Dark River Road (62 page)

“And play the slots?”

Dempsey grinned. “Might. I allow myself twenty dollars ev’ry now and then. Just to see if my luck’s changed any.”

When he was gone, Tansy reached in the bar and snagged a couple of bottled waters, then came to plop down on the couch next to Chantry. She gave him one of the bottles and twisted off the cap to hers, drinking a bit before saying, “Do you think he looks okay?”

“Dempsey? Yeah. He looks fine. Why?”

“I don’t know. I worry about him. He won’t leave that stupid house. Says he likes it there where he’s got land around him, says it’s what he’s used to. I tried to get him to move onto a bit of land I bought, build him a nice house looking over the river—he won’t do it. Hard-headed as a damn billy goat.”

“Must be where you get it,” he said without thinking, then paused.

Tansy looked up at him with lifted brows. He smiled. Then he reached out to push a strand of loose hair off her forehead, tapped her lightly on the nose with his finger. “See? Things aren’t so bad now. You did what you said you’d do.”

“And what is that?”

“Have people saying
There goes Tansy Rivers. Isn’t she something?
And you are. You’ve always been something. I knew it even when you didn’t believe it.”

She flopped against the back of the couch. “I can’t believe you remember
that
. What’s happened to me, Chantry? I know you’re right, but I still feel like that little girl inside. Wandering in dark tunnels. Lost. Remember the night I tried to win that contest?”

“You did win that contest.”

“Yes, but I lost something else for a while. It’s so hard to think of that now.”

He didn’t say anything, let her talk or not talk, just content to be with her again like they had been as kids. Knowing what the other was thinking without saying it, understanding the emotion if not the reason for it. Or the solution for it.

“I was so scared that night,” Tansy said softly, stared off across the luxurious suite with its wet bar, big screen TV, and bank of windows looking out over the Mississippi with Arkansas on the far side. “There you were, in the middle of a fight while I just crouched down on that stage and watched, sick they all saw me for who I really was instead of who I was pretending to be. After Chris told me what Beau said, I knew I’d only been kidding myself. I have to be who I am. Just like you’ve never been afraid to be who you are. I wanted to be brave like you Chantry, and ended up being a fraud. I was so ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what? Being strong enough to try? Hell, Tansy, you did just what you set out to do. Maybe you never got the prize money, but you won that contest. You beat them.”

“But not as myself. That’s what shamed me.”

He understood then. “Most of us put up that front, Tansy. We want people to see us as we wish we were or think we have to be. It’s self-defense.”

“You mean, ‘Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,’ right? That’s my favorite line from the
Wizard of Oz
, when the professor’s pretending to be the great and powerful wizard, but they find out he’s really only a sad little man who’s just as lost as they are.”

“So, most people are illusions. That’s nothing new.”

She smiled. “Still the cynic, I see. Don’t you ever want it to be different?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “But what I want and what happens is usually pretty different. I’m used to disappointments.”

“Still not letting anyone get close to you? Even me? Even—Cinda?”

He didn’t know how to answer that so didn’t, just looked away from her. After a minute she sighed and said, “Sorry, Chantry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

It got quiet between them, not uncomfortable, just both lost in thought; then Tansy said in a small voice, “I lost the baby, you know.”

“No,” he said, “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“So am I. It was—a terrible time. I think I would’ve been a good mother. I’ll just never know. My auntie said some awful things, about me, about my mother—I couldn’t bear staying there anymore when they all knew, when they all looked at me like I was some kind of freak or
 . . .
or whore. I ran away, went to New York to stay with some girl I met on the streets in Chicago. I was so naïve and stupid. Got stuck in a situation that anyone else would have avoided right off. If I’d stayed, I’d probably be dead by now. As it was, the baby died before he was even born. When I left the hospital, I went to a halfway house. It was what saved my life, I think. I found music again. Found myself again. It took a long time, though. Maybe I should have come home, but I could never stand the thought of being within reach of what I wanted and what I’d never be able to have.”

“Yeah. Reckon I know how that feels.”

She turned to look at him again, put her hand on his arm. “Yes, I know you do.”

After a minute, she sighed and leaned against him and he put his arm around her, holding her close, smelling the sweet, clean fragrance of her hair, felt the warmth of her body against his side, the trust in the way she put her head on his shoulder. If he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the peachy scent of the mimosa tree, the dust in the air, and the summer heat on that day she’d come to help him save a Catahoula pup. And he had the sudden startling thought that this was as close to coming home as he’d ever felt in his life.

Maybe that’s all coming home really was—not to a place, but to someone who accepted him as he really was, not the illusion. Someone who’d already seen behind the curtain and didn’t care.

They sat that way for a while, not saying anything, just content to be together again. Few women of his experience ever got that, that he didn’t want to discuss details of the day or life or if he did or didn’t love them, or why or why not. Tansy understood. Cinda had understood. Maybe that was why he felt closer to them than any woman he’d ever been with since. They were the only two women besides his mother he’d ever told he loved. And he’d meant it each time.

Dempsey came back upstairs, satisfaction in his eyes and with a full stomach and pocket. “Won nearly four hundred dollars,” he said. “Ate enough shrimp to fill a five gallon bucket.”

“So now you’re ready to go home.”

He grinned at Chantry. “Yep. Pretty much.”

“Honestly,” Tansy said, “I don’t know if you came to see me or the buffet.”

“It was close, but you won, baby girl.”

“Yeah, don’t try to sweet talk me now. Too late for that. Go on home, you ornery ole mule, and I’ll see you at my show. And don’t think you’ll get out of it either, Chantry, because I’ve got a ticket for you as well. I expect you to be here next Friday night. No excuses.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. And I can buy my own ticket.”

“Not this one. I get freebies and I know where I want you to sit. Get here a half hour early at least, okay?”

“Don’t guess I have much choice.”

“Nope. You sure don’t.” Tansy gave them both a hug, held onto Chantry a moment too long, whispered fiercely that she’d missed him, and then let him go. “See y’all Friday.”

He’d missed her, too. He hadn’t realized just how much until he’d seen her again. It wasn’t anything he’d be able to explain to anyone else, or even to Tansy, but he felt easier with her than even Mikey because she had no big expectations of him. She didn’t want anything from him except that he be there. She didn’t demand answers he didn’t have. Didn’t press him on why or what he intended to do. She accepted him like he was—as Mikey would say, just one big neurosis. Yeah, that was pretty close to the truth. Not a comforting thought.

Herky had left him a remote
for the garage door and he parked his car inside, careful not to disturb anything. Cinda’s car was gone, probably at the airport or her parents. It was a three car garage anyway, with plenty of room in each bay.

The carriage house was quiet, only a small light burning in the kitchen, one of those with an electric eye that came on when it got dark. It felt still and empty. He flipped on the overhead light and a bank of fluorescent tubes hummed into service. A ceramic tile floor in rich terra cotta gleamed underfoot. Copper pots hung from some kind of rack over the island stove, reflective and slightly twisting in the draft from the central air ducts. He hadn’t done much cooking, probably wouldn’t. It was easier to eat out, keep just enough in the house to take the edge off if he didn’t feel like leaving. Beer, milk, sandwich stuff. Military and Mama’s home-training saved him from being a slob. If not for that, he wouldn’t have noticed or cared if six inches of dust coated all the furniture. Domesticity wasn’t his thing.

He took a shower, put on sweatpants and got a beer from the fridge, then punched on the TV. It was a nice size stereo unit with VCR and DVD player, set into a built-in wall cabinet. All the comforts of home. Whoever had designed the carriage house obviously meant to make it appealing to guests, not future tenants.

It made him wonder if the carriage house had really been one of the properties offered for rental. But if he went in that direction, it opened up an entirely new set of questions that he didn’t want to explore.

To take his mind off everything, he watched a Jackie Chan movie. That usually did the trick. Mindless stunts, chases, fights and action provided enough distraction for a while, so that when the phone rang, he almost didn’t answer it. Reminders of life beyond Chinatown weren’t wanted.

When it kept ringing, he remembered he hadn’t turned on the answering machine and got up to answer finally. Few people had this number, just Doc, Mikey, and Dempsey. He liked it that way. No intrusions into his privacy.

Cathy Chandler said, “Hey, Chantry. You busy?”

He wanted to ask how she’d gotten his number but that’d be rude, so he just said, “Kinda. What’s up?”

“I need to talk to you. Can I come over?”

At least she asked this time. He glanced at the clock. Nearly ten. And he was in no mood to deal with blatant seduction attempts. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow at the clinic. How about another time?”

“It’s really important.” She paused, then said with a little catch in her voice, “I don’t know who else to talk to, who I can trust not to say anything. You
 . . .
you never tell what you know. I wouldn’t stay long. I swear. I just want to
 . . .
to ask your opinion. Please, Chantry?”

Great. A midnight confidante session with a weeping female. Just what he needed. Despite that inner voice telling him to run like hell, he heard himself say, “Okay. Sure. For a little while.”

When he hung up, he told himself he was really stupid. This wouldn’t help anything.

Cathy arrived within fifteen minutes. She wore no make-up and her hair was tangled down her back, and she sported a huge bruise on the left side of her face. He let her in and didn’t say anything until she huddled on the couch with her arms wrapped around her body, shivering.

“Okay, so I’m guessing Brad hit you. Am I close?” he asked after a minute, and she shot him a startled look.

“Yes. How’d you know—I have a bruise?” She put a hand up to her face.

He’d always figured Brad Durbin for the kind of bully who’d hit women. He shrugged. “I’m just a good guesser. So is this why you’re divorcing him?”

“Part of the reason. Marrying him was a dumb thing to do. I’d like to plead insanity or at least being drunk, but I thought it was a good idea at the time. God. I’m such an idiot.”

This was a Cathy he’d never seen. Vulnerable. She wore loose sweat pants and a shapeless jersey instead of her usual tight-fitting or skimpy outfits. Her hair was a mess and she didn’t seem to even care. He got her a beer and sat in the chair opposite, not knowing what to say or why he had ended up being a refuge.

As if answering his unvoiced question, she looked up and said, “I can’t admit to any of my friends that I was dumb enough to let him near me again. They’ll say I told you so or just give me more advice I know I should take but never do. That’s why I came to you. Sorry to be such a wet willie.”