Mourning Gloria (2 page)

Which she needed, definitely. A boost to her morale, that is. If she stuck to her plan, the week coming up was going to be the purest hell. She had to get her head straight so she could deal with all the crap that was going to get dumped on her. She was confused about a lot of things these days, but one thing was perfectly clear. She was
not
going back to Mexico. She was going to the cops, instead. And once she went to the cops, that was it. That was the end. Cross that line, and she could never go back.

Of course, if she were totally honest with herself, she would have to admit that she had already crossed too many lines, and that every week of the past month had been hell, too. The past couple of months, come to that, ever since she’d let Matt talk her into—

She shuddered.
Do not go there
, she reminded herself sternly. She had to put that out of her mind and concentrate on the perfectly ordinary thing she was doing, getting ready to spend a long, lazy weekend at her mother’s house in Seguin. She didn’t have classes on Monday, so she could stay until Tuesday. Nobody—not Matt, not Stu (if he cared, which he might or might not)—had to know where she was hanging out. Her mother was up in Dallas getting Grandma settled in one of those ritzy residential villages where they warehoused selfish old people who wanted to keep their kids and grandkids from inheriting their money. Her dad was in Alaska, working on the pipeline—she hadn’t heard from him in months, except for the checks he sent for tuition and books and the new laptop, which she was grateful for, naturally, even if he was doing it only because she had made him feel guilty for abandoning his wife and daughter for that bottle-blond slut in Anchorage.

In fact, that was the beauty of going home. Nobody in the whole wide world would know where she was. She’d be all alone and safe, with free access to the drinks cabinet, the well-stocked freezer, her mother’s steaks and pizzas and ice cream, and as much TV as she wanted. No phone calls, no threats, no harassment, and by the time she got back to Pecan Springs, she’d be psyched up to do what she had to do. The weekend would give her time to get things under control, at least in her own head. Give her time to come up with a good story for the cops. Yes, that’s what she needed—a believable, plausible-sounding story that would protect her and allow her to deal with the inevitable aftermath, which needn’t be so bad if she kept her wits about her. If she came up with the right story, maybe they’d even let her into the Witness Protection Program. Well, why not? She was a witness, among other things. She definitely needed protection. But most of all, she needed to put all that bad stuff—bad choices, bad people—behind her. She needed a fresh start.

Oh, is that right?
scoffed the snarky voice in her head, the voice that sounded a lot like her mother’s.
And just who do you think you’re kidding? There’s no way to get a fresh start after what you’ve done, Gloria, and you know it. Admit that you’re in way over your head and there’s no way out. No easy way, that is. You’ll end up in jail—or worse.

She forced herself to shut out the voice and turned, catching sight of herself in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. Medium-tall, narrow hips, great boobs, if she did say so herself. She turned to admire her profile, lifting her shirttail so she could see her flat stomach. Good nose, flirty eyes, nice mouth, reasonable hair—not badlooking, all things considered. But those boobs were extra-special—full and firm, like two ripe melons—and she knew how to show them to best advantage. Those boobs caught guys’ attention and held it. They had caught Stu’s attention, hadn’t they? They had made him want the rest of her—want her badly enough to drop Shannon and focus all his attention on her.

She made a face at her reflection. Yeah, well, those boobs were just about all she had. Without them, she’d never get noticed. She turned away from the mirror. She had no special talents, no special interests, no special skills, no special hopes or dreams. She had drifted through undergraduate school with Cs and a few Bs, compiling a GPA that was barely high enough to get her into grad school, which she had wanted not because she aspired to do anything special with a master’s degree but because another two years of school would allow her to postpone the rest of her life. And since her dad was so eager to pick up the tab, why not let him? It was a small price for him to pay, considering all the pain he had caused. It made her feel like she was getting even, and that felt good. Getting even always felt good.

She turned in a circle, surveying the messy apartment bedroom, clothes strewn everywhere, magazines, makeup. What else should she take on her makeover weekend? Oh, God, yes, her laptop. She giggled half hysterically. She wouldn’t survive the weekend without her Facebook friends, who sometimes seemed like the only real friends she had, because they weren’t in her face all the time. Her former roommate Vickie, for instance, who got to be such a pain that she had moved out. And Shannon, who was always mouthing off about Stu.

And then she sobered, thinking. No, better not post this weekend, or if she posted, better not say where she was. Don’t say she was in Seguin, at her mother’s place. Lie about it. Make up a story. Yeah, that was what she’d do. Make up this great story that everybody on her friends’ list would be bound to remember. Like, tell them she was driving down to South Padre Island for a long weekend at the beach with a couple of girlfriends from high school that she hadn’t seen since graduation. That they had reservations at the beach-front Marriott, where the blue-green ocean broke onto a strip of white sand under the Gulf-side balconies and the sun shone down on a jewel of a swimming pool, surrounded by swaths of green grass and swaying palm trees. That the three of them would slather on the sun oil and lie by the pool all day and spend all night bar-hopping at the foot of the island, dancing to hot bands until the last margarita was poured.

Sure. She could do that, easy, because if she had one single talent in the world, it was making up stories about herself. She would imagine the whole thing from beginning to end, a great adventure, and tell it bit by bit in posts, so if anybody came looking for her and thought to check her Facebook page, they’d be convinced she was at South Padre. What was it they called this in those true crime shows on TV? A cover story? Whatever, it was a brilliant idea.

And with that, she sat down at her laptop, brought the screen up, logged on to Facebook, and in five minutes had posted the first installment of her story, time- and date-stamped, 6:10 p.m. on Friday, today. According to her post, she was packed, the car was loaded, her friends were waiting for her in the parking lot, and they were heading for South Padre, aiming to drive as far as Corpus tonight, get a motel there, and start again early in the morning. Look for her next post from the beach. Smiling to herself, she logged off. A great weekend trip, sounded like a lot of fun. Too bad it wasn’t true. But that was okay. Where she was headed was just as good. And free.

Five minutes later, she was in the parking garage, stowing her bag and her laptop in the trunk of her jazzy red Mustang convertible, which she had bought with her ill-gotten gains. She glanced out through the concrete arches at the sky, trying to decide whether to put the top up or down. Clouds were piling up in the east, dark blue on their heavy bottoms, rosy pink like strawberry whipped cream on top where the evening sun struck them. Lightning forked from cloud top to cloud top, and the pale leaves of the cottonwood at the back of the parking lot rattled like scraps of shiny metallic paper in the slight breeze. Seguin was only thirty minutes away, but from the looks of that sky, it was going to rain before she got to her mom’s house, so she’d leave the top up. It didn’t matter, as long as the weather cleared for the weekend. She was in the mood for some serious sun. A couple of days stretched out on the patio would do wonders for her spirits.

She shut the trunk, went around the car, and slid into the driver’s seat. She was putting the key into the ignition when the passenger door opened and a familiar, softly pleasant voice said, “You weren’t leaving for the weekend without letting me know, were you? I thought we were going to have a chance to talk this thing over.” He slid onto the seat beside her.

A flash of fear, like forked lightning, seared through her. “Talk? Were we going to do that? I guess I forgot.” She shrugged, trying to make her voice sound natural, aware that it didn’t. “Anyway, I’m only going for a couple of days. Just for the weekend. We can talk when I get back. Okay?”

He smiled. “I’d rather not put it off. And to be honest, it bothers me a lot that you tried to get away without telling me, you know?” There was an odd light in his eyes. His voice hardened almost imperceptibly. “So let’s go off by ourselves and talk for a while, and then you can go wherever you’re going. How’s that?”

A guy walked past the car, whistling. She bit her lip, thinking fleetingly that she had better get out of the car right now, while she still had the chance, and—

He put his hand over hers on the steering wheel and she was suddenly aware of his strength, his size, his physical presence—and something else, some sort of animal intensity she hadn’t seen in him before. She had known him for months, and he’d always seemed easygoing and laid-back, so there hadn’t been much attraction. But this was different. Guys who knew what they wanted and were ready to take it always turned her on. Part of her liked being in control, but there was another part that liked it even better when she wasn’t.

His fingers tightened on hers. He smiled crookedly. “Hey,” he said, teasing now, but firm. “I know you want to, so come on—let’s go.” As he pulled his hand away, his fingers touched her breast and she shivered.

He caught the shiver and threw her a knowing glance. Then he patted his shirt pocket, his dark eyebrows lifting. “Got some stuff here I’m pretty sure you’ll like, and I’m ready for a little fun. And some talk, too. Okay?”

Her belly muscles tightened and she felt goose bumps break out on her arms. She hadn’t planned this, but she was always one to take an opportunity when one presented itself. She thought of his fingers on her breast and shivered again. They could go somewhere and fool around for a while and have their talk before she drove on to her mother’s place. A last little fling, so to speak, before she went totally straight.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Yeah, I guess.” Then, “Where do you want to go? Your place? I’ll leave my stuff in the car and—”

“How about if we go back out to the trailer? The place where you crashed when you were between apartments.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have a key. I gave it back to—”

“I do,” he said, and grinned. He lifted his hand again, this time touching her cheek. “I’ve got a key.” His fingers felt cold, but his voice was coaxing. “Hey. Just the two of us. It’ll be fun. Then you can bring me back here and be on your way wherever.”

She had got the car started and was backing out of the parking space when it occurred to her. She had just posted the perfect cover story. If anybody came looking for her, they’d start with her Facebook page, which would lead them to South Padre. Which would prove to be a dead end.

If anything happened to her, nobody would know where to look.

Friday night’s thunderstorm rumbled off to the west and the Saturday sun rose on one of those stunningly lovely June mornings that seem to happen only in your dreams or in the half-forgotten country of childhood, when you spent summers with your favorite grandmother—the one who never made you help with the dishes. Sunlight slanted through green leaves tender and innocent as spring, not yet baked brittle by summer’s heat. Grasses glittered with dew, birds danced light as a song on the cool morning breeze, morning glories bloomed heavenly blue over the arbor—a lovely day to spend in the garden, once the dew had dried.

Caitie and I had been out there for an hour already, picking and tying up bunches of fresh dill, rosemary, sage, parsley, cilantro, thyme, and basil and stowing them in the big picnic cooler. As a general rule, it’s best to pick herbs after the dew has dried, but I was making an exception this morning. Today was Saturday, Market Day, and these dew-fresh green bundles would be snatched up by eager customers before the morning was half over.

On an ordinary Saturday, Brian would have been in the garden with us. But on Monday, he’d left for a two-week session as camp counselor at Hill Country Kids’ Camp. He’d hoisted his duffle over one shoulder, tucked his laptop under his arm, and pecked my cheek with his familiar good-bye kiss before he sauntered out to the van that had come to pick him up, a self-confident young man on his way to his first job. I’d made him promise to email us while he was gone, but I wasn’t worried that he’d get homesick. His longtime girlfriend Jake was working as a girls’ counselor at the same camp.