Love Mercy Read online

  The tiny sunroom that faced the bay held a desk with a computer and an office chair on one end, an overstuffed chair in a leafy pattern, a small end table and a lamp on the other. A pile of books was neatly stacked on the end table. She picked up the top book. It showed a bunch of photographs by somebody named Dorothea Lange. They were pretty awesome, even though they were black-and-white and were mostly of tired-looking poor people in overalls and old-timey flowered dresses. Next to the books was a framed photo that someone had taken of Ace and a sailboat. He was in the backyard staring out to sea, and the photographer had framed the sailboat using the corgi’s triangular ears. It was a cool effect, like the camera was sitting on the dog’s back.

  She peered through the window, past the bay to the Pacific Ocean. It was overwhelming, not like any lake she’d ever seen. It reminded her of the Grand Canyon, which she’d seen once when she was nine on a pathetic attempt at a family vacation with her mom and first stepdad, Pete, who she always secretly called the Hulk, because he totally loved the color green. Her little sister, Faith, had spent most of the trip being carsick. Patsy, a smooth talker even at ten, had convinced their mom to let her stay at a friend’s house, so she didn’t have to go. No one ever said no to Patsy when she really wanted something. Even Dale. Well, Rett couldn’t help thinking, things finally came back to bite her in the butt. She wanted to gloat about Patsy’s pregnancy, but instead, it made her feel sick to her stomach.

  Forget her, she told herself, glancing over the surface of her grandma’s desk. She sat down in the high-backed office chair and spun around, trying to imagine what her grandma would use a computer for. What did old people look at on the Internet? It was a fairly new Sony with a large flat screen. Though Rett was tempted, she didn’t turn it on. She studied the neat desktop. There was a crystal clock shaped like a boat, a couple of smooth speckled rocks about the size of eggs being used as paperweights, a lumpy brown and blue, definitely handmade ceramic mug that held pens and pencils, a mouse pad that showed a picture of Ace wearing a red and green velvet Christmas collar and a navy blue mug half filled with—she took a sniff—cold tea.

  Had her grandma been working on the computer when she got the call about Rett from Rocky’s wife at the café? It appeared that she rushed out without even rinsing out her mug of tea. That kind of made Rett feel flattered. Maybe her grandma was glad to see her. Then again, her grandma had never come out to see them in Florida or Knoxville. What was the deal with that?

  She twirled around in the chair again, then stopped it with her foot. The movement didn’t make her feel so good. She’d had a vague sort of throbbing in her head for the last day or so, one of those headaches that seemed to hide behind your eyes, waiting to squeeze your brain when you least expected it. She suspected she was getting sick but kept mentally pushing the symptoms back, using every bit of her stubborn will to stop whatever bug was crawling through her body. She couldn’t get sick. There was no time for that.

  She carefully stood up and walked back into the living room, which was so quiet that she could hear seagulls calling to each other outside. Ace clicked softly next to her. She bent down and stroked his head. She liked her grandma’s house. The rooms were plain and simple, not a lot of clutter, like Mom’s fussy decorating, which was heavy on crocheted doilies, silk ivy and handmade wreaths. Distressed French country, her mom called it. Shabby chic. Rett called it gaggy vanilla froufrou.

  Her grandma’s furniture looked like something Rett might buy. The living room sofa and chair were a dark blue denim with pillows that were red and white checks. One of the pillows was a needlepoint of a boat. She peered closer at the name on the boat: Love Mercy. That was kind of hokey, but her grandma was old, so that was understandable. There was a quilt draped over the sofa in some kind of triangle pattern in dozens of shades of blue. An old green trunk served as a coffee table. Rett wondered what was inside it. A shallow wooden bowl that looked a zillion years old sat on the trunk and held a half dozen magazines: Oxford American, Gun and Garden, U.S. News & World Report, Aperture , National Geographic, San Celina County Life. The lumpy wood end tables looked old and sort of handmade. The lamps were a plain kind of beaten copper. The oak entertainment center held a television, a CD player and a bunch of CDs. Obviously she’d never heard of iTunes.

  Despite the pounding behind her eyes, Rett stooped down to flip through some of the CD titles. A person’s taste in music told more about them than just about anything. At first glance, her grandma’s tastes seemed pretty predictable: George Strait, Alan Jackson, Tony Bennett, Harry Connick Jr., Norah Jones. But there were a few surprises: Gillian Welch, Elizabeth Cook, Kelly Willis, Ralph Stanley and the group Uncle Earl, who Rett thought was awesome. Her grandma obviously thought more outside the norm when it came to music, which gave Rett a ray of hope that she might like what Rett wrote. She pulled out Gillian Welch’s CD Revival. Her song “Orphan Girl” just blew Rett away. It felt like Rett’s life story. Whenever she heard it, the beautiful words and melody filled her with both joy and despair. Would she ever write anything so totally perfect?

  She stood up, gripping the edge of the entertainment center. Her stomach roiled, and she felt like throwing up the lasagna she’d eaten earlier. The room began to spin and turn crazy. Beads of sweat popped on her upper lip, and her forehead felt like somebody had sprayed it with a water pistol full of boiling water. Then suddenly she was cold. She bent over, shivering, holding herself. Her head felt like it was going to explode.

  Was this what it felt like to be pregnant? Is this what Patsy was feeling when she hugged the toilet a week ago, the sounds of her retching reaching through the wall of their house and taunting Rett, confirming what an idiot she was?

  Rett wasn’t pregnant; she knew that for sure. No, she’d not given in to Dale when he wanted that. She’d been stupid enough in other ways, but not that. Obviously, Patsy hadn’t been quite so careful.

  Or, a little voice in Rett’s head mocked, maybe you just were not as irresistible as your sister. It was a fact that when Rett said no, Dale immediately backed off, laughing that crazy, sexy laugh of his, holding up his hands and calling her jailbait. Though technically she wasn’t the last few months they were . . . what would you call it? Not hooked up, but kind of being with each other. Except he was really with Patsy, as Patsy’s early morning sickness proved. Their mom figured it out about two seconds after Patsy’s first retch, and the screaming matches between the two went primal as Mom tried to find out who ruined—as she put it—the star of the family, the one daughter she thought would make it in the music world.

  Thanks a lot, Rett thought, sitting in her bedroom, her back against her closed door. She left two days later, and as far as she knew, Patsy still hadn’t revealed who the father was.

  A wave of nausea hit Rett again, causing her to sit down hard on the carpeted floor. She used every bit of willpower she had to keep from barfing. Ace came up to her, whining softly, nosing her shoulder.

  “It’s okay, boy,” she whispered, even though it wasn’t. She curled up in a ball, her head pounding like twenty snare drums. The dog’s warm tongue licked her ear.

  She curled tighter, trying to make herself as small as possible, waiting for the blackness to overtake her. At this moment, if she’d been connected to a lie dectector and asked if she cared about living, she could have honestly said no. If she could have spat the words out, she would have said, Bring on that dark curtain, Mister God, and let me die in peace.

  EIGHT

  Mel

  It was past seven p.m. when Mel finished eating supper with August and Polly. Afterward, she helped August fit the Christmas tree she’d brought back into the battered green and red metal stand.

  “We’ll wait and decorate it with Love,” Polly said, going through the boxes of ornaments that August brought down from the attic.

  “Good idea,” Mel said. Maybe that great-granddaughter of theirs would be around to help. Mel hoped the girl didn’t hurt these two gentle, good-hea
rted people. Likely, her hopes would be dashed. She’d learned early that more often than not, the kids with great families, loving families, were too spoiled and self-centered to appreciate their good fortune. Still, she hoped that wouldn’t be the case with Love’s granddaughter.

  “Thank you for your hard work, sweetie,” Polly said, pressing some folded bills into Mel’s hand. “You’re such a big help to me and August.”

  “Thanks,” Mel said, pocketing the money quickly. “Will I see you at the lighted boat parade this Saturday?”

  “Haven’t missed it in forty-seven years,” August said, turning the tree so the fuller side faced the living room.

  “We’re watching it from inside this year,” Polly said. “We reserved a table at the Happy Shrimp for the Old-Timers’ Club. It’s right next to the window. Best seats in the house, they said.”

  “Which you deserve,” Mel said. “I’ll be braving the elements outside.”

  “You’re welcome to join us,” August said. “Always room for one more.”

  “Thanks, but I promised the Muppet Brothers I’d take pictures of their kayak brigade. I’m staking out a place near the start, over by the Taffy Shak.”

  “Oh, I do love their Georgia peach taffy,” Polly said. “The peppermint’s good too.”

  Mel smiled at her. “Maybe Santa will bring you some.” Good; she’d been having a hard time deciding what to buy Polly for Christmas.

  “Let me walk out with you,” August said. They took it slow, and Mel resisted the urge to help him down the porch steps, knowing he’d brush her off with an irritated grunt.

  “What’s up?” she asked him when they reached her truck.

  “Wondered if you could come by this weekend,” he said, his wiry, salt-and-pepper eyebrows pulled together in a frown.

  “No problem. I have to work both Saturday and Sunday, but just in the mornings. The waves are supposed to be good, and the boys want to go surfing. What do you need me to do?”

  “Saw something over at Big Barn that I want you to check out.”

  Her cop antenna instantly went up. Big Barn was an old, half-collapsed barn about a mile from the ranch house. It was a place that Cy showed her on their first jeep ride around the ranch. She’d worked for him at the feed store for about three months.

  “I used to play here when I was a boy,” Cy had told her when they stepped into the cool, quiet building. The part that hadn’t collapsed from the elements creaked and sagged, ready to fall with the next rainstorm or minor earthquake. She walked to the back of it, feeling slightly nervous in the dappled sunlight, flinching with every creak of the overhead beams.

  “Look here,” he called to her, his voice sounding hollow and farther away than it actually was. He stood next to a huge middle beam that she doubted she could encircle even with her long arms.

  She turned on her small SureFire flashlight with one thumb, causing the intense white light to illuminate the post and Cy. The flashlight was one of the few physical things she’d saved from her law enforcement days. She walked over to the beam where he pointed to the carving in the wood: CJ was here—1961.

  “Practically ruined the blade on my new Swiss Army knife doing that,” he’d told her. “I used to come up here and sulk when I was a teenager and my parents were being . . . well, parents.” He’d laughed, shaking his head.

  “Do you need me to check on the barn today?” she asked August, wishing he’d mentioned this a few hours ago when she first arrived. But that was August for you. He ruminated things to death and then dealt with them on his own timetable. Then it occurred to her, maybe he’d forgotten it, like her coming here every Tuesday and Thursday or who Shug was.

  “Nah,” August said. “It can wait. Been waiting a couple weeks now.”

  Mel wished in that moment that August was actually related to her, that they had a relationship that was a little less polite and careful. If he’d been her grandfather, she would have nagged him to tell her what he found, threaten to tell Polly or Love, use the familiarity of a blood relationship to make him reveal what was bothering him.

  But she was essentially just an employee. A friend too, she’d venture to admit, but not close enough to push him . . . much. “I have time to hear about it now.”

  “You’re on your way home. It’ll wait.”

  “You’re the boss,” she said tartly.

  A flash of hurt came over his face, and she realized a second too late that the words had sounded sharper than she intended. She touched his flannel-clad forearm with two fingers. “Sorry, August. I’m a little tired.”

  “What’re you talking about, girlie?” he answered, winking at her. “You go have yourself a mug of whiskey at the Pelican. Take a long sip for me.”

  “A mug would put even me under the table,” she said, smiling. “But I may add a little rum to my hot cocoa tonight.”

  “Sounds good. May do that myself.”

  She waved at him as she backed out, his solitary figure outlined by the porch light. A brief sense of doom fell over her when she pulled out onto the highway leading back to town. She’d had this feeling only one other time in her life: the day she walked out of the apartment after her last shouting match with Sean. The neighbors had threatened to call the cops, even though they knew Mel and Sean were police officers. Mel left before that could happen, saving them both the embarrassment.

  Like so many times before, she’d driven around town, up and down dark streets, ignoring the insect vibration of her cell phone, finally turning it off without checking her voice mail. Her life was so narrow then, so friendless. There were only two phone calls that would have come over her cell: to go in to work or Sean trying to explain again why he felt he had the right to that money. Neither had been something she felt like dealing with at that moment.

  Bribery. Graft. Kickback. Payola. Hush money. Like a sick board game, she tried to think of more synonyms for what Sean did, but her mind went blank. Before she discovered the hidden money, she’d defended him to her old partner, Buzz. He’d come to her the month before and told her he’d heard over the grapevine that Sean was on the take.

  “That’s bull,” she’d said. “I practically live with the guy. Don’t you think I’d see something suspicious? We were looking at flat-screen televisions the other day, and he said that he’d have to wait until his tax return came in. If he was on the take, believe me, we’d have had that sucker up and running in time for the next game.”

  Buzz just shrugged, probably realizing that you couldn’t talk sense into someone who was crazy in love. And she had been from the first moment Sean turned his Irish green eyes on her. She’d been flat-out, no-turning-back, crazy-as-a-loon in love with him. She’d even considered introducing him to her mother, something she’d never done with any of the men she’d hooked up with. It had to have been love if she was willing to subject herself to her mother’s smug look when she saw that Mel had thrown her own life aside for a man just like her mother had so many times. That old saying about the acorn not falling far from the tree was a cliché for a reason.

  Finding the plastic-wrapped stack of hundred-dollar bills in the bottom of a ten-pound bag of stale flour had changed everything. What a lame place to hide the money, a television-cop-show kind of place. She was certain he’d hidden it there because he thought it was the one place that Mel would never look. In the two years they were together, she’d never once shown an inclination toward baking. Her idea of a home-cooked meal was sticking a hunk of roast beef and some potatoes in a Crock-Pot. And that was a rare occasion. Mostly they ate out, because they rarely worked the same shift. She’d pulled the bag of flour out in a frenzy of cleaning when Sean was at work because she’d discovered some mouse droppings under the kitchen sink. She’d almost thrown it into the large trash bag with the other open food. But her fingers felt something odd, so she unfolded the bag, dumping the contents into the kitchen sink.

  She stared at the plastic-wrapped bundle of money for a long time, not wanting to be
lieve it was there. Resisting the urge to count it, she left it in the sink for Sean to find when he came home from his shift three hours later. By that time she’d packed all the belongings she’d left at his place, filling three plastic shopping bags, and drove back to her own apartment two miles away, where she had sat staring at a blank television screen, waiting for his call.

  “Let it go,” she said out loud, her words sounding hollow inside the truck’s cab. She drove slowly down Ocean Avenue, past the Buttercream, which looked cheery and bright in the already encroaching fog. She contemplated stopping by for a cup of coffee, perhaps find out from Magnolia, if she was still there, if she’d heard any news about what was going on with Love and her granddaughter. But it was almost eight p.m., their normal closing time. Besides, these days any caffeine after three or four p.m. made it impossible for her to get to sleep before midnight. Not a problem usually, but she had to open the feed store at six a.m. tomorrow. She’d find out about the granddaughter tomorrow.

  Mel’s small rented house looked forlorn in the swirling, cat’s feet fog. Maybe she should get one of those automatic timers for her living room lamp, so she’d at least have the illusion of coming home to something other than a cold, empty house. Maybe she should get a dog. Or a bird. No, a light timer would be easier to use and easier to leave.

  She quickly unlocked the door, flipping the light switch next to the door. The floor lamp turned her compact living room a warm amber. The simple brown plaid sofa and matching chair, the old-fashioned maple end tables, the small stack of books from the library, a basket of magazines, her favorite leather slippers, the brown and orange flame stitch afghan Polly crocheted for her last year looked suddenly very precious to her, and she was surprised to feel a burning behind her eyes. She shook her head, fighting the emotion, glad that no one could see her childish reaction.

  She put Dove’s pumpkin bread in the refrigerator and filled her teakettle with water. A cup of peppermint tea, a habit she’d picked up from Polly, would help take the chill off her bones. Maybe she’d add a dollop of Maker’s Mark bourbon, a semi-healthy evening toddy.