Wanna Get Lucky? (36 page)

FAITHFUL
Forrest manned his post as I strode through the lobby toward the elevators. “Hey, Ms. Lucky. How was your day?”

How was my day? Good question. I paused to answer him. “Interesting. And yours?”

“Good. Me and my son took the boat out on Lake Mead. Did some skiing, drank some beer. We don’t get to do that too often, just the two of us.”

“He starts law school in the fall, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You must be so proud.” I made a mental note to ask the homeowner’s association if there was something we could do to help with the boy’s tuition. “Is Teddie home?”

“No, ma’am. He went out some time ago and hasn’t come back.”

“I see.” I pulled my key card out of a pocket in my purse. “Thanks.”

The elevator ride seemed interminable—Teddie’s absence left a black hole that had sucked all the joy and energy out of the day.

Apparently happy to see me, Newton ran through his whole repertoire of foul epithets as I deposited my purse on the couch and kicked off my shoes. Some of the words I’d never heard before—I could only imagine what they meant. I arrived in front of his cage as he wound down. Face to beak, we stared at each other.

“You’d better be careful. I hear fricassee of parrot is all the rage in the finer culinary establishments this year,” I growled because I felt like growling at someone and Newton was the only one handy.

“Asshole.”

I resisted the urge to wring his neck and baste his carcass over an open fire. Instead I busied myself with his food and water. Feeling guilty for my murderous thoughts, I even changed the papers in the bottom of his cage. Somehow I remembered to clean the coffeepot and fill it for the morning, before I staggered off to bed.

As I slipped between the sheets, I thought how nice it would be to find Teddie waiting.

But he wasn’t.

I’d never felt so alone.

A
fter a miserable night’s sleep, I rose with the sun. Six
A.M.
in the shower. Seven
A.M.
on the road, the Porsche happy to blow some carbon off the plugs. The little car hummed nicely as it settled in at eighty-five on the long, open stretch of highway between Vegas and Pahrump. Born in the same year, my car and I were equally high-maintenance—one of the traits I both admired and hated. Apparently today was one of the Porsche’s better days even if it wasn’t one of mine.

Although early, the heat of the day radiated from the blacktop. I flipped on the CD player and sang along in Spanish to Luis Miguel’s ballads of love and loss, as the road flashed beneath the car.

I didn’t want to think. I didn’t want to feel. I just wanted to be.

At this hour of the morning, Mona’s looked abandoned, the parking lot empty, the shades drawn. However, I knew the proprietress
would be awake—I’d never known Mother to need more than three or four hours of sleep a night. I parked the car, made sure I locked it, then bounded up the steps and through the unlocked door. Mother rarely slept, and Mona’s never closed.

Following the lure of wonderful aromas, I found the kitchen staff busy with breakfast preparations.

Trudi, a whippet-thin lady who’d run the staff for years, noticed me first. “Miss Lucky! Your mother didn’t tell us you were coming.”

“She doesn’t know.” I snagged a piece of bacon from a big platter next to the stove. One bite and I groaned in delight. “Crispy! Just the way I like it.” I held the remaining piece of bacon aloft. “This is why I could never be a vegetarian.”

The staff rewarded me with a few grins.

“We’re just finishing your mother’s tray,” Trudi said. “She was expecting it ten minutes ago, and you know how she is without her coffee.”

“Let me take it. I don’t mind wading into the line of fire.” Grabbing the tray from the counter, I smiled at the white linen tea towel under china and crystal. “Guess we’re still doing the Southern-belle thing.”

Trudi answered with a tired smile. “Would you like a plate?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” Holding the tray in both hands, I used my butt to push open the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. “Could I get extra bacon—perhaps as hazardous duty pay?”

“Sure. I’ll bring it up in a minute.”

Mother’s suite occupied the attic of the old Victorian. After hiking the four flights of stairs, I paused to catch my breath, then used my foot to knock on the door.

“Come!” Even this early, my mother’s voice had an edge to it.

“Don’t shoot. I come bearing gifts.” Balancing the tray on one knee, I freed one hand, turned the knob and pushed open the door.

Mona sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room, hundreds of old photographs scattered around her. Wearing shortshorts,
a tank top, no bra, and no makeup, she looked so young . . . and sad. Focused on a picture in her hand, she didn’t look up when I entered.

“Hey, Mother. Where would you like your tray?”

“Oh!” Her head turned away from me, she wiped at her eyes with the heel of one hand, then turned toward me, her face in the shadows. “Nobody told me you were coming, dear!”

“Good to see you, too, Mother.” I proffered the tray. “Where do you want this?”

She pointed to a small round table with two chairs in front of one of the dormer windows.

“Don’t be mad at your staff—they couldn’t tell you what they didn’t know.” I poured a cup of coffee from the carafe. “Milk, no sugar, right?”

Mona nodded and stayed where she was on the floor. “Come, sit with me.”

The room took me back—the four-poster bed covered with the same floral Laura Ashley print that also covered the walls—my mother’s own secret garden. A memory of me as a little girl, lounging on Mother’s bed—the two of us chatting like the best of friends—chased through my head. That had been so long ago.

“Be careful. It’s hot.” I handed the mug to Mother and sat, Indian style, on the floor next to her. I motioned to the old black-and-white photos. “What’s all this?”

“I don’t know.” Mother surreptitiously swiped at her eyes again. “I guess I needed a trip down memory lane.”

I finally got a closer look at my mother—her red eyes, dark circles framing them, her ratty ponytail. “Mother, what’s wrong?”

“Remembering old times always makes me sad.” She rooted through the pictures, selecting one and handing it to me. “You were about eight there—my little best friend. Life was so simple then.”

The photo showed me—all long brown legs, pigtails and a big smile—sitting on a pony. “I remember that pony—blind in one eye and mean as hell. The bugger bit me on the ass—left a scar.”

We both smiled at the memory.

“And then this one.” She stared at the dog-eared photo in her hand as she took a tentative sip of her coffee.

I leaned over to get a look. “That’s my favorite. I have it on my credenza.” She handed me the one with Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Mom and me.

“Your father took it. Those were happy days.” She stared at the picture, transported back to another time.

“What?” I asked when I found my voice. “My father took it? You never told me.”

Mother looked up, her eyes coming back into focus. “Oh!” She waved dismissively. “It’s not important.”

“Maybe not to you. You never told me you even knew who my father was.”

“Honey, that’s insulting.” Mona had made it her life’s work to dodge my questions—she’d become quite adept.

“But a hazard of your former profession.”

Mona didn’t say anything, as if she hadn’t heard a word I’d said. Instead, she stared at the photo, lost in the past. Her face had a look I’d never seen before.

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

She nodded and her eyes filled—not only with tears, but also with sadness—and pain. “Very much.”

“So what happened?”

“Life got in the way,” she said with a sigh. “If I have one regret, and I don’t have many—living in the past is useless—I regret letting him go—not fighting harder.”

I didn’t have to imagine how painful that had been—I saw it, etched in Mother’s every feature. It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened. What family would want their son to bring home a young woman with nothing more than raw beauty and an irrepressible spirit, who lived on the streets and sold herself to survive? With no education and no family, she must’ve been the barest hint of the vibrant, adult personality she would become. The two of them hadn’t had a chance.

Reaching out, I grabbed her hand and squeezed. “I’m so sorry.”

“We were young. We thought we could change the world.” She looked up at me, her eyes shone with intensity. A single tear streaked down each cheek. “If love finds you, hang on tight, child. Your father and I thought we’d get another chance. We were wrong.”

I leaned back on my hands and looked at her. “That’s what you’ve done all these years? You’ve waited?”

She shrugged and wiped at her eyes. “The memories with him were always better than reality with somebody else.”

“Wow.” Didn’t Mother just tell me living in the past was useless? I thought about asking her who he was, this man who had stolen her heart, then abandoned the mother of his child, but she’d wallowed in grief long enough. She wouldn’t tell me anyway. Despite all my questions through the years, she had steadfastly refused to answer.

When I was younger, I thought my father’s identity would provide a critical key to my own. Now, I realized he didn’t matter at all. As Mother said, living in the past is useless. Strangely though, I found comfort in the fact that I was born out of love and wasn’t the product of poor protection.

I forced a smile. “So, what prompted this little blast from the past?”

Mona took a deep breath, composing herself. She sat up straight and surveyed the room. “I’ve been thinking about redecorating. Laura Ashley is so seventies, don’t you think?”

I reached over to the nightstand and grabbed a tissue from the box and handed it to her. “Awful lot of memories in this room,” I said. “Maybe it’s time you cleaned house—banished the ghosts, so to speak.”

“That’s what I was trying to do when I came across that damned box of old pictures.” Mona wiped her eyes.

We both jumped at the soft knock on the door.

Trudi poked her head in. “I brought two plates—I figured you would start talking and forget about the food.”

“You were right.” I jumped to my feet and relieved her of the heavy tray. “Thanks.”

“There’s a fresh pot of coffee there, too.” She picked up the old tray and disappeared out the door.

“Come on, Mother. A little food should put a smile on your face—it always does with me.”

“You always were a big eater.” Mona brought her now cold coffee, warmed it from the new carafe, and joined me.

Mother and daughter, we sat by the window at the little table with the Laura Ashley skirt and the matching upholstered chairs, as we had done so many times before. I remembered when my feet didn’t even touch the floor. The same Tiffany lamp cast its feeble light, which was all but lost in the sunlight streaming through the window.

Nothing had changed, but everything was different.

Mother took a few halfhearted bites of egg, then abandoned her fork and settled back in her chair, her coffee mug cradled in both hands. “I like your hair. It becomes you.”

High praise from Mona. “Thanks.”

Mother eyed me over the lip of her mug. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I wanted to ask you a question.”

“Oh?” Mother said as if she didn’t know what was coming next.

“Who did you think came to visit Lyda Sue here in the Babylon’s helicopter?”

“The minute I hung up the phone, I knew I’d made a mistake calling you. You never could do as you were told.”

“Like mother, like daughter.” I picked up another piece of bacon—my third—and started in on it. “You’re avoiding my question, Mother.”

“I was worried it was that nice Mr. Dane. He seemed smitten with you and I didn’t want you to screw it up.” Mother gave me a bland look.

She was bullshitting me. I had known she would, so it came as no surprise. So, if I had known the odds were stacked against me getting the straight skinny from my mother, why did I come? What was I looking for? Even I wasn’t sure of the answer.