Between Us Girls (29 page)

“Uh, yeah. Keagan texted and…um, nothing. He just wondered how church went.”

“Hmm. He can be an oddball at times, can't he?”

“A little.”

Liv laughed.

Jasmyn suspected that Liv knew that Jasmyn's throat tickled. That she somehow knew Jasmyn felt…what was the word? Discombobulated. As though she were a water balloon that went
splat
because six words zipped through space and time and announced that Keagan was thinking about her.

“Jasmyn, dear, I'm ready to go if you are. Thank you for talking me into coming. What a glorious morning!”

A smile sprang to Jasmyn's lips. Liv was a gem. As Keagan had told her on that very first day when they met, she was the real deal.

And her church was the real deal. It hadn't been just fine for Jasmyn. It had been glorious. The deep quiet she'd longed for had found her there as it had found her out in the desert church. It tiptoed into her heart as she sang and recited and listened to a humble pastor talk simply of God's unconditional love and acceptance.

For Jasmyn, that finished everything. At last she felt really and truly ready to leave Seaside Village. It was time to take this new reality back to her old life.

Forty-Eight

Sam's kitchen table was small and rectangular in shape. An oak border surrounded four rows of white ceramic tiles. She kept two chairs at its long sides, pushed in.

The table occupied the space at the far end of the kitchen in front of the French doors that led out to the patio, as did most of the kitchen tables in Casa cottages.

In the center of the table sat her cell phone. She didn't do centerpieces or place mats. The phone was the only object on the table.

She walked around the table again and again, taking deep breaths, looking at the phone.

Anyone peeking through the window would think her behavior bizarre. But for her it was protocol, her method for preparing herself, each and every time, to make the Phone Call.

Which, given the necessary expended energy, explained why she did not make the Phone Call very often.

Sam glanced around her old-fashioned beach cottage. She liked her home. It was one of four Casa bungalows that had two bedrooms rather than only one. The layouts were basically the same with the living room across the front, the kitchen down one side, a short hallway at the other side that bedrooms and bath opened onto.

Cottage Seven had the yellow door, or, as Liv put it, goldenrod. Bright and glowing, sunrise and sunset and moonlight combined.

Before moving into Seven, Sam had never known such peace. College housing had been a blur of dorms and cheap apartments and, at times,
strange roommates. Before that, a small, nondescript house where by age eleven she was sharing her bedroom with three little brothers.

That had not been unbearable. Most days she had the wilderness as her very own space for being alone, for running, for listening to the music of the wind as it whistled through the canyons. Her stepfather provided food, shelter, and a television. Clothes, books, art, and music did not enter into the equation. She once told her high school English teacher that the poverty did not impact her because every student in her school lived in it. The teacher politely disagreed.

Sam wondered if the woman had been right. She was frugal to a fault—no, she was a tightwad. The thought of losing her job caused her to hyperventilate. One reason she continued to live at the Casa was because Liv kept the rent crazy cheap. As long as she had her job, Sam could afford to live in a sleek new condo with ocean views.

From the looks of her cottage, sleek and new were not exactly her style. Except for her bed and some lamps, the sparse, basic furnishings had come from thrift shops, the same ones she had shopped yesterday with Jasmyn and Chad.

Hanging with Jasmyn was bad for Sam's health. There had to be a direct correlation between spending the day with her and this notion to make the Phone Call weeks ahead of schedule.

On second thought, the link wouldn't be all that direct. With Jasmyn Albright there were no straight lines, only labyrinths. Paths led inexplicably to situations Sam had no intention of joining…and yet she did.

Another person tagging along with her for a run? For a ride to the desert when she was working? A shared pizza in her cottage? A dinner at a restaurant with other Casa Detainees to celebrate her achievement? Shopping when she didn't need a thing and buying a useless magnet? Wondering if a pest was, instead, a flirt?

Making the Phone Call before the allotted time had passed?

Why?

Sam liked Jasmyn very much. She had never met a kinder, gentler, more naive woman. The syrupy notes in her voice had all but faded from Sam's hearing, replaced by a genuine sweetness, honey that rendered Sam's gruff bear persona into a version of Winnie the Pooh.

Jasmyn's infatuation yesterday with that old desk touched something inside Sam. Touched? More like it sparked a bolt of lightning, sent it
zigzagging through her, head to toe, toe to head, searing open a locked closet of her heart. The subsequent clap of thunder shattered the door, guaranteeing that closing it again would require monumental effort.

More effort than it took to make the Phone Call.

Sam pulled out a chair, sat, picked up the cell, and punched in a number she'd known since childhood. She'd never felt the need to enter it into her contact list.

“Hello?” The familiar squawk resembled that of a pheasant, minus the image of colorful feathers that might soften the sharp edges of such a voice.

“Mom. Hi. It's me.”

“Who's ‘me'?” Rosie Chee's laugh was an elongation of the squawk. “Hmm. She said ‘Mom.' I guess it must be that no-good, long-lost daughter of mine.”

Love you too, Mom.
“How are you?”

“Peachy. Why are you calling?”

“I'm fine too.” She ignored the
why
question, determined to go through the motions. “How are the boys?” She referred to her three half brothers, now in their twenties, still the apples of her mother's eyes, still the
boys
.

“They're right as rain. Guess what? Mike's going to college next year.”

“Really?” Sam shouldn't be surprised at anything concerning the boys, but she continually was. They were a goofy mix of loser and not-so-bad.

“Really. You oughta' talk to him about that school you went to.”

In your dreams.
“Sure.” Sam rubbed her forehead. She couldn't remember the last time she'd talked with one of the boys, but being nasty led nowhere fast. “Give him my number. So, anyway, I'm calling because—” A lump closed up her throat.

Good grief.

“Because what?”

Sam coughed away the lump. “I was just wondering about Dad's mom.”

“Why on earth— That old windbag?”

As far back as Sam could remember, her grandmother Hannah had been
that old windbag
. She died when Sam was two, at the age of sixty-two, hardly old.

Rosie went on. “I always gave it to you straight. She never accepted me. It was like her son had nothing to do with getting me knocked up. Takes two to tango, honey.”

“I know all that.”
Get over it already.
“And I know that if you weren't pregnant with me, you never would have married Dad.”

“That's true. He sure was good looking, but he was one big pain in the neck. Always acting high and mighty, like he was God's gift to those high school kids he taught, just like her. What do you want to know, anyway?”

“Where was Hannah Carlson born?”

“Up north.”

Again, something she already knew. “But where exactly? What state? What city?”

Rosie's exhale could have started up a dust storm. “Why are you asking all of this stuff out of the blue?”

Not out of the blue. Out of a day spent with Jasmyn in the desert, listening to her tales of family and heritage and ties that bless and bind and curse…of a man and a woman who perhaps got together for one reason only: for Samantha Whitehorse, aka Whitley, to be born.

“I just got curious. I vaguely remember your mom, but not Dad's.”
Dad's.
When had she stopped referring to him in her mind as
Daddy
? He had been
Daddy
to her when he died. How had she outgrown someone's name while that someone never grew older with her?

“Illinois. The windbag came from Illinois. Like some hippie, way back before there was such a thing. Gonna save the Indians. She was just a wacko poking her nose in where she had no business.”

And in the process becoming a beloved teacher whose son became a beloved teacher. “Where in Illinois?”

“How should I know?” She fell silent. Sam imagined the churning of wheels long idle. “It started with ‘L' or maybe ‘S.' It might've been two words. That's all I remember. She shoulda gone back there. My life woulda been a whole lot easier. I tell you—”

“Did she hold me?”

“What?”

Did my grandmother cuddle me? Did she know I existed?
“Did she hold me when I was a baby?”

“Of course she did. All the women did. I was laid up for a long time. You about killed me coming out. I swear, you weighed as much as the boys put together. Besides that, you kicked for nine months, and talk about colicky…”

Sam had heard that stuff her entire life, how she was responsible for
her mother's difficult life. But she had never heard about other women holding her.

About her grandmother Hannah holding her.

Hannah had known Sam! Despite her apparent disdain for Rosie, perhaps, just perhaps, she had loved Sam, her only grandchild. As a good teacher and the mother of a good man, perhaps Hannah had even bought toys for her and imagined fun things they would do together in the future.

Sam sighed to herself.

So what? A grandmother's hug from thirty years ago meant nothing in the here and now.

Forty-Nine

Hosting a party was a first for Sam. Of course, never having a BFF before Jasmyn arrived on the scene, there had been no reason on earth for her to throw a party.

From the couch in Sam's living room, Liv raised her teacup. “Kudos, Samantha, dear. The evening was a success.”

Seated on the floor, Sam turned sideways as a goofy grin inched its way across her face. She glanced up to see the woman wink. Sam chuckled. “Thanks.”

If it weren't for the fact that the occasion was Jasmyn's leaving, Sam might have laughed out loud like a delirious monkey. She had opened her cottage to the entire group of Casa Detainees, tipped the pizza delivery kid thirty percent, spoke civilly to Beau, and honestly enjoyed herself.

The Westminster chimes from her secondhand clock struck ten. The men had left some time ago, but all the Casa females lingered. Except for Coco in her wheelchair, they sat on her secondhand leather couch, her secondhand striped wingback chair, the rocker recently returned by Jasmyn, and on the dark green broadloom rug.

If someone had told Sam a few weeks ago that these women would be chatting inside her cottage, she would have rolled her eyes and said
In your dreams
. But there they all sat…

Liv had her legs tucked under her flowing brown skirt. Her orange cardigan with pockets appeared baggier than usual because of recent weight loss.

Piper as always looked ready for the cover girl shot, even sans makeup.
With her looks and success, she could have been consumed with self, but instead she was always likable and down-to-earth. Sam had noticed how once in a while—and Chad had confirmed—a blankness washed over her face. It was the only hint of sadness she ever exhibited over the death of her fiancé.

Inez rocked in the chair, her hair still thick and black, wearing a red shawl over a white blouse and a bright floral skirt, the ever-present happy expression on her face. She was the epitome of contentment.

Coco slept in her wheelchair, her head upright, her posture still a dancer's. Her blond bob-style wig was a bit askew, her eyelashes prominent as butterfly wings. Sam often zeroed in on her to make sure she was still breathing.

Déja, Noah's fourteen-year-old daughter, lounged on the rug. Her pout had definitely lessened since her arrival, especially after laughing with Piper. Even her dyed black spiked hair, the black jacket, black shirt, black pants, and a dog collar necklace appeared less ominous. Lamplight reflected off her silver nose ring, softening the whole effect.

Riley sat on the couch with Tasha curled up asleep between her and Liv, and she gently stroked her daughter's hair. Her story was another tragedy, and its impact showed. She was an anxious, needy sort. Her wispy, white-blond hair and porcelain skin added to her appearance of vulnerability. Sam always wondered why she didn't move back East to be with family.

Sam's eyes stung. She had never given Riley the benefit of the doubt before. Would Sam have moved back home to be with family if she had a special needs child and the father had left them? Probably not.