Million Dollar Road (25 page)

“True that,” Lireinne said with a hesitant, tremulous smile.

Taking fresh courage from that smile, Con drew his bandaged left hand from under the blanket, resting it almost casually beside him on the bed. There. Let her look. He'd take this moment on the chin because he didn't have a choice.

Lireinne stiffened. “Oh, no,” she breathed. “Everybody said it was bad, but . . .”

Her eyes pooled, seawater droplets slipping free to trace silvery tracks down her cheeks to the corner of her mouth. With a divine un-self-consciousness, Lireinne slipped the tip of her tongue between her rose-leaf lips and captured a tear.

That tear swept Con past all doubt. In the trackless wilds where Con's lost sense of himself had wandered since his accident, a flame burned, a fire beckoned from the hearth of home.

It wasn't pity she felt, Con realized with a growing wonder. This was
compassion
. Had anyone ever felt that for him? Had anyone in his entire life actually felt
for
him? No, no one ever had, not even Emma. Being Con Costello had always been a lonely job. It meant being larger than life, as strong as his namesake, Hercules, and twice as invulnerable. This miracle of a girl, Con knew with astonished joy, was the one he'd been waiting for all along.

The love of his life.

“I'm so, so sorry,” the love of his life sobbed. “I'm so sorry about this.”

Con's smile was more intimate than a kiss. “Don't, Lireinne. I'm going to be fine.”

But Lireinne shook her head and cried, “No, really! It's my . . . no . . . I mean, I'm
sorry
. Really, really sorry.” Her slim shoulders heaving, she covered her face with her hands, awash with tears.

I'm alive, Con thought, fierce in his consuming happiness, his triumph. I'm still goddamned alive and I love her. Almost, he reached for Lireinne then, to touch her shining black hair, to cup her exquisite cheek in the palm of his right hand and pull her to him. But Con waited, reluctant to trust this perfect moment to chance. This wasn't the place or the time. Knowing now that he had more than enough time to love her, all the time in the world, with infinite tenderness Con gazed upon the beautiful girl who'd shown him the meaning of mercy. Ah, at last. I've won her.

“There now, honey,” he murmured soothingly. “It's going to be all right.” He stroked her arm, and thrilled to the feel of her fine bones under his good hand.

Lireinne looked up at his touch, her eyes still streaming. “Are you sure?”

At that moment, with an abrupt knock, Binnings walked into Con's hospital room.

“Sorry to interrupt.” The surgeon's voice was flat. There was no mistaking the contempt in his gaze as he took in the scene in front of him—the teary-eyed girl, Con's possessive caress.

“I'm going to need to check those sutures now, Mr. Costello. And you, miss,” Binnings said, turning to Lireinne, “you'll need to . . .
visit
. . . another time.”

A
fter the recent rains, the newborn seedlings had grown into an earthbound, pale-green mist, a low cloud of life in the rows of Emma's garden.

It was Saturday afternoon, nearly a month since she'd last seen Lireinne. Since it was early days after planting, there wasn't any weeding to be done yet and the chickens had already made their morning constitutional. The breakfast dishes were washed, her bedclothes changed. The laundry basket was empty and the house was spotless. Procrastinating until well after lunch, Emma had run out of things to do before she finally took a shower. She dressed afterward in jeans, her Top-Siders, and a long-sleeved, blue-striped T-shirt to cover the long, still angry-looking cut on the inside of her arm. She brushed her hair until it gleamed like heirloom silver, lastly strapping on her watch.

There was absolutely nothing left to do now—nothing except what Emma knew waited for her on Million Dollar Road. She locked the front door, checked it again, and paused uncertainly on the porch. Emma's ambivalence wasn't going to win, though: ambivalence, as Sarah would say, was bullshit. Holding equal parts hope and doubt in her heart, Emma climbed in her truck. Biting her lower lip, she started the diesel engine. “Here goes,” she muttered.

“Be good!” she called to Sheba through the truck's open window.

Since her return, the hound had kept close to the front porch and garden. Her hunting days, it seemed, were done. Emma was grateful for that. She had never wanted to confine Sheba to the house when she wasn't home, and so the dog's reluctance to wander was a real blessing.

Truly, Emma thought as she drove down the gravel road, cultivating gratitude was a lot easier when you had something to be grateful for. She could work with that understanding in the future.

In the ditches beside the highway, the wild asters and coreopsis bloomed beneath the loblolly pines in miles-long, starry riots of blue and yellow. It was a glorious, high-ceilinged day, cool for the end of September, the air as clean as if it had been washed, rinsed, and hung out to dry.

Yet Emma's mood was sober as she turned over her plan. She hadn't been able to make herself phone first, apprehensive that Lireinne might not even want to accept the call after Emma's weeks-long silence. No, she thought as she made the turn off the highway onto Million Dollar Road, doing this in person was the best way to go about it. Emma had never been good on the phone in any case—small talk had always been agonizingly awkward for her even when she wasn't in the wrong—and so she'd made up her mind to take a chance on an unannounced visit to the Hootens' trailer.

And if Lireinne wasn't home this afternoon, then she'd leave a note. Beset by anxiety, Emma almost hoped this trip would come to that, but long before she was ready there was the mailbox, the weathered letters, HOOTEN, glued to its side. She stopped the truck at the head of the shell drive. The house trailer was barely visible, half hidden in the grove of centuries-old oak trees.

“Do it,” Emma muttered, ashamed at her cowardice. “Just go
on,
dammit.” What was the worst that could happen, after all?

Well, there was the strong possibility that Lireinne would slam the door in her face. That rejection might be what Emma deserved, but it would be bad. Not as hard to take as discovering that her fears were true, that Lireinne had succumbed to Con's attentions, but hard enough. But there was also the possibility, Emma argued, attempting hopefulness, that the girl might be glad to see her. It was also possible that nothing had happened between Lireinne and Emma's ex-husband. It was possible. Perhaps what awaited her lay in between, something unanticipated.

One thing was certain, though: she'd never find out unless she was brave enough to knock on the door.

And so Emma squared her shoulders, sat up straighter on the front seat of the truck, and drove onto the jouncing, potholed road before she could talk herself out of it. The trailer soon came into dispiriting view. The white, algae-streaked double-wide sat in the midst of the same collection of old tires, random junk, and tree stumps that had been moldering there on her previous visit. A rusted red truck, its rear end sagging, was parked next to the minivan on blocks, but there wasn't another car in sight. Except for the crow perched on the chain saw stuck in the oak stump, the place seemed to be deserted. At her approach, the crow took flight.

Emma stopped, put the truck in park, and shut off the engine. She'd made it to the trailer at least. Now she'd get out and go knock on the door. If Lireinne wasn't home after all, Emma could leave the note she'd written out last night after several attempts, working at getting it right until she'd finally realized she was procrastinating again.

Her hands were trembling when Emma took the note out of her purse and looked it over one last time. It seemed a poor thing, but she couldn't write another one now. She slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans before she got out of the truck. Resolute in her determination to see this through, Emma picked her way through the old engine parts and assorted debris littering the weedy front yard. As on her last visit, the distinct odor of septic tank lay over the good scent of the oaks and faint traces of motor oil, but her heart was hammering now, Emma's mouth was dry, and so her senses barely registered the musty, slightly spoiled smell.

At the top of the cement steps, she knocked a quick light rap. Immediately from the other side of the door came the yapping of a small dog, high-pitched above an odd rumbling noise like a constant, distant thunder. The shrill barks grew louder and more frantic as she waited, and still nobody came to the door.

Emma hesitated before knocking again, debating whether she shouldn't just slip her note under the sill, get back in her truck, and leave, but with a shriek of rusted metal the knob turned.

The door opened, and an almost physical blast from a television assaulted her ears when a big, barefooted man stepped out of the trailer. Quickly, he shut the door behind him before she could see inside. The man was as bald as the tires in the yard and heavily muscled, his strong forearms covered in tattoos. Cradled in one of those arms was the source of the yapping: a tiny white puppy. They were an incongruous pair—the tall, burly man, the toy dog—and despite her dry mouth and runaway heartbeat, Emma's lips turned up in a smile.

The puppy wriggled in a determined attempt to get down, barking at her with vigorous intent.
Intruder!
And the man looked sleepy, as if he'd just woken up, although he was fully dressed in a blue plaid flannel shirt and worn jeans. Emma couldn't help thinking that if this was the Bud Hooten Sarah had described, he really ought to get out of bed before one o'clock in the afternoon if he wanted to get ahead in his luckless life.

“Can I help you?” the man asked in a pleasant baritone. He glanced down at the shrill ball of barking fluff under one arm. “Sorry about the pup—he's a regular ol' watchdog. Hush up, Lunchmeat.”

Friendly brown eyes met Emma's as the big man said with a rueful grin, “I know. Hell of a name for such a cute lil dog, but that's what my girl calls him. Now, what can I do for you?”

He waited for her reply, his broad shoulders relaxed. The dog under his arm quieted, sniffing the air as if to catch Emma's scent over the ripe odor of eau-de-septic-tank.

Emma attempted a smile, even as the tide of her shyness threatened to swallow her up into an ocean of embarrassment. “I'm . . . looking for Lireinne,” she said hesitantly. “Is she here?”

The man shook his head in regret. “'Fraid you just missed her. She's gone to town, visiting down to the hospital. Won't be back for a couple of hours yet, but you never know. Want to wait for a bit?”

Emma was ready to tell him that she'd just leave a note, thanks, when the man held out a big-knuckled hand.

“I'm Bud,” he said. “Lireinne's dad. Well, stepdad, anyway. Nice truck you got there. Me, I'm partial to a Ford, too.”

Swallowing her reticence, Emma took his offered hand. Her own disappeared in his warm, calloused grip. “Oh . . . right. It's nice, it's nice to meet you,” she faltered. “I'm Emma Favreaux, um . . . a friend of Lireinne's.”

“Sure nice to meet you,” Bud said, nodding. “Lireinne's talked about you before.”

“She has?” Emma asked cautiously.

“Yes, ma'am.” Bud's face wasn't giving anything away. “Sure has. Don't you want to wait on Lireinne a little while? Seems a shame, you coming all the way out here, only to miss her.”

She couldn't run the risk of offending this man, Emma thought with a mental wringing of her hands. She didn't want him to think she was unfriendly, for she'd no idea what Lireinne had said about her. It might not be good. Emma paused in helpless indecision. Unless she wanted him to assume the worst, though, she had no choice, not really. She was going to brave this out if only to prove that she wasn't the kind of ridiculous, overly fastidious woman who was squeamish about house trailers and unpleasant smells. She
needed
to do this, Emma reminded herself, because it was right. She'd just have to wait until she could decently leave.

“Uh, okay? Sure. Just for a few minutes, but . . . sure.”

“Great! Get you something to drink?”

“Maybe a glass of water?” Emma said. Her heart had slowed but her mouth still felt dry as old newspapers.

“Water it is,” Bud said with a smile.

Opening the door a crack, he looked into the trailer's interior before he shut the door again. Bud shook his head, a resigned expression on his stubbled face.

“I'd ask you in,” he said, “but the place's kind of a wreck and my boy's camped out in front of the dang TV. I got home last night late, haven't had a chance to pick up the front room yet. This is the first Saturday in six months I'm not off workin', so tell you what—I'm enjoying having a day with nothing much to do. Let me go get us a couple of folding chairs. We can set out in the yard while we wait. It's a nice day for settin' in the sun, don't you think?”

The tiny dog whined, struggling in Bud Hooten's arm. It clearly wanted to get down.

Emma said, “That would be fine. I'd like that.”

“Good.” With a grin Bud lowered the puppy to the steps, next to Emma's feet. “Hasn't been here a week and already this little feller runs the show. If you don't mind,” he said, “just watch Lunchmeat here and I'll go round up those chairs, get a glass of ice water. Be right back.”

Bud disappeared inside the trailer, shutting the door firmly behind him, leaving Emma on the steps with the puppy. Lunchmeat began sniffing Emma's Top-Siders, undoubtedly eaten up with curiosity at the smell of Sheba.

If Emma had entertained any thoughts of taking off while Bud Hooten was otherwise occupied, she gave them up then and there. Of course she could drink a glass of water and then . . . and then after a polite half hour she could leave. Besides, she was in charge of looking after the puppy until Bud came back. Done with inspecting Emma's shoes, he'd already clambered down the steps and was headed for a big pile of dangerous-looking, rusted machinery.

“Oh, no you don't,” Emma declared. Hurrying, she scooped Lunchmeat up before he could go exploring underneath the trailer. No telling what was under there, she thought, looking around the littered yard with a small shudder.

“You're going to be right here when your daddy gets back.” Emma lifted the puppy so that she looked into his precious, panting little face.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “Is he a nice man? Or am I going to get butchered with that chain saw over there?” The puppy licked her nose with a pink tongue the size of her fingernail. Emma couldn't help but laugh.

“No massacre today, hmm?” she murmured, brushing her lips on the top of the dog's fluffy head.

Well, why not? The sun was warm on Emma's shoulders, she had nowhere else to go this afternoon, and really, it
was
a perfect day for sitting outside.

 

The ice water turned into a beer before Lireinne returned.

To Emma's relief, the time had flown by. They'd talked and talked, at first about Lireinne and her promotion and how proud Bud was of her. Emma was inwardly amazed to find that she could listen to Bud's account of Lireinne's new boss, “Mr. Con,” without feeling as though her world were flying apart, an entire planet in crisis. In fact, it was almost as though Bud was talking about a mutual acquaintance, one she didn't know all that well. It was a disorienting notion that was nonetheless oddly freeing—thinking of Con as just another man. Emma was still trying that idea on for size when Bud shared some more recent news.

“Lireinne says the word at the farm's that he had himself some kind of run-in with a gator just this past week,” he said. “Lost a chunk of his left hand. Big ol' she-gator just et it right off him. Been in the hospital ever since, 'bout five days.”

“I hadn't heard,” Emma murmured. Her heart lurched out of its previously calmed rhythm into a steady gallop. Oh, Con—what's happened to you? The conceit of him being just another man collapsed into a deep concern, even though she knew all too well that Con had a new wife to look after him now. He didn't need her anymore; he hadn't for two years. This thought brought its own remembered pain, and Emma struggled to maintain her composure as she absorbed this information.