Mad River Road (22 page)

“Fine?”

“I understand.”

“Do you?”

“Well, no, I guess I don’t,” he admitted, waving his hands in obvious frustration, the back of one hand sending the multicolored pegs scattering across the table to the floor. “I mean, what’s the problem here? Are you afraid of running into your ex-husband?”

“It’s not that.”

“What is it?”

Jamie watched one of the yellow pegs roll across the floor, coming to a stop under the heavy, black shoe of a nearby diner. “I don’t know.”

“What is it, Jamie? Aren’t you over this guy?”

“What? Are you kidding me? Of course I’m over him.”

“Then I don’t get it.”

“It’s just that I don’t have very pleasant memories of Atlanta.”

“So, we’ll make new memories.”

“Look, if we just drive another forty minutes, we’ll get to Adairsville. There’s this fabulous place outside Adairsville called Barnsley Gardens that’s supposed to be the most romantic place in Georgia. You know, very
Gone With the Wind-ish
. It’s got all these ruins that are supposed to be haunted, and water gardens, and acres and acres of flowers. And it has this five-star resort with, like, all these nineteenth-century cottages. We could stay there. Unless, of course, you think it would be too expensive, then we could stay somewhere else—”

“Jamie,” Brad interrupted. “I’m tired. I don’t think I can drive for another forty minutes.”

“I’ll drive,” she offered happily.

He shook his head. “I just want to relax. It’s been an exhausting day.”

It has? Jamie quickly replayed the day’s events in her mind. They’d spent a lovely morning in Tifton, visiting all the churches and shops in the downtown core, then enjoyed a nice, leisurely lunch in a local café before picking up the car at around three o’clock, its leaky tire replaced by a brand-spanking-new one, the cost of which Brad had insisted on putting on his credit card. Then they’d resumed their journey north on I-75, stopping for an hour in Macon after a sign advertising the Georgia Music Hall of Fame caught her eye, and where Brad had bought them matching blue T-shirts, before continuing on their way. Everything had been perfect until he mentioned spending the night in Atlanta.

“I guess last night finally caught up with me,” Brad said now. “But, hey, I guess I can tough it out for another half hour or so, if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t feel well?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you should eat something.”

“I just need to lie down for a little while.”

“Well, I’ll drive, and you can have a snooze,” Jamie suggested.

“I’ll
drive,” Brad insisted, signaling to the waitress. “It’s getting dark, and the traffic around Atlanta can get pretty hairy. It’s too risky. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

Jamie reached across the table, covered his hand with her own. What was the matter with her? Couldn’t she see that the man was bone weary? Why was she behaving so selfishly? Was he right? Was she afraid of running into her ex-husband, or worse, his mother? And what if they did run into them? So what? She had a sexy new man on her
arm to show off. A man who was everything her ex-husband was not. One glance would tell Laura Dennison that. Hell, it might be fun to run into them after all.

This is gonna be fun, ain’t it, guys?
she remembered Brad saying.

“Okay, we’ll stay overnight in Atlanta.”

“What? No,” Brad countered. “You hate Atlanta. You won’t be comfortable.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him.

“We’ll go to this Beardsley Gardens—”

“Barnsley,” she corrected with a laugh. “And we can go another time. Maybe tomorrow night. Or on the way back. You probably need reservations anyway. Place like that is probably booked months in advance.”

He nodded, as if agreeing with her only reluctantly. “You’re probably right. I’ll call first thing in the morning, see what I can do.”

“That’d be great.”

The waitress approached with the bill.

“I’m suddenly really hungry,” Brad exclaimed. “I think you might be right about my needing something to eat. Would you mind? I’ll have the all-day breakfast, with extra-crispy bacon and two sunny-side-up eggs,” he told the waitress before Jamie had a chance to respond. “Oh, and some of your delicious biscuits, and another cup of coffee. What about you, Jamie? Another piece of endorphin-filled chocolate cake?”

“No, thanks.” Jamie couldn’t help but marvel at Brad’s abrupt change in moods.

“So, where’s a good place to stay in Atlanta?” Brad leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and taking her hands inside his own.

“There’s a ton of motels.”

“Nah. Forget motels. Let’s stay somewhere special.”

“There’s a Best Western—”

“Better than Best.”

“Well, there’s the Ritz Carlton over on Peachtree Drive, but—”

“But?”

“It’s in Buckhead.”

“Butthead?”

Jamie laughed. “I should tell my former mother-in-law you said that. She was always going on about how Buckhead was the
only
area in Atlanta to live. I’m not sure she’d feel the same way if it were called Butthead.”

“Well, Butthead sounds pretty good to me, and you can’t beat the Ritz. What do you say?”

Jamie smiled. “You can’t beat the Ritz,” she agreed.

The sumptuous white-and-gold lobby of the Ritz Carlton Hotel was crowded with Japanese tourists as Jamie followed Brad to the front desk. “We’d like a room for tonight,” Brad told the clerk as soon as the young man in the dark suit and crisp white shirt finished with the guest who was registering. “A suite, if you have one.” Brad snapped his credit card down on the marble counter.

“Very good, sir. Just let me check what’s available.”

A suite, Jamie was thinking. A suite at the Ritz Carlton Hotel. “My ex-mother-in-law would probably have a heart attack and die if she saw me now,” Jamie whispered, unable to keep the glee out of her voice.

“We have a lovely, nonsmoking suite available on the tenth floor, overlooking the Galleria.”

“What do you think, Jamie?” Brad asked. “A suite overlooking the Galleria?”

“Why not?” Jamie replied with a laugh.

“The lady says, Why not?” Brad repeated. He turned back to Jamie, whispered in her ear, “What’s a Galleria?”

“If you’ll just sign here, Mr. Hastings,” the clerk said, glancing at the credit card and pushing a form forward for Brad’s signature.

Mr. Hastings? Jamie wondered, about to correct him. But the clerk was already taking a swipe of Brad’s credit card. She watched him pause, try it a second time.

“I’m sorry, sir. Would you have another card, by any chance?”

“What’s the matter with that one?”

“I don’t know. It’s not going through.”

“That’s impossible. Try it again.”

The clerk tried it a third time. “I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps another card …”

“What’s the problem?” Jamie asked.

Brad’s face darkened. “It’s the stupid card. The magnetic strip must be on the fritz.”

“A fritz at the Ritz?” Jamie asked, hoping for a smile, receiving only a tense pursing of his lips. “That happens to me all the time. Do you have a piece of cellophane?” Jamie asked the clerk. “Sometimes if you wrap the card in cellophane … Or if you have a plastic bag …”

“Jamie, forget it. We’ll just go somewhere else.”

Jamie felt her heart sink. She’d had her heart set on the Ritz. “I have a credit card,” she offered, reaching into her purse and handing her card to the clerk. What the hell? How much could one night cost?

“I don’t want to use your card,” Brad said.

“Come on. You’ve paid for everything else.”

“I’m sorry.” The clerk looked from side to side selfconsciously, as if appealing to his colleagues for help. “I’m afraid this card has also been declined.”

“Shoot,” Jamie muttered. She hadn’t gotten around to paying her last bill, and the cost of the suite had probably put her over her limit. “How about just a regular room?”

“I’m afraid there are none available,” the clerk said, his voice so tentative even Jamie knew he was lying. “Perhaps you might try the Embassy Suites. They’re only several blocks away.”

“Shove your goddamn Embassy Suites,” Brad said.

“Brad—”

“Come on, Jamie.” Brad threw Jamie’s bag over his left shoulder, his own over his right, then grabbed her elbow, dragging her through the crowd of Japanese tourists still milling about the lobby, toward the revolving glass door. He tossed his parking ticket at the valet and began pacing restlessly back and forth in front of the entrance.

“It’s okay, Brad. We’ll find another hotel.”

“I’m not staying at any fucking Embassy Suites.”

“There’s a million hotels in Atlanta. I’m sure we’ll find a nice one.”

“Fucking credit card.”

“These things happen, Brad. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay. This is very embarrassing,” Brad said, shaking his head and running his hand through his tightly cropped hair. “Shit!”

Jamie bit down on her lower lip to keep from offering further words of encouragement. Just let him stew, she thought. Let him get it all out of his system. Of course he was embarrassed. He wasn’t used to such things happening.
In a few minutes, he’d calm down. Everything would be back to normal. “He called you Mr. Hastings,” she said, suddenly remembering.

Brad stopped his angry pacing, spun around toward her. “What?”

“The clerk. When he asked you to sign in. He called you Mr. Hastings.”

“He did?”

“I was about to correct him, but then he said the card had been declined, and well …”

Brad shook his head. “Hastings is my middle name. Brad Hastings Fisher,” he elaborated. “Stupid clerk can’t even read. No wonder he screwed up.”

Jamie smiled. Brad Hastings Fisher, she repeated silently as the valet pulled her blue Thunderbird into the long, circular driveway. Such a distinguished-sounding name. “Look, you’re tired. Why don’t you let me drive—”

“Get in the car, Jamie,” Brad directed gently, climbing behind the wheel as the valet opened the passenger side of the car. “I’ll drive. You play tour guide.”

“Now? But you’re exhausted.”

“My adrenaline’s pumping like crazy. Maybe if we drive around the city for a bit, it’ll give me a chance to calm down.”

Jamie thought of suggesting they continue on to Adairsville, then thought better of it. She had no interest in rehashing their previous argument. “You really want me to show you the sights?”

“How about we just drive around Butthead for a while? You could show me where you used to live.”

Jamie sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was drive around Buckhead. What she wanted was to climb into a
nice hot bath and then inside a nice warm bed. Still, if all he needed was a few minutes to calm down … “Turn left,” she said as Brad pulled the car away from the curb. “Now right. Okay. Keep going to the next corner, then make another right. Follow it around the bend in the road.”

“Wow, these homes are really something,” Brad remarked. “Talk about
Gone With the Wind
.”

Jamie glanced at the parade of palatial estates surrounded by long, sweeping lawns and all but hidden behind high, wrought-iron gates. “It’s hard to see them in the dark. We really should wait until tomorrow.”

“Nah, this is good enough. You actually lived in one of these castles?”

“No. I lived in a small apartment about five blocks away. You can get to it if you turn right at the next light.”

“Where’s your mother-in-law’s house?” Brad asked, ignoring her directions and continuing on straight ahead.

Jamie felt every muscle in her body tighten. “My mother-in-law?”

“Didn’t you say she lives in Butthead?”

Jamie nodded. “About a mile from here.”

“Show me.”

“Brad—”

“I’m just trying to get to know my girl better. Come on. Then we’ll find a motel, call it a night.”

My girl, Jamie repeated silently, savoring the sound. She nodded, guiding him around the hilly twists and turns that made up the upscale suburb of Buckhead. It occurred to her that she could point to any house, say this is it, this is where I spent possibly the worst year of my life, but she sensed he would know if she was lying, and what was the point? Within minutes, they were on
Magnolia Lane, the houses growing smaller, less majestic the farther away they got from Peachtree Drive, although still nice, still more than respectable. The real irony was that after she and Mark had divorced, Mark hadn’t moved back with his mother but rather found an apartment of his own. “That’s it. Number ninety-two. Right-hand side. Second from the end.”

Brad pulled the car to a stop in front of the white wood house, the car’s headlights illuminating the large FOR SALE sign on the manicured front lawn. Two stately, concrete pillars stood on either side of the black front door. The drapes in all the rooms were closed. The downstairs rooms were dark. There was a light on in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Mrs. Dennison’s room, Jamie realized, suppressing a shudder. “So the old witch has finally agreed to sell.”

“What do you think?” Brad asked. “Should we knock on the door, make her an offer she can’t refuse?”

Suddenly the curtains in the upstairs bedroom parted, and a lone figure appeared at the window, her magnified silhouette staring through the darkness toward the street. “Let’s get out of here,” Jamie whispered to Brad. “Brad, please,” she urged when he failed to move. “Before she recognizes my car.”

“Can’t have that,” Brad agreed, making a quick U-turn and speeding down the quiet road.

“J
amie. Hey, Jamie, wake up.”

“Hmm?” Jamie rolled over onto her back in bed, her eyes refusing to open. “What?”

“Wake up, Jamie.”

Jamie suddenly shot up in bed, as if she’d been doused by a glass of cold water, her heart racing wildly, a torrent of words rushing from her dry mouth. “What’s happened? What’s the matter? Is something wrong?” Had the boys from Tifton found them, broken into their room?

Brad laughed quietly beside her, ran a reassuring hand across her bare back. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Take it easy. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Jamie fought to bring the cheap motel room into focus, but it was dark and wouldn’t stop spinning. It was still night. She knew that much, because she could see the moon peeking through the crack in the heavy drapes, and the neon red numbers of the digital clock beside the uncomfortable double bed quickly confirmed it was only 3:02 in the morning. The middle of the night, for God’s sake. She gathered the flimsy, white sheet around her as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and waited for Brad to
explain what was going on. But he said nothing. He just sat there with this dopey grin on his handsome face and stared at her. “Brad, what’s the matter? Has something happened?”