Mad River Road Page 7

  Emma lifted up the letter of rejection to glance at the story beneath. “Last Woman Standing,” she read. By Lily Rogers.

  Pauline Brody is thinking of licorice sticks. The long, twisted, red ones that her older sister used to tell her weren’t really licorice at all, but some kind of plastic, full of horrible red dye that would give her cancer when she grew up.

  Yuck, Emma thought, returning the story to the envelope and dropping Lily’s mail to the floor as she retrieved the morning paper, then carried it into the kitchen at the rear of the house. The sun poured in through the large window above the sink, spotlighting the smooth Formica counter that ran between the small white refrigerator and the oven. There was no dishwasher, no microwave, no fancy grill, for which Emma was almost grateful. She didn’t need any of those things. She’d had them during her marriage to Dylan’s father. She didn’t miss them. Hell, as long as she had her Mr. Coffee machine, she was happy. She rinsed out her mug and poured herself a fresh cup of coffee from the pot she’d made earlier that morning. Well, maybe not so fresh, she thought, taking a long sip and sitting down at the kitchen table, spreading the want ads out before her. Enough procrastinating. She needed a job.

  Emma groaned, leaning back in her chair and stretching toward the drawer beside the sink. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed fortification. And there it was, at the back of the drawer, hidden among the dishtowels and cleaning rags: a pack of Salems, complete with a half-full book of matches. Talk about things that would give you cancer when you grew up, Emma thought, withdrawing a cigarette from the middle of the pack. She lit it and inhaled deeply, closing her eyes. There were only so many things she could worry about, and the truth was that Emma loved smoking. She loved everything about it—the taste of the tobacco on her tongue, the slow burning sensation that traveled up her throat, the exquisite pressure in her lungs as they filled with smoke, the deeply satisfying release of that smoke back into the air. Emma didn’t care what the experts said. Nothing that made you feel this good could possibly be that bad.

  Of course, she’d once felt the same way about men.

  And then there was her promise to Dylan. Yes, I swear I’ll stop smoking. No, I’m not going to die. Yes, that was my last cigarette ever. No, I’ll never have another one. I promise. See? Mommy’s throwing out all her nasty cigarettes. There. All gone. Stop crying. Please, baby, stop crying.

  She’d have to open some windows before he got home and air the room out, brush her teeth. Fifteen strokes, top and bottom, she thought with a sad smile, picturing Dylan going through his nightly ablutions. God, what was she going to do with that child?

  “What am I going to do with me?” she asked, scanning the list of jobs under General Help Wanted.

  A BLING BLING DEAL, the first heading began.

  Looking for a cool job? Great atmosphere and pay are waiting for you.

  “Sounds good to me,” Emma said, reading the rest.

  Fourteen F/T marketing reps needed for expanding marketing co. No telemarketing.

  “What in the world is an F/T marketing rep?” Emma asked, taking another deep drag of her cigarette and perusing the rest of the page.

  A travel operator position (22 new jobs), $10/hr + $40–$100 cash daily …

  Baker required for Portuguese bakery. Call Tony or Anita …

  Eighteen travel consultants needed for reservations dept …

  Program Supervisor for Halfway house. $50K a year …

  “Now that sounds more like it.”

  … Min. 5 years exp. E-mail résumé to …

  “Shoot. So much for that.”

  Another knock at the door. Another sharp intake of breath.

  “Don’t be silly. It’s only the mailman, come to correct his mistake.” Emma took another long, last drag off her cigarette before throwing it down the sink and walking to the door, coffee mug in hand. She scooped up Lily Rogers’s mail from the floor, then opened the door.

  The woman who stood on the other side of the screen door was young and blond and pretty. In a bovine sort of way, Emma thought, taking note of the woman’s round face, small upturned nose, and more than ample bosom. It was a shame. She’d be beautiful if she lost five pounds, drop-dead gorgeous if she could get rid of ten.

  “Hi,” Lily Rogers said, brown eyes smiling. She held up a small stack of letters. “These came to my house by mistake. I think we must have a new postman or something,” she continued as Emma opened the door just wide enough for them to exchange mail. “The regular guy doesn’t make these mistakes. Oh,” she said, realizing the large envelope had been opened.

  “I’m really sorry,” Emma said immediately. “I opened it before I realized.…”

  “That’s all right. Good news, I hope.”

  Emma said nothing.

  “Damn,” Lily Rogers said, without bothering to read the letter of rejection.

  “They did say the story was entertaining and well written,” Emma offered, adding quickly, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snoop.”

  “That’s okay.”

  She doesn’t look okay, Emma thought. She looks on the verge of tears. Just give her a little nod of condolence and send her on her way. “Would you like some coffee?” she heard herself ask, then bit down on her lower lip. What was the matter with her? She didn’t want Lily Rogers in her house. Hadn’t she made a pointed effort not to befriend any of her neighbors? What was she doing? She didn’t want a friend. She couldn’t afford one.

  “That’d be great,” Lily said, following Emma to the kitchen.

  Emma dropped her mail, which she noticed consisted of two bills and a flyer for a vacation resort in Cape Cod, on the counter, then cleared the morning paper off the table and poured Lily a mug of coffee, motioning for the young woman to pull up a chair.

  “Thank you.” Lily sank into the nearest folding chair and crossed one leg over the other. She was wearing an unflattering gray sweat suit bearing the logo of a local health club. “I work at Scully’s four days a week, from ten to three,” she said, noticing the direction of Emma’s gaze. “While Michael’s in school. I think our sons are in the same class. Ms. Kensit?”

  Emma nodded, reached into the top drawer next to the sink, withdrew another cigarette. “You want one?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”

  Emma nodded, lighting her second cigarette of the day and blowing smoke rings into the air. “So, what’s with the story?” she asked, nodding toward the stuffed envelope on the table in front of Lily.

  Lily shrugged. “You know what they say about hope springing eternal.…”

  “You want to be a writer?”

  “Ever since I was a little girl. I was always the kid being asked to read her compositions out loud in class. Everyone thought they were so great. My English teacher in the tenth grade actually announced to everyone, ‘This girl is going to be a writer.’ ” Lily shrugged again. “Oh, well. I keep trying.”

  “This isn’t your first rejection slip?”

  “More like my one hundred and first. I could paper your walls with them.”

  “Would you?” Emma laughed, realizing she was enjoying herself. How long had it been since she’d relaxed over coffee with another adult, since she’d had a conversation with someone who wasn’t five years old? “I had a story published once,” she confided.

  Lily’s brown eyes grew wide. She lowered her mug to the table. “You did? Where?”

  “Cosmo.” Emma smiled sheepishly. “It was a long time ago. And it wasn’t a story like the kind you write. It was about my experiences modeling.”

  “You’re a model?”

  Emma wished Lily hadn’t sounded quite so surprised. “Not really. Not anymore, anyway. I did some a few years back. Before I got married.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Emma shrugged. “No reason in particular.”

  Lily nodded, as if she understood.

  How could she? Emma wondered. “You ever use Maybelline mascara?”

  “Su
re.”

  “You remember the packages they used to have?” Emma asked. “The ones with the enormous blue eyes looking up …?”

  “Yeah. I think I remember.”

  “Those were mine.”

  “Those were your eyes? Are you kidding me?”

  Again Emma wished Lily hadn’t sounded quite so surprised. “That’s exactly what I said when this sleazy-looking guy comes over to me in McDonald’s one afternoon and says he’s a photographer and that I have these fantastic eyes. So he hands me his card, which I think is a joke, right? But then I showed it to my mother, and she calls the guy, and he turns out to be the real deal, and next thing I know, my eyes are all over the ads for Maybelline mascara.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “Yeah. I did some other stuff as well, but then I got married, and well … you know how it is.”

  Lily nodded, as if she really did know.

  Emma took another deep drag of her cigarette. “You married?”

  “I’m a widow,” Lily said, her voice barely audible.

  “A widow? Wow. What happened?”

  “Motorcycle accident.” Lily shook her head, as if trying to shake away an unpleasant image. “So you sold your modeling story to Cosmopolitan,” she said, in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “That’s terrific. I’d love to see it.”

  “So would I,” Emma agreed. “Unfortunately, I had to leave my copies behind when I moved.”

  Lily’s round face grew pensive as she downed the remainder of her coffee and checked her watch. “I better go or I’ll be late for work.” She gathered up her mail from the table, rose to her feet. “Listen,” she said, stopping at the front door. “I started this book club a few months back. It’s just a few women from the street and a couple more from work. We’re meeting tonight at my house, if you’d like to drop by.”

  “No, thanks,” Emma said quickly. “Book clubs aren’t really my thing.”

  “Well, if you change your mind.…” Lily ran down the steps. When she reached the sidewalk, she turned back, held up her mail. “Seven-thirty,” she called out. “Number 113.”

  FIVE

  Jamie stared out the passenger window of her car as it sped north on the Florida Turnpike, wondering if she was in the middle of a total nervous collapse. Not only had she quit her job, alienated her sister, and handed over the keys to her beloved Thunderbird to a man she barely knew, but she hadn’t stopped smiling since they’d begun their journey almost three hours earlier. This despite the fact there was absolutely nothing of interest to be seen on this long, boring stretch of highway, and she’d long ago stopped being amused by the seemingly inexhaustible supply of billboards for Yeehaw, a city whose main industry appeared to consist of selling discount coupons to Disney World and Universal Studios. SEE MICKEY AT A MINNIE PRICE, one such billboard proclaimed proudly, followed in rapid succession by another—DAHLING! Then another—SUCH DEALS! And another—TO DIE FOR! And yet another—AT YEEHAW! Jamie got the distinct impression that if she were to lay all these signs end to end, the territory covered would probably be bigger than the tiny town of Yeehaw itself.

  Weaving through all these signs were multiple billboards for Florida orange juice—TO YOUR HEALTH!—Busch Gardens, SeaWorld, assorted wildlife preserves, and that modern convenience known as a Sun Pass, a device that allowed drivers to zip through the many toll plazas en route without having to wait in line. HE’S NOT FAMOUS / HE DRIVES AN OLD CAR / YET HE GOES THROUGH TOLLS / LIKE A MOVIE STAR, a coterie of signs announced, one after the other. There were also billboards trumpeting the politics of special interest groups. One urged drivers to CHOOSE LIFE, before asking, AREN’T YOU GLAD YOUR MOTHER DID? while another warned that THE UNITED NATIONS WANTS TO TAKE YOUR GUN.

  Only in Florida, Jamie thought, watching the passenger in the convertible ahead of them lift long, tanned legs into the air to rest her bare feet on the dashboard, revealing toenails painted a variety of bright colors. Like a bunch of M&M’s, Jamie thought, switching her attention to the many vanity plates whizzing by—LA GUTS, IPINE4U, LITIG8R—and the ubiquitous bumper stickers boasting of proud parents and their honor-student offspring. There was also SHE’S A CHILD—NOT A CHOICE stenciled in black across the oversize trunk of an old white Lincoln Continental, a poster taped to the inside of the rear passenger window of a Dodge Caravan that announced THERE IS NO GRAVITY—THE EARTH SUCKS, and Jamie’s personal favorite, a hand-painted sign that stretched across the entire back window of a bright yellow Corvette and advised fellow travelers to SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY. Jamie closed her eyes, realizing she was getting a headache from squinting through the bright sun, and almost drifted off to sleep, lulled by the hypnotic refrains of the country tunes on the radio, songs that invariably had something to do with heartache, drinking, and more of the same. A sudden tweaking in the vicinity of her bladder was an unnecessary reminder that she hadn’t been to the bathroom since leaving her apartment.

  It was only hour three of her long journey and already she was tired, headachy, and uncomfortable.

  Still, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so exhilarated.

  “What are you smiling about?” Brad asked, smiling himself.

  Jamie laughed and opened her eyes. “I just can’t believe how good I feel.”

  Brad’s right hand left the wheel and stretched across the front seat to caress her bare thigh. “You sure do.”

  Jamie flushed as she glanced at the black Jaguar in the lane beside her. The two cars had been taking turns passing each other for the last several miles. HOT DOC, the Jag’s license plate read. Jamie wondered if the man behind the wheel was a busy doctor or an in-demand producer of documentaries. Maybe he was a good-looking veterinarian, or possibly a dentist with delusions of grandeur. She wondered if he could see Brad’s hand as it burrowed its way beneath the left leg of her white shorts. But the HOT DOC was staring straight ahead, seemingly transfixed by the heavy flow of midday traffic, and was oblivious to the sexual shenanigans taking place right next to him.

  “Undo your shorts,” Brad directed.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t. People can see in.”

  “Nobody’s looking. Besides, I can’t get at you like this.”

  A series of mild electrical shocks traveled up and down Jamie’s entire body as she slowly, and reluctantly, removed Brad’s hand from inside her shorts and purposefully crossed her legs. “You’re supposed to be concentrating on the road.”

  “How can I concentrate on the road with you sitting there, looking so damned delicious?”

  Delicious, Jamie repeated silently, savoring the sound. When had anybody ever told her she looked delicious? The man was getting better by the second. She took a deep breath, stifling a groan of pure pleasure that was building inside her. How had she gotten so lucky? she asked herself as she had asked herself the night before. How had an impromptu one-night stand turned into the best thing that had ever happened to her? LET GO AND LET GOD, she thought, recalling another, perhaps prophetic, bumper sticker she’d seen just after they left Stuart.

  After the decision to leave town had been made, everything had proceeded with exaggerated speed, as if someone had pressed an invisible fast-forward button. Jamie had quickly discarded her work clothes in favor of an old pair of white shorts and an orange T-shirt, then thrown a few items into an overnight bag that Brad had subsequently tossed into the trunk of the car. He’d advised her to pack light, told her he’d buy her whatever she needed along the way. Whatever she needed. Whatever she wanted. Whenever she wanted it, he’d said. Nobody had ever said anything like that to her before. Just as no one had ever told her she looked delicious before. And not just delicious either, but damned delicious. Her smile widened. “I look delicious?” she asked, hoping to hear the words again.

  “Good enough to eat,” Brad said teasingly. “In fact, I may j
ust have to pull off the road at this service station coming up, and do just that.” Without another word, he transferred the car into the far left lane, signaling his intention to get off at the next exit.

  “What? No. You can’t. Brad. No. You can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I’m serious all right. I have a powerful hunger all of a sudden.”

  “No, Brad. We can’t,” Jamie protested as Brad left the main highway.

  “Why can’t we?”

  “I just wouldn’t feel comfortable.”

  Brad ignored her continuing protestations as he followed a large transport truck along the gently winding road away from the turnpike toward the service center in the middle of the divided highway. The lot, already crowded with cars and trucks, contained a self-service gas station with three lanes of pumps and a small convenience store at its far end. Jamie wondered if Brad was really serious and, if so, where he intended to park so that they wouldn’t be noticed. Did he really intend to go down on her in the middle of a service center in the middle of the Florida Turnpike in the middle of the day in the middle of middle America, an act that would undoubtedly land them in the middle of a holding cell? Was she really going to let him?

  Despite her vociferous protests, Jamie found herself strangely thrilled by the notion of making love in such a public place. A service center no less. Surrounded by cars and trucks and weary travelers stretching their legs. She laughed to herself. Talk about being serviced! She’d never done anything remotely like this, and she doubted that all those billboards and bumper stickers advising her to CHOOSE LIFE had had quite this scenario in mind.

  And yet, that’s exactly what I’m doing, she decided, riding a fresh wave of euphoria as Brad pulled the car into the lane closest to the small convenience store. I’m choosing life. I’m letting go and letting God. Or Brad, as the case may be, she corrected, holding her breath and bracing herself as he turned off the car’s ignition and swiveled around in his seat. Was he really going to do it right here, right now?