Million Dollar Road (20 page)

And while Lireinne, Bolt, and Wolf, stupid with smoke, vat, and terror, raced through the fog across the dam of the retention pond, Snowball followed the moonlit trail of cookies like a saurian Gretel, finding her way home through the woods.

Dawn was a ruby glow in the east. Across the farm, the doors to the Explorer slammed. The engine cranked, sputtered, then roared as the car peeled out of the driveway. Rocks flew when the back end fishtailed in the gravel, but now the Explorer was racing down Million Dollar Road, flying away from the farm.

Away, away, away.

 

Snowball planned to
stay.

J
ust as she had been for the past two weeks since she broke her ankle, this Monday afternoon found Lizzie MacBride-Costello ensconced on the leather Chesterfield sofa in the den, her bulky plaster cast propped on the ottoman. She was idly switching channels on the big-screen TV and wishing she could have just one glass of pinot grigio.

Over the course of her confinement, Liz had become bored witless with daytime television, but her cast was such a pain in the ass that even
Oprah
was better than hopping around the house like a three-legged dog. She hated her crutches more than her cast: the crosspieces dug into her armpits and the rubber tips had a tendency to catch on the rugs and edges of the furniture in hair-raising challenges to her precarious balance.

No, the crutches were bad enough, but then there was the wretched morning sickness and all those trips to the bathroom to throw up. Showering was an ordeal, and she couldn't have even a single glass of wine to help her relax. Why, oh why did she have to be pregnant, especially now? Handicapped and pregnant was a miserable combination. Thank goodness Lima Bean was quiet in his crate beside her on the floor, probably worn out from his constant whining and crying.

It was yet another piece of bad timing. Con had brought the puppy home a week ago, “so you'll have some company.” This was the first time Lizzie had owned a dog, although she'd always thought she'd love having one. At home in Baton Rouge there'd never been enough room, much less money, to spare for a dog, and later she couldn't afford her car payments, let alone a pet. So, the evening Con had brought the puppy home, she'd been prepared to be enchanted by the little Bichon Frise, adorable as a sugar-white, furry windup toy—until it was time to put him in his crate. Caged Lima Bean had commenced a miseried, ear-piercing complaint that lasted for hours. Her new puppy, Liz declared, hated his crate. How was she to get any rest with this hideous racket?

Con had said reasonably, “But, hon, we're not going to let him wander all over the house to pee on the rugs. Hell, they're not even paid for yet. It's just until he's housebroken. He'll have to get used to it.”

But Lima Bean wasn't getting used to it. Neither was Lizzie.

Well, he was asleep now, so for once she could have a nap—if she didn't have to hobble to the bathroom again. Liz settled deeper into the down-filled pillows Con had arranged for her on the sofa, but couldn't seem to get comfortable. Damn this cast, damn this pregnancy, and damn Consuelo, too. Where was she when Lizzie needed her?

CoCo Hannigan had lent the Costellos her maid, Consuelo, for a few weeks while Liz was going to be on crutches, but the maid only came in for the mornings, leaving before noon. If Consuelo hadn't already left today, Liz could have told her to fetch a glass of ginger ale (“cracked ice, not cubes”) and some saltines, the only food she could keep down these days.

What was the fun in finally having a maid if she couldn't go out to lunch with friends and leave the housework for the domestic? With just a few more hours at her disposal, she could have made Consuelo drive her somewhere, Liz supposed, but the maid spent every minute she was there on housework. Lizzie sighed in aggravation and tried again to find a better position. A glass of wine or two would have been just the ticket, but that was going to be a thing of the past until after this pregnancy was over, eight long months from now.

Lizzie refused to think about that eventuality today. She'd just begun to doze off when Lima Bean began whining and pawing at his crate again.

“Oh,
hell
.” Lizzie fumbled for the remote and turned up the volume on
The Jerry Springer Show,
where four obese transvestites were slapping one another's faces, each jowled face spackled with Kabuki-style makeup. They screamed in strings of hoarse, bleep-ridden vitriol, demanding to know who was the biggest slut, anyway? The audience erupted in uproarious bloodlust.

“Go back to sleep, you stupid dog,” Liz muttered. Lima Bean whimpered mournfully instead. Lizzie pulled a pillow over her head, covering her ears. It didn't help. Finally, irritated beyond endurance, she sat up on the sofa, her taffy hair wildly disordered, her expression murderous.

“All right!” With a groan, she heaved her cast off the ottoman. “If you want out so bad, here you go, you pain in the ass. You're out of there!” Stretching over the edge of the sofa, she lifted the latch. Lima Bean tumbled out of his plastic cage, his entire tiny body wriggling in ecstasy at being freed. Liz dragged her cast back onto the ottoman and threw herself into the pillows with another groan.

“Now beat it. Pee wherever the hell you want,” she declared. On the television the slap-fest had turned into a group hug: somehow the queens had resolved their differences. In the last thirty seconds, all was forgiven and she'd missed it. With a darling shake of his white fluffiness and a curled-tongued yawn, Lima Bean trotted purposefully down the hallway and disappeared into the living room.

“There goes the goddamned Berber,” Liz announced, not caring in the least.

She was just beginning to drift downward into sleep when she felt the soft, wet tickle of the puppy's cold nose on her cheek.

“What now?” Liz exclaimed. Stretching on his hind legs, Lima Bean whimpered, pawing at the leather sofa with his itty front feet. “You want to be on the sofa? Will that shut your ass up?”

She reached down and lifted the dog by the scruff of his neck, dropping him without ceremony at the end of the Chesterfield by her right foot. Lima Bean sniffed around for a moment before he wriggled his way along the cushions, and then climbed on top of her. He circled a few times, sighed, and curled up in adorable contentment just below her chest.

Bemused, Lizzie stroked the puppy's head—only slightly larger than a Ping-Pong ball—with a gentle fingertip. Really, she thought, he was
such
a cute little thing. To hell with the rugs. No more crate for Lima Bean, Liz thought as she finally eased into sleep. Her nausea had vanished and her digestion wasn't at war with itself for the first time in two weeks: apparently, the cure for morning sickness was a warm puppy, sound asleep on her stomach.

But Lizzie soon learned that Con wasn't pleased with this development when he came home that evening, nor was he in a mood to listen to the reasons for Lima Bean's release. It had been a bad day at the alligator farm. The wastewater problem with the EPA was escalating, Hannigan was asking pointed questions about the campaign donations' usefulness—or the lack thereof—and the French deal for the BFG skins was stalled. The crown of Con's frustrating day? Over the weekend the farm's giant white alligator, Snowball, had somehow escaped her tank and taken up residence in the retention pond. The crew had discovered her there, the first thing that morning when they'd turned up for work.

“I'm going to have to hire a security guard after this,” Con griped, fixing himself a large scotch at the wet bar in the den. “Somebody had to have let her out, probably some goddamned kids. The guys were at it all day with ropes, duct tape, and dead chickens for bait, but it's like that bitch knows better than to let them get close enough to lasso her ass.”

Con sat down beside Liz in the big leather wingback chair, looking exhausted, his glass already half empty. “It was a complete waste of time.” He took a long pull on his drink. “I must have reached out to the nuisance hunter twenty times today, but the son-of-a-bitch isn't returning my calls. I just hope he can catch her.
We
sure as hell aren't having any luck.”

Prone on the Chesterfield, Lizzie cuddled a dozing Lima Bean in her arms. Ever since she'd given in and let him out of his crate, he'd been so sweet that she couldn't bring herself to put him down unless he acted as though he needed to pee.

“Well,” she said carelessly, “why don't you just shoot her and get the whole mess over with?”

Frowning, Con shook his head at her suggestion. “God, Liz—no. In the whole world, there're only maybe another seven like Snowball because wild leucistics die almost as soon as they hatch. When she can't get out of the sun, she'll be dead. With no pigment, she'll overheat and her organs will burn up from the inside out. We got lucky over the weekend. It was overcast and maybe tomorrow will be, too, but Roger's going to blow like a cheap tire if we lose her. She's like some . . . goddamned
totem
to him. I know it sounds absurd, but she's been on the farm almost as long as he has.”

Con finished his scotch, rose to his feet, and stretched with a yawn. “I'm going to go see what Consuelo's cooked for dinner. You want me to bring you a plate?”

“No,” Liz said. “I never know when I'm going to feel like throwing up.”

“Still,” Con said. “You need to try to eat. What about a glass of ginger ale? Some crackers?”

Even though her nausea appeared to have taken the day off, Lizzie couldn't think of a single thing she wanted to eat.

“No, you go ahead and have dinner. Lima Bean and I'll be just fine, won't we, sweetie?” She pressed her lips to the top of the puppy's head, and when Con started yelling about the ruined Berber rug in the living room, she couldn't help but smile. The weight of the sleeping puppy filled her with something very like real contentment. What was a stupid rug compared to that? In fact, for the first time in days she didn't even want a glass of wine.

And that night, over Con's protestations, Lima Bean slept next to her in the big bed, his wee belly full of canned dog food that cost almost as much as escargot, his precious puppy breath purring in precious puppy snores. Liz sighed, stroking the warm white ball of fluff snuggled into her armpit.

Why on earth hadn't she done this before?

 

Lizzie rested better that night than she had in days and woke late Tuesday morning. Con had considerately made no noise at all leaving for work, although he'd managed to remove Lima Bean from the bed without waking her.

He put the puppy back in his crate, Liz thought in muzzy recognition, her tousled head emerging from under the duvet. Well,
that
rule was at an end. Once she got up, she'd let Lima Bean out. A glance at the clock told her it was well after nine and Consuelo would already be in the kitchen, washing up Con's dinner dishes.

Better you than me, Liz thought with a luxurious stretch. The first whiff of morning sickness announcing itself, she grabbed her robe draped over the foot of the bed, slipped it on, and swung her cast onto the floor. After last night, she'd slept so well that even her crutches didn't seem so onerous as she hobbled into the bathroom to throw up.

Half an hour later, laboriously bathed (she had to wrap her plaster cast in a garbage bag and keep it outside the shower stall) and dressed in a light cashmere sweater the topaz color of her eyes, gold bangles, wide-legged slacks, and one silk slipper, Lizzie came back into the bedroom where the maid was arranging the pillows on the just-made bed.

“Oh, don't do that,” Liz ordered. “Change the sheets instead. Use the linen ones from Ireland.”

Consuelo's brown face was carefully blank. “
Sí,
Miz Costello. I change.” Without hesitation she began stripping the bed she'd just finished making.

It was about time for changing the sheets. Lizzie hadn't wanted Con at all that way, not since that awful night in the emergency room at St. Tammany General two weeks ago, but after her delicious night's sleep she might be in the mood again. Her cast was certainly less than seductive, but she had no doubt that Con wouldn't notice it enough to matter, not if she put her mind to distracting him. Liz smiled privately at the thought, and then realized that she was hungry. In fact, she was starving. That, too, was a welcome change.

“Oh, and before you get started on the sheets, go make me some decaf.” Lizzie thought for a moment. “And I want scrambled eggs and bacon, too.” This morning she wanted real food, not saltines and ginger ale.

Yes, this was shaping up to be a
great
day. Lizzie hopped into the den to free Lima Bean.

Wriggling with joy to be out of his crate, the puppy immediately tinkled on the antique Sarouk rug.

“Want some of Mommy's yummy breakfast, sweetie?” Liz said lovingly. “Consuelo!” she called over her shoulder toward the kitchen. “Lima Bean's had an accident. Grab the paper towels when you bring my breakfast in here.” She gingerly lowered herself onto the Chesterfield, arranged her cast on the ottoman, and then scooped up the dog to sit on the cushions beside her.

“What a good puppy you are. Mommy's darling little baby, aren't you? Now, where's that stupid remote?”

The television remote wasn't to be found on the sofa, nor on the big teak coffee table in front of her. Liz called to the maid again in frustration.

“Consuelo, come in here right this minute and find the remote.” It was almost time for the morning's Classic Movie on TCM to start—
A Letter to Three Wives
—and she was looking forward to watching it while she ate breakfast. Beginning to be irritated at the delay, Liz spied the slender plastic wand of the remote, wedged in the cushion of the wing chair where Con had been sitting last night. Consuelo hurried into the den, carrying the decaf and a plate of bacon and eggs on a tray. A roll of paper towels wedged under her arm, she set the tray down on the coffee table.

Honestly, Liz thought, how can she be so
slow
?

“The remote's over there in that chair,” she said, pointing. “Give it to me before you clean up after the puppy.” Lizzie broke off a piece of crisp bacon. “Here you go, honey-bunch.” After an intrigued sniff or two, Lima Bean took it from her fingers, his shoe-button eyes avid when he gobbled up the bacon. He licked his lips, begging for more.