Love Mercy Part 11

Rett's chin went a little higher. "Twenty-six, okay? So he's a little older. So what."

Love felt her neck grow hot with anger at this man who'd taken advantage of her granddaughters. But that wasn't something she could do anything about. Not at the moment. She cleared her throat. "We've been very adult and been perfectly honest with each other. I can't think of a better way to start our new relations.h.i.+p, can you?"

Rett started playing with her already mangled m.u.f.fin and squirmed just enough to make Love suspicious.

"What else, Rett?" she asked. "If we're going to have a good relations.h.i.+p, we need to be honest with each other. Don't you think there have been enough secrets and misunderstandings in this family?"

Rett nodded, her face miserable. "I kind of . . . well . . . I sort of . . . borrowed something from someone?"

Now Love was really confused.

"I guess, sort of without asking."

Love could feel the vein in her right temple start to throb. "In other words, you've stolen something." She panicked, thinking, What do I do if she's robbed a liquor store, and the police are after her? For a split second, she contemplated the places on the Johnson ranch where she could hide her granddaughter.

"What did you take?" Love's voice jumped an octave.

"My banjo," Rett said. "I mean, his banjo. It's Dale's banjo. It was his grandfather's. I took it out of the back of his truck. Dale's, I mean. Not his grandfather. His grandfather died ten years ago." She sat up straight and looked Love in the eye. "I don't care. Dale deserved it. He's a creep."

"I won't argue with the fact that he is a creep, but that doesn't make it right for you to take something that belongs to him."

Rett narrowed her eyes. "What he did was way worse. He lied to me. I'm not giving it back."

Love was not quite certain how far she should pursue this. After all, as she'd pointed out to Karla last night, Rett was a grown woman. If she wanted to steal her cheating ex-boyfriend's banjo, why should Love care? How much could a banjo be worth, anyway? Granted, if it was his grandfather's, it would have some sentimental value. Love was certain that once Rett cooled down, she'd let Love send it back to this c.o.c.kroach of a man.

"So, just to keep things aboveboard, how much would you say this instrument is worth?" Love was thinking, Four, five hundred dollars, tops.

Rett wouldn't meet her eyes. "Kind of a lot."

"Meaning?"

"Twenty-five . . . umm . . ."

Love felt her stomach drop. "Twenty-five hundred dollars?"

There was a long pause. "Uh . . . thousand."

"Twenty-five thousand dollars? That banjo is worth twenty-five thousand dollars?"

Rett's expression was sheepish and a little fearful.

Love had always believed there were dramatic moments in every Protestant believer's life when they fervently wished they were Catholic just so they could cross themselves, when that comforting holy gesture seemed the only conceivable response to a situation. This was, without a doubt, one of those moments for her.

FIFTEEN.

Mel Before she went to sleep, Mel loaded her .38 pistol and placed it on the bed next to her, something she hadn't done since she left Las Vegas. She managed to get a few hours' sleep, though she tossed and turned most of the night, dreaming of plastic-wrapped money and Patrick's leering face.

When the alarm clock went off at five a.m., she turned on her bedside light and was surprised to see terra-cotta-colored spots dotting her pale blue pillowcase. Her bottom lip throbbed, and she touched the soft, swollen flesh with a tentative finger. Sometime during the night she'd bitten her lip. Ice cubes wrapped in a dish towel and pressed to her lip made it presentable. It took two large mugs of coffee before she felt able to get dressed. Though normally she didn't mind covering for Brad and Evan's surfing, this morning she cursed their flakiness and swore she'd find a job where she wasn't at the beck and call of two h.o.r.n.y guys with boy-band looks and excessive trust funds.

By the time she opened the feed store at six a.m., she was a little less cranky. They'd promised to be here by nine a.m. Coffee would sustain her until then. Once they took over, she'd go to the b.u.t.tercream for some of Shug's sourdough-banana pancakes.

From the first day that Cy hired her, she'd felt at home in this small wooden structure with the huge back lot. Though at first foreign, now the malty smell of hay, toasty cracked corn, sweet new leather and gra.s.siness of rabbit pellets was like a heady perfume to her, a sensory memory road to long, easy days when Cy patiently taught her the ins and outs of running a feed store.

"Though most folks round here don't want to face it, ranching isn't going to be the top moneymaker in this county forever," he'd said while they counted bags of dog and cat chow. "But there'll be enough die-hard ranchers, rancher wannabes, weekend farmers and pet owners to make an okay living for a feed store if we stay up with the times. This county will always have its dogs and cats and goats and rabbits and horses. Whatever critters people want to own or raise, we'll be here to take care of their needs." He grinned at her. "Besides, the barbershop can't be the only place where men go to gossip."

She glanced over the to-do list she made yesterday. The s.h.i.+pments of Nature's Variety and Paul Newman dog food were coming in today. At first, the new owner, Bill, was reluctant to carry any of the fancy organic dog foods, afraid their higher prices would scare customers off. But she convinced him that the new breed of pet owners moving into the once primarily rural San Celina County were not people who would balk at buying the best for their pets. Her next idea that she was going to run by Bill was stocking the ever-growing-in-popularity raw food diet touted by magazines like Whole Dog Journal and Bark. Then she'd broach the lucrative suggestion of pet toys and beds. Bill was old school, but he trusted Mel enough to give these new products a try. Last month the store actually made money, which made Bill happy. He'd really only expected it to be a place for his grandsons to appear to be working.

Mel had been there only a half hour when her first customer of the day, Rocky Sanchez, walked through the door. She was cleaning an old saddle that Mrs. Tenorio, a widow lady from Cayucos, wanted to sell. It had been her husband, Oscar's, she told Mel when she brought it in yesterday in the back of her ancient Ford pickup. He used it for fifty-seven years, starting when he worked for the Hearst Ranch back in the fifties. He died last year of a heart attack. Mrs. Tenorio didn't want to sell it, but the taxes were due on her little house, and she didn't have the money to pay them. She was hoping someone would buy the saddle since, she said, they hadn't kept horses for years and had no children to leave it to. It was filthy and stiff from nonuse, and Mel couldn't imagine anyone wanting to buy it, but she spontaneously offered to clean it in hopes that some kind person would see its homely beauty and feel drawn to it.

"Beautiful carving," Rocky said, reaching over to touch the fender that Mel had been meticulously cleaning with saddle soap.

"Yeah, I was surprised. It's an old working saddle that looked kinda tacky when Mrs. Tenorio brought it in. Wasn't sure anyone would buy it, but now I'm thinking it might have a chance."

Rocky's broad, smooth face looked thoughtful. "I preached Oscar's funeral. Great old guy. Lived to be ninety-six and was still riding the last year of his life. Gracie's had it a little tough financially since he's been gone. Both their children died before they turned eighteen." He shook his s.h.i.+ny bald head at the tragedy.

"That's rough," Mel said, setting down her chamois cloth and grabbing a paper towel to wipe off her slick hands. The smell of the saddle soap always reminded her of August, who first taught her how to clean leather. "What can I get you, Padre Sanchez?"

"Rabbit feed," he said. "I'm doing visitations today, and I'm going to see Lenora up in Cayucos, and she needs some food for her floppy ears. Maybe I'll drop by Gracie's house as long as I'm up there. How much she asking for the saddle?"

Mel went over to the aisle where they stocked the rabbit food. "Three- or five-pound bag?"

"Make it five. That'll last her awhile."

Mel tucked it under her arm and walked back to the counter. "That'll be six fifty."

He pulled a worn leather wallet from the back pocket of his dark blue Levi's. "About Gracie's saddle . . ."

"Oh, forgot to say. I sold it." She made the decision on the spur of the moment. She knew what Rocky was going to do: buy the saddle himself so Mrs. Tenorio could pay her tax bill. He was always doing things like that, which is why, she'd heard Magnolia complain in an indulgent voice, they had an almost-full storage unit they rented over by the golf course. She kept threatening him that they'd have a big old garage sale someday. Not, he told her seriously, until the people whose possessions he'd bought had died.

He looked at her from under thick, bushy eyebrows, not fooled a bit. "Do tell? And who bought the old thing?"

She just smiled at him. "Now, you know I can't tell you that." Gracie Tenorio had wanted three hundred dollars for it. Mel had about almost two fifty saved in the blue Maxwell House coffee can. She'd find the rest somewhere.

"You're a good girl," Rocky said, patting her shoulder. "G.o.d will reward you for your kind heart."

She avoided his eyes. "You going to the lighted boat parade tomorrow night?"

He nodded. "Magnolia and I are wimping out this year. We've reserved a table inside the Happy Shrimp."

"So did August and Polly. I think you all are smart. I'll be out in the cold freezing my tail off taking photos of Bert and Ernie and their kayak brigade."

"Wear your long underwear, and pray for no wind."

"That's your department."

"He doesn't listen any better to me than he would you; that's a fact."

She looked him directly in the eyes. "I'm not so sure about that."

Rocky gave her a big smile, white, white teeth against dark brown skin. "Well, I am, and I am an educated man. I've got a piece of pretty parchment paper that declares it to be so."

"Tell Mrs. T. that I've got her money here. I can mail her a check or pay her cash."

"I'll tell her."

After Rocky left, business picked up, and there was a steady stream of customers for the rest of the morning. Mel was glad, because it gave her little time to think about Patrick. She knew that he wouldn't just go away. He was absolutely convinced that she had the rest of Sean's money. Somehow she would have to persuade him that she didn't even believe it existed.

The boys finally showed up about noon, three hours late, their sun-streaked hair still damp and wild from surfing. She was hungry, her nerves jangly from apprehension and too much coffee. She was in no mood for their jokes.

"Hey, Mama Mel," said Brad, the older by ten months. "Business been good?" He flashed a perfect smile, thanks to thousands of dollars of orthodontia and an image-conscious society mother. They both could have posed for Surfer magazine or an Abercrombie & Fitch ad.

"You said you'd be here by nine," she snapped.

"Man, the waves were awesome," Evan said, picking up her freshly poured fifth cup of coffee and taking a swig. "You gotta go with the flow." He was shorter than his brother by two inches and had a slightly broader nose. Other than that, they could have been sun-kissed twins.

"That sounds like bad Beach Boys dialogue," she said. "And that's my coffee."

"Ah, don't be mad," Brad said. "This enough?" He pulled out a damp wallet and took out three fifty-dollar bills.

She growled, grabbed the soggy money and stuffed it in her front pocket. Her official wage was ten bucks an hour, so this was a lot for six hours' work. The boys knew she could be bought, and though she had once had vague misgivings about taking their money, that false pride vanished long ago. She always needed money, and they had it to spare. The fact that they were born into so much wealth wasn't her business or her problem. This money would more than make up the bulk of what she needed to buy Mrs. Tenorio's saddle.

She gave them a quick rundown on what had been delivered today, who was coming in to pick up feed and other things they'd ordered.

"John Preston's picking up that fencing for his Labrador puppies," she told Evan who had settled down on the stool behind the counter, making eyes at a young woman who was perusing the new horse blankets Mel had ordered from a family of Spanish weavers in northern New Mexico. They were going like hotcakes despite the fact that they were five times as expensive as normal horse blankets. The young, affluent horse girls going to Cal Poly loved the bright, Native American- style patterns and were using them to decorate their dorm rooms. Bill would be pleased at the profit margin.

"Yeah, okay," Evan said, not looking at her. The girl, a willowy redhead with a French braid, giggled to her girlfriend and made eyes back.

Mel sighed, then reached over and knocked on his head like she was testing a cantaloupe. "Earth to Ernie. Just don't close before he gets here. He'll be here by four."

"Okay, okay," he said, turning to grin at her. "John Preston. Puppy fencing. Four o'clock."

"You've got the camera all charged up for tomorrow night?" Brad asked.

"Don't worry, it has plenty of time to charge."

"So, got a wild Friday night planned?" Brad laughed.

"The wildest," she said, her voice sardonic. They knew that the rowdiest thing she ever did was go to dinner with Love. Sometimes, after Love went home, Mel went for a beer and some pool at the Rowdy Pelican. But usually she just walked home. "Don't forget to balance the cash register."

"Okay," Evan said.

"No, I meant Brad," she said.

"Got it," Brad said. "What's with the grody saddle?"

"It's mine," she said. "I'm going to put it in the back. When I finish cleaning it, I think I'll take it out to the Johnsons', see if it fits one of their horses." In reality, she was going to stick it in the corner of her living room. She kind of liked the idea of Oscar Tenorio's benevolent cowboy spirit watching over the place while she wasn't there.

"Whatever." Brad lifted one shoulder.

Deciding to fix herself a sandwich at home rather than go to the b.u.t.tercream, she walked the five blocks to her house. The streets were starting to get busy. Tourists were already straggling in for the lighted boat parade tomorrow night. Though many locals complained about out-of-towners coming in and taking over Morro Bay, Mel had a more practical view. She'd grown up in Las Vegas, a town that depended on tourists to survive. She knew that without tourists from L.A. or San Francisco or the Central Valley, the town of Morro Bay would eventually dry up and blow away. Though it had originally started as a fis.h.i.+ng village, commercial fis.h.i.+ng hadn't truly supported the city for many years. And with ranching rapidly becoming a thing in the county's bucolic historical past, tourism and the state university in San Celina twelve miles away were becoming more important in keeping Morro Bay's little businesses alive. Yes, the tourists could be a pain in the b.u.t.t sometimes, but the town needed them. When locals complained at the b.u.t.tercream, Mel rarely joined in. She was tempted to say, You haven't seen truly world-cla.s.s jacka.s.s behavior until you've worked the eleven p.m. to seven a.m. Las Vegas Boulevard beat. Every bad behavior known to man and woman was quintupled in Las Vegas.

She unlocked the front door of her house and immediately checked the answering machine. There was one flas.h.i.+ng light. Her left temple started throbbing. Patrick again? She was tempted to just grab her personal papers, a few clothes and her favorite books and take off. But she couldn't do that. A part of her was stubborn enough to think, it's my life here. I'm not going to be intimidated by anyone. She'd figure out some way to convince Patrick that he was barking up a tree that was completely empty. Mel punched the Listen b.u.t.ton with more force than needed. She was relieved to hear Love's voice.

"Hi, it's Love. I guess you've already gone to the feed store. I won't bother you there, but give me a call when you hear this. I'll fill you in on the latest about my granddaughter. Bye, now." The call came in at seven thirty a.m.

Mel played the tape another time, trying to discern from her friend's voice whether things were going well or not. But Love rarely showed in her manner or her voice what she was really feeling. She was one of the most even-tempered and calm people that Mel had ever known. Such a contrast to Genetta LeBlanc, Mel's mother, who still lived in Las Vegas with her fifth husband. At least, Mel thought it was her mother's fifth. She didn't really try to keep track anymore. She hadn't gone into details with Genetta about what really happened with Sean. Though it had been in the newspapers for weeks, her mother wasn't the type to pay attention to the news. Drinking, dancing and playing blackjack were about all that interested her mother. She'd been that way for as long as Mel could remember. Genetta had been beautiful at one time, was a showgirl at the old Stardust hotel, where she'd met Mel's dad. Now, at fifty-nine, she looked ten years older, though she tried to hide her age with glitzy clothes and thick pancake makeup. Just another aging showgirl drinking watered-down whiskey sours and dreaming of the big jackpot. Had Patrick called Genetta to find out where Mel was living? Once Mel settled down in Morro Bay, she'd told her mother not to tell anyone where she was, though she also knew that if Patrick called Genetta when she was drinking, she'd probably reel off Mel's whereabouts without a second thought.

It was more likely that Patrick just used his police connections to find Mel or paid some computer geek to find her online, despite the fact she'd tried to stay under the radar by not opening up any bank accounts or credit cards, and not giving her old job a forwarding address. Still, she did have a social security number and did pay her income taxes. That put her on the grid. Maybe the next place she went, she should just work for cash under the table.

She picked up the phone and dialed Love. Listening to someone else's problems would help her forget her own. While the phone rang, she tried to ignore the heavy feeling that crowded her chest, like a balloon filling with helium. Would Patrick call again? Or worse, show up on her doorstep?

"h.e.l.lo?" Love's voice was strong, upbeat.

"It's Mel. How're things going with the kid?"

"We're managing." Love gave a quick laugh. "She's got the flu. Oh, dear, I didn't mean to laugh. It's not funny, just ironic."

"She going to be okay?"

"Yes, she's much better this morning. I asked Clint's son to look at her last night. He's a doctor."

"He made a house call? Man, you do have pull in this town."

Love laughed again, more relaxed this time. "I think Clint just wants to make sure I get my column in on time. Do you mind if Rett joins us for dinner tonight? If she's up to it, of course."

Mel took a deep breath. "Sure. Actually, I thought you might want to have dinner with her alone."

"Plenty of time for that. I like our dinners. I don't want to miss one."

"Me either." Mel almost said thanks but kept silent. Did Love understand what a profound thing she just said? Mel would have totally understood if Love had said she needed time to visit with her granddaughter, that her friends.h.i.+p with Mel would have to take a backseat. But she essentially told Mel, you're just as important to me as family. It made Mel's chest tight with grat.i.tude.

"Okay, see you at the Shrimp," Love said. "Bye, now."

When Mel hung up the phone, stubbornness started to take hold inside her chest. Like her father's Cajun ancestors, she had a deep-seated sense of survival. No one was going to take her new life away from her. She'd dig her heels into this loamy soil and fight to keep it. It's what Cy would tell her to do. It's what Grand-mere Suzette would expect from her.

"Bring it on, Patrick O'Reilly," she said out loud to the empty room. "If you come here and mess with what I have, I'll make you wish you hadn't."