Love Mercy Read online

  It didn’t take her long to find what she hoped was the perfect gift. It was a book of photographs by the late Isaac Lyons, a famous photographer Love took a class from once and who had been married to Benni Ortiz’s grandmother, Dove. She picked it up and ran her fingers over the faux leather front cover.

  “It just came in today,” said a pretty Hispanic woman who looked to be in her midforties. Her name tag read Elvia. “He was a local for many years. Married to the grandmother of a friend of mine before he passed away last year.” She straightened a stack of Christmas cards. “We miss him terribly.”

  Mel nodded. “Benni and Dove. They have the ranch next to the Johnsons. I work for Polly and August occasionally.” She handed her the book. “I’ll take it. It’s actually a gift for Love Johnson.”

  “Oh, my goodness, I’ve known Love forever. She’s a wonderful customer.” The woman smiled at Mel. “She’ll love it. I’d be happy to wrap it for you. No extra charge.”

  “Sold,” Mel said. “Thank you.”

  Happy that she’d found something Love would like, Mel carried her package to the basement coffeehouse to buy her latte, maybe read the newspapers always lying around on the round wooden tables. It was better she didn’t stay home and brood. There would be enough time for that later on tonight, when she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She ordered a decaf, hoping that her virtuous choice would stave off the insomnia gremlins.

  She was perusing one of the bookshelves filled with used books that lined all the walls of the coffeehouse, waiting for her order to be called, when a vaguely familiar male voice said her name.

  “Melina LeBlanc. As I live and breathe.”

  She turned to look at the man, studying his animated face, trying to remember where she’d met him. He wore a navy blue cowboy shirt, jeans and a pair of dark, shiny cowboy boots made with the skin of some unfortunate lizard.

  He smiled and held out his hand. “I’m absolutely crushed that you don’t remember me. Ford Hudson. Hud. Maisie’s dad.”

  “Oh, yeah, hi.” The annoying sheriff’s deputy. She shook his hand firmly, one cop to another.

  “Doing some holiday shopping?” He tilted his head, glancing at the red and silver Blind Harry’s bag. “Or a book for yourself?”

  “A gift,” she said, glancing around, trying to figure out a way to extricate herself from this encounter. She’d driven to San Celina specifically because she didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  “You have an appointment?” he asked, his dark eyes laughing at her.

  She hesitated, not a natural liar but wanting to use the excuse to leave.

  “I won’t bite. At least not until we’ve known each other a little longer.”

  She frowned and looked him directly in the eyes. “I don’t find your flirting particularly amusing.”

  “Flirting, moi?” He pretended to be shocked. “My daughter would inform you that I am way too elderly to flirt. According to her, people should stop dating or havin’ any fun at all after the age of thirty-five.”

  She just stared at him, not wanting this conversation to continue. She had too much on her mind tonight to word wrestle with some middle-aged wannabe cowboy.

  “I’m from Texas,” he said, completely out of the blue.

  “Too bad,” she replied.

  “You got something against Texans?”

  She inhaled, holding it in for a few seconds before letting out a long breath. “Look, Mr. Hudson—”

  “Hud. Mr. Hudson was—”

  “I know, I know, your father. Look, I just want to be alone tonight, okay? I’m sure you’re a nice guy and that there are women who go for guys like you. So why don’t you go run your little spiel on them? I’m sure they’d appreciate it a lot more than me.”

  “I’m very rich.” He said it matter-of-factly, with a friendly smile like he’d just said, I own a basset hound or I like fried chicken.

  She felt her mouth drop open slightly. “That’s the most obnoxious pickup line I’ve ever heard.”

  “It got your attention, didn’t it? Don’t you want to know how I got rich? I swear, it’s not graft.”

  It felt like someone punched her in the stomach. His words had to be a coincidence, but they still seemed to crumble around her like a brick house in an earthquake.

  “I gotta go,” she said, her voice jagged in her ears. She ran up the steps, vaguely hearing her order being called. When she reached the street, she stood for a moment inhaling the cold night air, her chest heaving, trying to catch her breath. It felt like she was under water, like she was going to suffocate.

  “Here,” Hud said, suddenly beside her. He pulled her into the alley next to Blind Harry’s. He took her Blind Harry’s bag and handed her a brown paper sack. “Put it over your—”

  “I know,” she gasped and put the sack over her mouth, breathing slowly in and out, mentally telling herself to calm down, don’t panic, there’s no way this man could know about her and Sean. Was there? In a few minutes, she was breathing normally again, and she lowered the sack. She hadn’t had an attack like that for years. She used to hyperventilate when she was a kid, so much that she carried a paper lunch bag around in her backpack like the way a person susceptible to anaphylactic shock carries an EpiPen.

  “Better?” Hud said, his voice gentle.

  She looked up at him, knowing she should be grateful for his help, but all she wanted to do was crumple the bag in a hard ball and throw it in his face. Yes, he helped her by realizing she was hyperventilating and bringing her the thing she needed, but he also caused the attack to begin with. And by the look on his face, he was going to ask her why she reacted like she did.

  “Look,” he said. “I’m not going to ask you what’s wrong, but it’s obvious to me that something traumatic is going on in your life.” He took his wallet from his back pocket, pulled out a white business card and wrote on the back of it. “Here’s my home phone number, my cell and my work number. If you need any help—”

  “I don’t.” She started folding the paper bag in neat squares, making it smaller and smaller until she couldn’t fold it anymore. “I’m fine. I just . . . have these attacks once in a while.”

  He held out her Blind Harry’s bag and the business card. “I’ve gone through some rough times in my life. If you need someone to talk to . . .”

  She grabbed the bag that held Love’s gift. “I don’t even know you.”

  “We both know Benni Harper. And we’re her friends. That makes us friends once removed.”

  Man, this guy was persistent. “Thanks, but I’m fine.”

  He stuck his card in her jacket’s pocket. “Just in case.”

  She turned abruptly away from him, walking up Lopez Street, her back teeth aching from tension. With guys like him, the only thing you could do was walk away. Usually their egos kept them from chasing after you. When a few minutes later she was still alone, she sighed in relief. The last thing she needed was a guy, especially one who was a cop. As she walked down the crowded street, the sound of Christmas music in the air, she couldn’t help wondering where she would be at this time next year. She’d always suspected that her life in Morro Bay had been too good to last. When Cy died and she and Love continued their Friday night dinners, she’d been relieved. Though she knew that it was pity that Cy and Love had felt for her initially, she hoped that it had turned into a true caring, maybe even something close to a family.

  But now Love had her real family here. A girl that might or might not appreciate how lucky she was to have Love as her grandmother. At any rate, this girl and possibly her sisters and her mother would fill up Love’s life, and though Mel was glad for Love, really happy for her, she was sad for herself. Maybe the call from Patrick had been a sign that it was time for Mel to move on.

  A sharp wind came up when she was a block away from the parking structure. She looped the handled Blind Harry’s bag over the crook of her elbow and stuck her cold hands deep into her pockets. Her right fingers touched the folded paper b
ag that had given her back her breath only moments before; her left hand pulled out the card from the deputy who talked as smooth as melted chocolate, someone who reminded her way too much of a man she’d once loved. Right before she started up the stairs to the second level where her truck was parked, she threw the folded paper bag in an overflowing garbage can. Then, with only the slightest hesitation, she tossed the business card after it.

  ELEVEN

  Rett

  Rett could hear her grandma talking on the phone, her voice a low murmur. She wanted to get up and hear who she was talking to since she had a sneaking feeling that the conversation was about her. But when she sat up, her head thrummed like a bass fiddle, so she carefully lowered herself back down. Why did she have to get sick now? For a moment, she almost wished that she was back home, that the voice in the background was her mother’s. Mom wasn’t so bad when you were sick. It was the only time she seemed to be nice. It was a miracle that she, Patsy and Faith hadn’t all become total hypochondriacs.

  She rolled over on her back and stared at the ceiling. The moonlight through the thin white window shades gave shape to the furniture in the room, simple pieces that looked like they’d been around a while. Her grandma didn’t look rich, just normal. How did she make a living? There was so much Rett didn’t know about her dad’s family. Thinking about that made her angry with her mom all over again.

  Love’s voice became a little louder, causing Rett to struggle up and swing her legs over to the side of the bed, ignoring her throbbing head. It sounded like her grandma Love was arguing. A deep dread in Rett’s stomach told her that, despite her protests, her grandma had contacted Mom.

  She stood up, gripping the side of the bed as the room spun around while she inched her way over to the partially closed door. Love’s words became clearer.

  “I assure you, Karla Rae, I had no idea she was coming out here. For heaven’s sake, I didn’t . . . don’t even know where y’all live. If not for Rett’s cell phone, I still wouldn’t know how to get in touch with you, which means I couldn’t have been in touch with her.” There was a pause, then her grandma said, “She’s eighteen, Karla. I can’t make her do anything.”

  All right, Grandma, Rett thought. She could imagine her mom’s deep voice spewing accusations. Accusations that were totally bogus. Though Rett had thought about calling her grandma first and seeing if she even cared about seeing her, that wasn’t how Rett did things. Jump right in was her philosophy. Don’t think too much about stuff you want to do, because you’d probably chicken out. It was how she made friends—maybe not the smartest way, considering what happened with Dale—and it was how she wrote songs. She remembered Pete, her first stepdad, saying to her when she was nine or ten, “Rett, you are much too happy flying by the seat of your pants. Someday you’re going to be right sorry you don’t put a little more thought into what you do.”

  She didn’t think about the last part of his comment because she’d zeroed in on that first image. She pictured herself on a flying carpet hurtling over the earth looking down on everyone as she dipped and flew her way to someplace more exciting than her life as the second Son Sister. That feeling had come back to her when she rode in the cab of Brother Dwaine’s big rig. Not that she thought she was better than other people. She just wanted to go her own way and do what she wanted without being bugged. What was wrong with that? She wasn’t hurting anyone, so why couldn’t they just leave her alone?

  She edged closer to the door as Love’s voice grew softer.

  “Karla Rae—excuse me—Karla—I’m sorry you were so worried. That was why I tried to find you. I understand. No, I can’t put her on the phone. She’s got the flu, and she’s asleep.”

  There was a long pause, probably because her mom was nagging her grandma’s ear off. Rett felt a quick stab of regret for putting Love through this. But it was kinda her own fault. Rett told her not to call Karla.

  “I’ll ask her to call you the minute she gets up,” Love said, her voice way more calm than Rett’s would have been, she was sure. Another short pause. “I can’t guarantee anything, Karla. As I said before, she’s a legal adult.”

  All right, Grandma, Rett silently cheered, suddenly feeling a lot better about her spontaneous trip here. Maybe everything would turn out okay. There was still Dale’s banjo she had to think about. It was only a matter of time before he forced Lissa into telling him where Rett was. She didn’t expect her girlfriend to hold out forever, and Rett sure knew how persuasive Dale could be. What would he do when he found out she took his precious banjo? Would he come out here and try to get it back? The thought of pawning it still rolled around in her head, but since it was technically stolen, she didn’t want to do something that might land her in jail. Though, she thought, that would give her some interesting material for songs and a bio that was way cooler than being one-third of a second-rate girl bluegrass-gospel group. Well, she’d figure out what to do if Dale actually showed up.

  Love hung up the phone. Rett hobbled back to bed and climbed in. She didn’t want her grandma to think she was some kind of weirdo snoop. Rett suspected that her grandma would check on her right now and probably lots of times during the night. She seemed like that kind of person. Rett sighed, feeling like she could sleep for a week. She snuggled down into the soft comforter with the intention of closing her eyes and pretending to be asleep when her grandma checked, but before she even heard her grandma open the bedroom door, she wasn’t pretending.

  TWELVE

  Love Mercy

  Love collapsed in Cy’s old leather chair. This wasn’t the end of it between her and Karla Rae by any stretch of the imagination. Karla, Love reminded herself. Her daughter-in-law had informed her she no longer went by Karla Rae.

  Well, at least Love couldn’t be accused of trying to hide Rett from her. It would be up to Rett now to stay in contact with her mother. Her former daughter-in-law’s accusations that Love was somehow involved with Rett running away from home still rang in Love’s ears. Fourteen years hadn’t done much to soften Karla.

  Love stood up and walked into the guest room to check on Rett. The poor girl was sound asleep, her hair spread in a wild disarray on the white pillow. Love gently touched her forehead with her fingertips. It was damp and cool. The Tylenol had broken the fever. She studied her granddaughter’s peaceful face, feeling a combination of joy and sorrow. Seeing Rett made the loss of Cy and Tommy so much more tangible. She managed to go for days at a time not mourning her life, thinking about how her whole family had been snatched from her. When she saw families down on the Embarcadero, visiting from L.A. or the Valley, eating ice cream, laughing at family jokes, she just barely managed to squelch the resentment she felt, the anger that she harbored against God.

  Love had grown up attending the little Baptist church in Redwater, Kentucky, where she and Cy met. Her faith back then was as simple as the church’s unpainted pine walls. It was a faith taught to her by her mother, Nora, who had the sort of honest and trusting faith in God and Jesus that never questioned, as far as Love knew, why bad things happened, not even when the coal mine took first her son through a mine collapse, then her husband through black lung. Bad things just happened, seemed to be her mother’s unspoken credo, and a person was supposed to endure and trust that better times were coming. It wasn’t proper to ask God why, not respectful to demand an explanation. Job and his travails was a popular sermon topic in Redwater.

  Something deep inside Love always rebelled against that. It was that attitude that made her want to leave Redwater, find someplace where there was more hope. Though at the time, she’d said to her heartbroken mother that it was a wife’s duty to follow her husband, Love knew that though she loved Cy with all her heart, even if he hadn’t come along, she would have eventually fled Kentucky. It was pure luck on her part to fall in love with a man who wasn’t a local boy, but she’d decided to leave Kentucky the day the Redwater mine manager walked up to their screen door with the news that her eighteen-year-old twin
brother, DJ, had been killed. In that moment, Kentucky lost her forever.

  She had to shake her head at her naive young self now. She’d thought by fleeing the hollers and coal mines of her childhood, she could outrun sadness, outmaneuver tragedy. How wrong she’d been. Everyone she had given her heart to lay in graveyards here or in Redwater. And despite what her mother taught her, Love questioned God. When he didn’t answer, she’d just stopped talking. She did go to church one or two Sundays a month, not wanting to disappoint Rocky or Magnolia. She listened to Rocky’s sermons, enjoyed Magnolia’s beautiful solos, and she silently moved her lips to the familiar old gospel songs. She did it all with a heart that she was sure if it could be photographed inside her chest would look exactly like a dried corncob, one scraped bare of any sweet kernels, as barren as an old seashell.

  On the Sundays she skipped church, a practice her good friends, bless their hearts, never questioned, she took photos of churches. It had grown into almost a compulsion. She liked taking the photos on Sunday afternoons or evenings, right after they’d emptied of worshippers. There seemed an almost-palpable something in the air then, something that seemed to tinge the photographs, a mistiness that gave them a haunted look. Though she had a digital camera that she was slowly learning to work with, for these outings she preferred her old Nikon SLR with real film. She actually liked not knowing what her photographs looked like until they were developed. One of her favorites was of a tiny wood-frame church in Cayucos. She took the photo at sunset, certain that no one was on the premises. When she had the photos developed the next week, there was, to her surprise, a blurred arm showing from the left side of the church; it almost appeared to be waving. It seemed a ghostly message of something, though she never could figure out what it was trying to say.

  For the second time she studied the lines and planes of her granddaughter’s face. Love felt like she could see the whole history of Appalachia on Rett’s smooth cheeks. She wondered if she could convince Rett to pose for a portrait before she left. Love planned it in her head, shooting it up at the ranch next to the lightning oak. It would be dusk—blue time—and she’d take it at an angle, half of Rett’s face in shadows, hinting at the murky kudzu-filled hollers of her ancestors.