesn't even live in Trapp. What are the odds?”

“Snyder's forty-five minutes down the highway, not on another continent.

“Fawn?” She leaned on the counter and looked deep into my eyes. “Run. Away.”

The cord around my neck snapped, and emotions spewed from my mouth. “That's easy for you to say. You're dating a minister, for goodness' sake, but your selfishness won't allow you to stand in someone else's shoes for five minutes. Not mine and certainly not Dodd's.” I dropped a shirt and bent to snatch it off the floor. “Did it ever occur to you that Dodd might
want
to get married at the church?”

I regretted my words, yet I couldn't hold back. All the tension I stifled toward my parents and Tyler hurtled toward Ruthie. Not because she deserved my anger or warranted my tantrum but because she was safe.

I slammed folded clothes into the basket. “After all these years, you finally came back to the church and immediately started criticizing all of us.” My voice took on a slight whine. “And you don't even realize you have
everything
.”

Ruthie looked bored. “You're just weirding out because of your dad and Tyler.” She scratched her head. “Didn't somebody say those two were a lot alike?”

I slumped over the counter, resting my head on my arms.

“Forgiven,” she said.

I raised my head. “What must people think of me? In a month I'm going to be a single mother working at the stinking feed store.”

She slowly raised her hand and gave me her made-up WC symbol, then mouthed the words
Who cares?