Million Dollar Road (17 page)

Full-throated with sudden, unthinking fury, Emma slammed her fist into the mirrored cabinet. A frieze of cracks exploded her reflection into a hundred pieces.

“
Hell,
no!” Her fist hit the mirror again, harder this time. The cabinet door flew open and the bottle of Xanax tumbled out into the sink.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Emma demanded of her splintered face in what was left of the mirror. “Did you really think he'd come to tell you this has been a . . . a bad dream? That he'd changed, that he was leaving her and coming back to you? You
idiot
.”

Emma grabbed the plastic pill bottle in the sink, hurling it violently away. The vial shattered against the wall. Xanax hit the floor in a narcotic rain of peach-colored sleet.

In addition to her arm, now her hand was bleeding steadily from the broken glass—blood in the sink, blood on the floor, a splatter of blood on the wall. In rage-filled impatience Emma ransacked the contents of her medicine cabinet until she found the box of Band-Aids. She tore it open, spilling little bandages everywhere, and with shaking fingers patched up the heel of her hand.

“That son-of-a-bitch!” Naked and not caring in the least, Emma stomped down the hall to her bedroom, leaving a line of wet footprints on the pine floor behind her.

“Damn him, damn him, damn him,” she muttered under her breath as she threw on her soft cotton robe. “That
shithead
.” The sleeve bloomed a pinkish stain from the deep scratch on her arm, but she didn't notice. Clutching her fingers in her hair, closing her eyes, Emma vowed to strip her bed and throw those rumpled sheets, still smelling of him, into the garbage.

“How could I have let Con do this to me again? How? I
hate
him!”

Saying that, suddenly Emma went still, openmouthed. That felt good, she realized in surprise. It felt . . . really
good
to be furious at Con, to hate him for all he'd done to her.

The Valkyries had reached the windswept climax of the mountain and were screeching their way across an ancient German sky in a thunder of spears and flying blond braids. “And I hate stupid Wagner!” Emma ran out of her room and down the hall to the front of the house. She stabbed the radio's power button. The room's silence was complete and utter, except for the steady fall of rain on the roof.

“There,”
she said defiantly. “I'm not afraid of you anymore!” She was talking to the voices. In the answering quiet, Emma cocked her head, narrow-eyed and listening. There were no voices, not even a whisper. “Cowards,” she sneered to their absent echoes. “Don't ever come back. Ever.”

Filled with a restless energy now—she was going to see to those goddamned
sheets
—in that blessed hush, Emma heard it. Emma heard what she'd been unable to hear over the water running in the tub, over the radio, the rain, and her unlooked-for, surprising rage.

The soft, insistent scratch of a patient paw at the front door.

“Sheba!” Her heart leaping, Emma threw open the door and her dog, thin, wet and dirty, limped into the house, her tail wagging hesitantly. “Oh, my girl—you came
back
.” She fell to her knees, throwing her arms around the hound and burying her face in the warm neck. Sheba licked Emma's jaw and whined in contentment. She was home.

After she'd rubbed the dirt off with a towel and examined Sheba to see if she'd been injured, Emma and her dog went into the bright, warm kitchen together. “Oh, honey—I threw out your food. Whatever am I going to feed you?”

It was late, past one o'clock in the morning, but Emma didn't feel tired at all. She searched the refrigerator, hurrying to find something to throw on the stove for the two of them. Sheba was so thin she had to be starving, and to her astonishment, for the first time in what seemed like decades, Emma was ravenous. While she cooked a huge meal of sautéed chicken and rice, from time to time she'd stop, bend down, and hug the dog at her feet. She was cultivating gratitude while the chicken browned and filled the kitchen with the scents of sharing, of friendship, of a real peace.

Tomorrow she'd call Sarah. And soon, Emma sternly declared to her fears, she'd go out to Million Dollar Road to see Lireinne again. She'd known for weeks that the girl had needed her. By denying Lireinne, she knew now she was denying herself. Too, it was long past time to face up to answers instead of running from them.

Contentedly watching Sheba bolt her food in wolf-like gulps, in quiet amazement Emma found one answer.

This, she realized, was what it meant to be here now.

T
he swamp maples were vermillion-and-gold fires in the cool morning sky, and the wild asters burned a blue haze in the fields. When she got in the car, Lireinne turned the radio to her favorite station for the short drive to the alligator farm. Looking in the rearview mirror, she put on her lip gloss, making a sultry pout since she was alone, and then laughed at her reflection. Lireinne wondered if maybe this was what a million other career women did every day: striking poses when no one could see before they had to be responsible and went to their jobs. The thought made her feel . . . solid, somehow, almost like a grown-up.

Bud and Wolf had left already—Bud to the Walmart loading dock and Wolf to Covington High. That had been a righteous battle, but in the end she and Bud had pounded some sense into her little brother's head. Lireinne had explained it over and over: with her new job, she could save enough to help out with college expenses. All Wolf had to do now was keep his grades up. Bud insisted he could cover the rest, so now her little brother could go to LSU.

That was
sweet
.

Lireinne was wearing her new sweater this Friday because the weather had turned chilly overnight, and that was sweet, too. She loved cool weather. When she'd fed Mose earlier, the old horse's summer coat had been as puffy as a fake fur against the damp early-morning air. She really ought to hang out with Mose while she still could. Sarah Fortune had found him a new home up at the therapeutic riding center in Folsom and he'd be going soon. Saying good-bye to Mose wasn't going to be easy: the old Thoroughbred had been a part of her life for almost as long as she could remember. He'd been the friend of her childhood and soon he wouldn't be waiting for her behind the barbed-wire fence when she came home anymore.

But Mose was going to have plenty to eat and a warm barn to live in for the coming winter. Sarah said that at his age, that kind of care would keep him alive and healthy for a long time. Probably Mose was going to like being ridden by the handicapped kids. She'd send his brushes with him so they could keep up with his grooming, and Sarah had said she could visit him whenever she wanted. Much as she'd miss Mose, it was the right thing to do by him and she could use the money she was spending on feed to add to what she was saving for Wolf, too.

In any case, Lireinne couldn't take the time to hang out with Mose while he ate his breakfast anyway. Getting ready for work took a lot more time when you were getting dressed up every day, Lireinne reminded herself, as she backed the Explorer down the driveway. She'd need to hurry: she'd wasted enough time, mooning over her reflection and woolgathering.

When Lireinne pulled up to the alligator farm at eight and parked beneath the big live oaks, Mr. Con's Lexus wasn't there yet. He must be running late again. Since she'd started working up in the house, she hadn't seen nearly as much of her boss as she assumed she would. The day she got her promotion, that same night Mrs. Costello had broken her ankle in some weird trampoline accident. Mr. Con was often away from the farm taking care of his wife, but when he was there he was nice enough. Hardly handsy at all.

Besides, Lireinne didn't mind having the big office to herself when he was gone, and she got along fine with Mr. Hannigan—although the same couldn't be said for the women in the house. She'd caught Tina, Jackie, and Miz 'Cille giving her the stink-eye when they thought she wasn't looking. Oh, well. Lireinne shrugged carelessly and grabbed her purse off the front seat. They'd come around or they wouldn't. For sure, none of them was lining up to be her best friend, but that was so not her problem. After her years at Covington High, she was used to unfriendly females.

Lireinne got out of the Explorer, tugged at her trim gray skirt and navy merino sweater, and smoothed her hair before heading up the sidewalk to the front door. This was the first time she'd worn this outfit and she knew she looked good in it. Emma had told her that blue suited her, she remembered, saying that it brought out the green in her eyes.

So . . . like, why hadn't she heard from Emma since that totally fun shopping trip?

That had been weeks ago. Lireinne paused on the cement path. She gazed across the parking area, staring at the peacock roosting in the oak tree without really seeing it and thinking about the visit to the mall. After that night, Lireinne had called nearly every day for a while, then given up when the older woman neither answered nor returned her calls.

Okay, so Lireinne had been totally taken in by Emma, how she'd acted like she wanted to be friends. So she'd been stupidly happy and flattered to be noticed by such a classy lady, but Emma had turned out to be just another one of those obnoxious do-gooders, getting her kicks out of messing around in people's lives and then dropping them like a hot rock when she got tired of them.

Lireinne already knew from do-gooders: in the first grade there'd been the lady in the school's office who'd signed her up for the free lunch program. That hadn't seemed like a bad thing, not until that same lady had given her a hard time in front of the other kids for eating not only her own lunch but also the leftovers on nearby plates. She'd only done that because she'd been so damned hungry, Lireinne thought resentfully. Those other kids had been wasting their food and wasn't that supposed to be wrong? Then there had been the teacher's aide who'd called the Parish on Bud after Lireinne had told her about Miss Penny and her brown bottle, as well as the social worker who came out to inspect the trailer when seven-year-old Wolf had explained to some other kid's parents that he slept on a sofa: they'd notified Child Protective Services. It wasn't like any of those hateful people had ever done anything real for her or Wolf, nothing that made a difference anyway.

No, Lireinne should have known better than to trust someone like Emma. She'd been so dumb, on the way home that night she'd even told her about Paris. Emma must have laughed herself sick later at the thought of trailer trash going to France. Well, Her Royal Highness, Queen Emma of St. Tammany Parish, could go to hell. She didn't need her for anything. She had a
real job
now, with a salary and a car. Everything was going to be just great for her from now on. After three frustrating weeks Lireinne was finally comfortable, working at her new position as Mr. Con's assistant.

For sure, the first few days had been what Mr. Con called a “transition.” Some transition. Initially, the computer programs had been a real bitch. Flustered, Lireinne had lost files, found them again, re-lost them, and re-found them until she got the hang of it. She'd dropped a couple of important calls and forgotten to update Mr. Con's calendar, but those days were behind her, Lireinne thought with a sense of accomplishment. She hadn't needed some freaking busybody do-gooder to get her this job, had she? No, Lireinne had gotten here all on her own, and besides, she was good at what she did. Mr. Con told her so all the time.

The peacock launched off the oak limb, flopping to the ground in an ungainly heap and breaking her reverie. She wasn't a hoser anymore, she was a personal assistant, Lireinne reminded herself, banishing the angry, depressing thoughts of Emma. Besides, what was this? Woolgathering Day?

She turned and hurried up the walk to the office.
Bien sûr, chérie!
Lireinne was looking forward to a big cup of coffee with plenty of milk and sugar, planning to sip at it while she filed the week's expense reports this morning. She'd never liked coffee much before coming to work in the front office, but now she thought it was sort of cool. People working in real offices always drank lots of it, she'd learned. Then, too, it helped to pass the time because, to tell the truth, most of what she did was pretty boring—although it beat the snot out of hosing.

Lireinne opened the front door and stepped inside to the warm aromas of coffee and baking biscuits.

“Hey, Miz 'Cille,” she chirped as she walked into the kitchen.

The older woman was busy cutting up chickens for Friday's lunch. 'Cille, wearing a fall-weather getup of plus-size maroon sweats and fuzzy pink house slippers, didn't turn around and she didn't return Lireinne's greeting either. With a crack of bones, she smacked the cleaver into a plump chicken breast.

Okay. Be that way, Lireinne thought with a raised eyebrow. Whatever. A hot, fragrant mug of coffee in hand, cream and sugar added, she was ready to leave the kitchen and get on the morning's filing when 'Cille finally spoke.

“Hope you're proud of yourself, you little mink!” she muttered.

Lireinne almost dropped her mug on the floor. “What'd you say?” she asked, incredulous, sure she'd heard the other woman wrong. “Mink” meant a female who indiscriminately slept around with anybody, a girl with no sexual scruples whatsoever. Of all the names that Lireinne had been called in the past, no one had ever accused her of being a mink. It was that bad.

Miz 'Cille didn't look away from the chicken carcasses spread out on the cutting board, but laid into a thigh joint with her cleaver. “You heard me,” she said loudly, her broad back to Lireinne.
Whack
. “Making a hardworkin' man lose his job so's you can cut loose with the boss, and him married, too! I just hope you're proud of yourself.”

“Hold on one minute,” Lireinne said, confused and suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘cutting loose with the boss'? And what the hell is this, ‘making a man lose his job'?”

“What I mean, you slut, is you made it sound like Harlan done something bad—which he didn't do and you know it—so he had to quit when they made him go hose. His bad back flat couldn't take it. Now he's out of work and it's all your doing.”

Like an ocean liner correcting its course, 'Cille turned her enormous bulk to face Lireinne. She wiped her hands on the bloodstained apron stretched across the expanse of her hips before she announced, “I'm a God-fearing, churchgoing Christian woman. I don't hold with what's going on at this place since you come in here, not at all. Wearing those tight skirts, making up to Mr. Costello like you do. I know
all
about your kind, missy.” Miz 'Cille's fat lips were a self-righteous, fleshy bud of contempt. “Hoors of Babel-land.”

Stricken voiceless by 'Cille's accusations, Lireinne was struggling to find the words to tell the cook that this wasn't the way things had gone down, that it hadn't been that way
at all,
when Tina walked into the kitchen.

“Whore is right.” The office manager shoved past Lireinne to join Miz 'Cille. She folded her arms across her sagging bosom and sneered, “Yeah, I bet you put out like a broke Coke machine. It's the only way a hoser like you could end up being some . . .
personal assistant
.” Tina's eyes turned ugly in her acne-scarred face. “Now I bet you think you're going to run to Mr. Costello, tell him lies about me, too. Don't even dream on it, you slut. Roger Hannigan gave me this job his own self and only he can fire me.”

Deep in rolls of fat, 'Cille's gaze was likewise flat with naked hostility. “Yeah, me neither. The big boss tells me every day I'm the best cook in St. Tammany Parish. Tell all the lies you want, but Mr. Roger won't believe word-one 'bout me, not from somebody like you.”

Not
this
again, Lireinne thought, her heart thudding in her ears. They couldn't call her a whore for something she hadn't done. This was just, just . . .
wrong
.

“You're wrong!” Lireinne cried. Her throat was thick, she was almost choking. “Harlan, he, he . . .” Once more she was without words, so upset that she couldn't begin to tell them the truth about Harlan's assault. This was what they thought about her? That she'd lied to get him fired and worse, that she'd gotten her job because she was sleeping with
Mr. Con
?

Meanwhile Tina and Miz 'Cille sneered, clearly satisfied at having made her feel so bad. Their hate was as plain as if they'd slapped her. Lireinne abruptly slung her coffee mug in the sink and stalked out of the kitchen. Shaking, she stormed down the hall into Mr. Con's big office, slamming the door behind her before she burst into furious tears.

She'd just been called a whore.
Again
.

Somehow this was so much worse than when everybody at Covington High had called her names. This was happening at her
job
. Lireinne had figured that Tina and the other women in the office wouldn't take to her right away, but she hadn't known they hated her.

Her back pressed against the door, she sank her teeth into her knuckle until it hurt. Slowly, the tears stopped and Lireinne took a deep breath, trying to get a grip because she'd be damned if those dirty-minded bitches would make her cry. Lireinne never cried. She didn't deserve that kind of shit from anyone, much less those two ugly-ass old women. For God's sake, except for that one time with Brett, she was practically a virgin. That shouldn't count, right? Besides, she didn't want to have sex with anyone,
nobody,
least of all her boss.

Lireinne collapsed into one of the conference chairs, staring out the big window at the retention pond while the women's sickening words shrilled a taunting chorus in her head.

Lireinne sat for another ten minutes, fighting the stubborn tears that wouldn't leave her alone. She was remembering those names, the way they seemed to follow her wherever she went. Why were people so . . .
mean
to her?

Lireinne was forced to admit she didn't know why. She never had, and probably never would. With a slow, unhappy shake of her head, she made herself get out of the chair to commence filing the expense reports: they were waiting and she needed to get to them before Mr. Con showed up at the office. If she didn't want to give up and go home like a loser, she had work to do.