Million Dollar Road (32 page)

But what about Lireinne? Emma thought again of the stony hunger in the girl's voice that night. She'd unconsciously recognized the steel cable of relentless ambition woven through the gauzy fabric of Lireinne's dreams, so like Con in that way Emma couldn't believe she'd missed it. Lireinne was going into this situation with her eyes wide open, Emma suspected, and strange as it might seem, if anyone could take on Con Costello and come out the other side not only unscathed but ahead of the game, that woman just might be eighteen-year-old Lireinne Hooten. She was powerful in her own way, like the deep, invisible current beyond the breakers, a riptide sweeping you out to sea. Emma almost smiled then, imagining Con's fire confronted with that water's power.

Slowly, feeling her way, she said, “I think . . . Con's probably met his match in your daughter. You're right to be concerned—any father would be, and with good reason—but he's not a bad man. Not really. Thoughtless and careless sometimes. A man to take advantage, yes, but . . . it's just that Con's so determined to get what he wants that he forgets someone always ends up paying a price for it. Still, I believe Lireinne's smart enough to figure that out, for all she's so young, even though she's been so damaged. I didn't know her long, but I think she's a resilient girl, one who seems to know exactly where the ground is under her feet.”

And
she knows exactly what she wants and won't rest until she gets it, but Emma didn't say that. These were private observations, not something Lireinne's father would want to hear.

“So,” Bud said, his mouth wry. “You're sayin' my girl's prob'ly got this under control, that I shouldn't go find your ex-husband and beat the living shit out of him?”

Alarmed, Emma shook her head. “Oh, no! That would be a
bad
idea. You'd end up in jail, for one thing. And then, whatever it is that's going on between them, you won't be able to stop it anyway. Your daughter's of age, so unless you lock her up, she can do what she wants to, legally. You're going to have to trust Lireinne to look out for herself, Bud. I know that's hard to hear and even harder to do, but that's all the advice I can give you.” And it was good advice for Emma, too, since there was nothing she could do about Con and Lireinne either. There never had been.

With a long look at Emma, Bud nodded.

“Thanks,” he said. “I guess it's as good a recommendation as any. Can't afford getting slammed in the Parish lockup. That would purely play hell with everything, wouldn't it? And maybe you're right about Lireinne. Not to make a bad joke at his expense, but it might be ol' Mr. Con's gone and bit off a mite more than he can chew
this
time.” He picked up his plate and reached for hers. “Here, let me do these dishes.”

“Oh, no,” Emma said, laughing. “I don't know you nearly well enough for that, Bud Hooten.”

Bud frowned. “Don't seem right, you doing all the cookin' and cleaning up, too.”

“I'm a stubborn woman. Sarah Fortune says so.” Emma lifted an eyebrow in mock imperiousness. “I'll have you know I mean to get my way in this.”

With a look of amused alarm, Bud raised his hands in surrender. “Yes, ma'am. I make it a point to let a woman have her own way no matter what, being a peaceable man by nature.” He pushed back from the table. “Guess I'll be goin' then, give you your evening back. Time to head home. Four a.m. and the loading dock's going to come plenty early enough, I guess.”

Seeing he meant to leave, Emma nodded with real regret, understanding that time and Walmart waited for no man. They walked out of the kitchen and into the front room where the fire had fallen into glowing embers and ash. Bud put on his jacket and picked up his hat.

“Thanks for another fine meal, Emma,” he said. “And thanks for listening. I'll take what you said to heart.”

Emma had to ask. “What are you going to do?”

“Love her.” Bud opened the front door, and the cold north wind swept the woodsmoke's incense into the hallway. “Just love her.”

Hearing that, her heart suddenly too full to contain what she felt for him, Emma shed her last inhibition. She slipped her arms under Bud's jacket, around the wide, solid warmth of his back in its flannel shirt, clasped her hands together, and held him close.

“I think you need a hug,” she murmured shyly into the front of his coat.

Bud was as still as though he'd been struck with a stone. But with a low exhalation, he cupped her jaw in his hand. Lifting it gently, his brown eyes searched hers.

“Woman,” he said, his voice husky. “I think you need a kiss.”

Emma nodded, mute but sure of this. For once she was sure of something: she was sure she wanted Bud's kiss. The first touch of his lips told her he was a careful man, that this kiss would be sweet and chaste, but his mouth was saying something more. Emma tightened her arms around him, pressing her narrow hips to his.

“More,” she sighed against his stubbled cheek. “Please, more.”

And then it was. Bud's mouth covered hers again, his big hands tightening on her waist. Emma wound her arms around his neck and returned his kiss, swaying with the startling discovery of him, of her own unlooked-for desire, until Bud's hand found her breast. Her knees sagged. That intimate caress, the first time any man other than Con had touched her there, jolted her senses.

“Oh!” Emma pulled away, her eyes huge.

Bud's face reddened. “Sorry,” he muttered. “Didn't mean to . . .”

Emma put a finger to his lips. “Shh. You're a very attractive man, Bud Hooten, a wonderful man. I'm hoping to see you again. Soon. I'm just not quite ready for this, not yet. I, I need to take things a bit slower, okay?” she asked softly.

His worried expression easing, Bud said, “Emma, you can see me whenever you want.” He pulled her to him again, but this time his lips pressed her forehead firmly before he released her. “And now I'm going to take my leave.”

Later Emma lay in her bed, alone, thinking about the evening. Con and Lireinne seemed somehow . . . not the threat she'd been so sure they were. Whatever happened, whatever regrets she might have, they were their own people and would do as they would.

Remembering Bud was better. Whenever you want. Emma smiled and turned over, settling herself for a sleep she knew would be deep and without dreams.

Whenever you want
.

I
n the First Class cabin, the captain announced it was 8:30 Thursday morning, Paris time. As though the air were a staircase, the big 767 was descending through zero-visibility white clouds. So thick was the fog, Lireinne's first glimpse of France was of the impossibly green grass of the airfields rushing up to greet her.

And then as the plane continued to descend, my God, look at the
rabbits,
she thought in amazement. She could hardly believe what she was seeing. There were hundreds of rabbits, many hundreds, bounding madly through that emerald sea of grass, starling-like in their sweeping patterns. But then the airport appeared in all its massiveness and Lireinne forgot the rabbits. So many planes, so many buildings! Like JFK, De Gaulle was way too big to take in at a single glance.

“Thank God, we made it,” she murmured. She rubbed her gritty eyes, exhausted from the long hours of travel. She hadn't slept at all, positive that if she closed her eyes the plane would fall out of the sky. Lireinne turned to her boss in the seat beside her.

“Mr. Con, we made it!”

But just as he had been for the past several hours of the transatlantic flight, Mr. Con was passed out, snoring even as the wheels grabbed the ground with a rough thud and the plane shuddered with a
whoosh
of reversed engines. The white-bandaged hand rested in his lap. How could he sleep through this? Lireinne marveled. Although it was the second landing of her life, and somehow she'd survived the first one, she braced herself against the back of the roomy seat, gripping the armrests like floating spars in a rough sea. Her entire body was held rigid and tensed against the g-force of deceleration. What if the plane didn't stop? What if it slammed into some wall somewhere and everybody on board died in a fireball?

But just as the first plane had done on their flight from New Orleans to JFK, this plane was slowing now; the landing had gone without a hitch. Lireinne let go of the armrests, rubbing her cramped hands. She was alive, she'd be in Paris soon, and the confusing, anxious sixteen hours of travel to get here had been worth every minute.

While the plane taxied to the terminal, all the passengers began to stir in the First Class cabin and started gathering their belongings—all except for Lireinne and her boss. She didn't want to try to wake him in front of all these high rollers in this exclusive section of the plane, unsure what he'd be like after he'd been unconscious for so long. Mr. Con had taken two of his pills just a few hours ago and washed them down with a double scotch. This was on top of the previous pills and scotches at the Red Carpet Club in the United terminal during their layover. Lireinne had been unhappy about that, sure that she wouldn't be able to navigate their passage to the gate by herself if he got any more messed up than he already was, but somehow Mr. Con had pulled himself together. He seemed to sleepwalk through the boarding process and onto the plane in time for takeoff. As soon as the plane was in the air, though, he'd started drinking again.

“Champagne, Lireinne?” he'd asked her when the stewardess came for their drink order. “It'll help you relax. Maybe you can get some sleep on the flight.” His eyes were sweet and a little unfocused as he patted her knee. “It's the best way to pass the time, unless you like watching movies on a small screen.”

Trembling from the stress of another takeoff, Lireinne accepted a foaming glass of champagne from the flight attendant and finished it in about three big gulps. She was surprised to find out he was right: it did help. So when Mr. Con began to nod off, Lireinne figured out how to select a film from the menu and watched it happily until their dinner came: some kind of fish the stewardess told her was sea bass and tiny baby vegetables in a savory, buttery sauce. Mr. Con slept through the movie and the meal. He woke up somewhere over the Atlantic, asked Lireinne to get him another double scotch and took some more pills, saying his hand hurt. He slept through the breakfast of a croissant and coffee, too.

The plane was docking now, all the other people were lining up to get off the plane, and still he slept. They were the last seated passengers in the First Class section. Lireinne bit her lip and shook his shoulder timidly.

“Mr. Con?” she whispered. “You have to wake up now. We're here.”

He opened one sea-blue, bloodshot eye. “Lireinne,” he said, his voice soft and slurred. “Y'ready to get off this dam' plane, honey?” With a big yawn reeking of stale whiskey, he fumbled at his seat belt with his right hand. “Got th' yella cards?”

Relieved, Lireinne nodded. He'd snored through the part about the cards. She'd filled out both of their embarkation forms with some help from one of the attendants since she was terrified that she was going to make a mistake and then wouldn't be allowed off the plane, but had soon realized it wasn't that difficult anyway. Names, addresses, reason for coming to France: that was all there was to it.

Gathering her purse and passport, she stood now, reached into the overhead bin, and pulled down their bags and Mr. Con's briefcase. She put on her new coat and tucked the First Class envelope of travel-sized toiletries carefully inside her purse. They were free.

Mr. Con rubbed his face. “'Kay,” he said with another big yawn. He staggered to his feet. “Less do this.” Taking his briefcase from her with his right hand, he almost dropped it on the floor of the plane. “Whoops.”

Watching him weave unsteadily down the aisle behind the last First Class passenger, Lireinne worried that he might not make it off the plane after all before he fell down or lost his luggage. With a determined frown, she grabbed their bags and hurried to take his case, too.

“Let me carry that,” she said. “You're tired, and I bet your hand's hurting.”

His briefcase safely in hand, Lireinne slung her carry-on and his suit bag over her shoulder and gripped Mr. Con's elbow to help steady him. She ignored the raised eyebrows of the flight attendants waiting for them at the door to the plane.

“This way, Mr. Con,” Lireinne muttered firmly as he bumped into the bulkhead.

 

After emerging from the tunnel into the immigration area, Mr. Con's balance seemed to get a little better as he walked, although she almost lost him several times in the dense, shuffling crowds waiting in the long immigration lines.

As wiped out as she was, Lireinne's heart pounded at the press of humanity massed around her. Weighed down by the luggage, she held tight to Mr. Con's coat sleeve, intimidated by everybody. Those must be women underneath those dark bedsheets—shapeless, ambulatory bundles of fabric with only their kohl-rimmed eyes and tennis shoes showing. Like herds of obedient goats, these silent, alien females followed a step behind bearded men in patterned headscarves, black suits, and tons of gold jewelry. And just like her, the women were carrying the luggage even though the men seemed perfectly fine to Lireinne. It must be a foreign custom, she thought.

Foreign was everywhere. Lireinne averted her eyes, trying not to gape at the tall, dark-skinned couple in long, bright-colored robes and ropes of stone beads, a proud man and woman with aquiline features who looked nothing like the few black people she'd seen around town back home. It wasn't like there weren't any black folks there, but in Covington they had their own neighborhoods and stores. These people seemed like some kind of aloof African royalty. And were those Russians? Lireinne couldn't stop staring at the burly men bundled into fur coats and big wolf-skin hats. There were a thousand other strangers: strange clothes, strange faces, speaking strange languages and smelling of strange, exotic lands, all of them waiting in varying degrees of patience for their turns at the Plexiglas booths of the immigration officers.

Mr. Con weaved through this milling crush as though he were pushed along by the crowd, but he mumbled answers to the busy officer's questions and got their passports stamped. Somehow he got them through the nothing-to-declare line at Customs as well, and Lireinne was desperately grateful when they finally passed into the United Airlines hub—grateful until Mr. Con suddenly stopped. They were in the midst of the sea of hurrying people, those loaded with suitcases, those pushing carts piled with cartons of TVs, microwaves, and other improbable burdens. Dozens of men holding cardboard signs with important-looking names written on them, arriving passengers, departing passengers, and briskly moving airline personnel dragging their wheeled bags behind them like fat, lazy dogs—everybody was moving through the terminal purposefully, except for them.

Mr. Con reached into his coat pocket for his vial of pills, a new one that was easier to open and close, and shook it.

“Gotta take care a business, swee'heart,” he mumbled. “Wait, uh, here.” With a vague wave of his bandaged hand, he wandered away before he disappeared into the crowds.

Couldn't he have waited for his pills for once? Lireinne wondered in a fresh panic. Where had he gone? She was alone now, no longer in America where everybody spoke English. Lireinne had never known she could feel so alone, so freaked, not even on the first day of high school when she'd gotten lost in the unfamiliar building, tons bigger and so much more confusing than middle school had been. She pushed her hair out of her eyes with a shaking hand. Mr. Con's suit bag and her own carry-on were parked at her feet on the grimy floor because her shoulders were aching. Lireinne didn't dare leave the luggage to go in search of him, the only person she knew in this vast place. Paris was full of thieves. Mr. Con had warned her about them back in the Red Carpet Club, back when he was still making sense. For long, tense minutes, Lireinne waited in intimidated silence, praying her boss would come back soon.

Wait—there he was! Mr. Con was wandering toward her through the throngs, looking a little better. His head was up at least, and his smile was confident. Sometimes the pills worked that way. He'd act more like himself for a while, but Lireinne had learned to her exasperation that this seeming lucidity wouldn't last for long.

“Taxi.” Mr. Con said only that as he rejoined her, as though speaking was an effort. His gaze was as glassy as a blue-tinted windshield. “Gotta get a taxi outside.”

As if he'd overheard that mumbled observation, an olive-skinned man with broken teeth approached them as they walked to the big doors leading to the sidewalk outside of the terminal. “Taxi?” he said. “You want taxi, I got taxi.” He reached to grab their bags, but Mr. Con waggled his finger at the man in admonishment.

“No, no.” That was all he said, but immediately the man rushed off to ambush another confused-looking couple, two of the few people in this place who looked like they might be Americans to Lireinne.

“We go now, you bet!” The olive-skinned man tried to grab their luggage, too. Maybe he was trying to steal it from them? Afraid to take her eyes away from him, Lireinne held her carry-on, Mr. Con's suit bag, and his briefcase close to her. She wondered if she could fight the man off if he came back, but the American couple was following him now, their luggage in his hands. She hoped they'd be okay.

“Damn Algerian gypsy cab, can't take one a
them,
” Mr. Con said owlishly. “Thieves. Take you t'hell n'back.” Lireinne wondered if he meant the man was a real Gypsy like the ones back home who stole stuff from the front yard when no one was home, but Mr. Con was moving again. “C'mon, baby,” he said. With a helpless shake of her head, like a laden burro Lireinne followed his wandering back to the doors marked
Sortie
.

Outside the airport the air smelled different, it smelled . . . it smelled of jet fuel and bus exhaust and cigarettes—everyone, it seemed, was smoking—but none of these familiar odors were exactly it. The cold, damp air was different in a way Lireinne would have been hard-pressed to explain, but for sure it was nothing like the air back home. French air, she thought, a surge of elation dispelling her fatigue. Waiting in line at the taxi stand in the diffuse yet crystalline sunlight of a northern latitude in October, she inhaled deeply and often, wanting to fix this moment in her mind for forever. Lireinne knew she would never forget this if she lived a hundred years. When she was an old woman, she'd remember the intoxicating scent of her first breath of France.

It smelled like . . . adventure.

 

Once in the taxi, Mr. Con slept the whole way into Paris.

It took nearly an hour to pass beyond the city's bleak industrial outskirts, all the unfamiliar white French road signs flashing past before Lireinne could manage to read them through the grimy window. It seemed to her then that the Paris of her dreams was merely a made-up story, a lie. These gray tower apartment buildings with the laundry hanging from their windows, these smoke-belching factories and warehouses: as far as she could see, all was grim and forbidding, nothing like the pictures she'd pored over for years. Right before Lireinne began to despair of ever seeing the real Paris, with no warning the wordless cab driver muscled the cab across four lanes of terrifying traffic, swooped down a ramp, and they were off the Périphérique and onto a busy Paris street.

The driver turned soon and with a thrill Lireinne recognized the tree-lined, cobblestoned streets of the Champs-Élysées from the
Vogue
photo shoot on the wall of her bedroom back home. It
is
real, she thought, awed. The taxi hurtled down the bumpy surface too fast for her to take it all in—the well-dressed people hurrying to work, people walking dogs, people on bicycles, people carrying shopping bags and briefcases and bunches of flowers and cups of coffee—just another Thursday morning for them, but they were
Parisians
. Lireinne stared at these incredibly lucky folks, enrapt with fascination and trying to imagine their lives.