If Anything Should Happen Page 3

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Kendra had that way about her. Rena didn’t have to say anything. Kendra just knew.

  ‘Heat’s just getting to me, I guess.’ She placed the bottles on the open newspaper beside the counter. ‘I brought us something to drink. And this time I remembered the opener. No twist-off caps on these babies.’

  Kendra reached for the bottle, but kept her gaze on Rena’s face. Her eyes glinted with that look Rena would take for amusement if she didn’t know better. ‘What’d he do this time? Tell you I’m a lesbian because I haven’t had a man since Eddie and I split up?’

  ‘Not this time. In fact, he didn’t say a word. It was more his attitude.’

  ‘Because he doesn’t want you coming over here. Forget the fact that we were all friends in high school. Forget the fact that I’ve been back here almost a year, and that I am your best friend in this town.’

  ‘It’s not just you.’ She took the bottle opener from her purse.

  ‘He doesn’t want you to have anyone at all, Rena. That’s how it starts. They try to isolate you.’

  ‘Why?’ Rena’s eyes burned, both with tears and the sweet, hot smell of the store.

  ‘So they can control you.’ Kendra sighed. ‘Classic abuse syndrome. You think he just has bad moods, but it’s a whole lot more than that, Rena.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ This kind of talk made her fidgety. What happened at home stayed at home. That’s how she was raised.

  ‘Well, I do know,’ Kendra said. ‘He’s going to say I’m a witch, or anything else to keep you under his thumb.’

  ‘You think?’ That made her smile. ‘Kendra, if you’re a witch, you’re the sweetest one I know.’

  ‘Come on, Rena. I’m just a woman who has learned how to take care of herself. That’s all. My own daddy doesn’t like some of the things I do, but even he says the vehicle of spirit is not important. All that matters is the source, and mine is good. I wish I could say that for Dale’s.’

  Rena picked up one of the bundles on the counter just to have something to do with her hands. ‘Is this what we’re making today?’

  ‘White sage wands.’

  Kendra never pushed her more than she could handle. Rena could feel her back off.

  As Rena fingered the leaves and smelled the scent of white sage, she remembered the way it could overpower the ugliest thoughts – her own or someone else’s. ‘I haven’t burned one of those for a long time. Not away from here, I mean.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ Kendra tugged at her ponytail and nodded at the pile of straw. ‘Used for purification, strength, wisdom, and cleansing,’ she said in a school teacher voice. And with a grin, ‘I think I’d better send one home with you.’

  ‘You know what Dale would do if he caught me smudging?’

  ‘So, don’t let him catch you.’ She lifted a bundle to the light.

  ‘He doesn’t even want me burning candles. Says it’s against his religion.’

  ‘And when was the last time that man saw the inside of a church?’

  ‘You have a point. He only remembers that his daddy was a preacher when he’s trying to win an argument or keep me from doing something I want to. Still, I don’t dare let him catch me smudging.’

  Kendra glanced out on the patio, where the stone Buddha sat, rain or shine. ‘It all has to do with intent, you know. What you think about and wish for when you burn it.’

  Rena looked from Buddha to the candle customers. ‘My only intent is to help you sell them.’ She went around the counter to her usual work-table, a scarlet-painted bench with a matching folding chair.

  ‘I’ve got some sweet grass, too,’ Kendra said. ‘Thought we could make some braids, if you have time.’

  Rena leaned down. ‘Oh, that’s what I smelled when I came in.’

  ‘Sweet grass.’ Kendra chuckled. ‘Especially good for people who are starting fresh or want to release old patterns.’

  Maybe it was the scent of the grasses and sage. Maybe it was just the healing spirit of Kendra. Whatever it was, it soothed Rena and mellowed her out faster than a cup of herbal tea. She’d take some of the sweet grasses home with her and stuff them into her smocked pillow.

  ‘Release old patterns?’ she asked with a chuckle. ‘You don’t say.’

  Her serenity lasted until she had to turn off the highway toward home. What if she kept going, she wondered, just kept driving into the desert and let the crusty, dusty land swallow her up? Where would she be when she stopped, and would it be any better?

  She went around the store, straight to the back, to let Dale see that she’d hurried to return. The tin roof glinted in the light, but there was no one up there. Well, she couldn’t expect him to stay up there all day. Lord, she hoped he wasn’t in the store with Bryn. She started to turn around and go back, but before she could, she felt someone grab her by the hair and jerk her around. She screamed and tried to pull away.

  ‘Shut up.’ Dale’s face shoved into hers, his mouth so close to her nose that his features blurred.

  ‘Let me go.’ Her scalp felt raw, and her neck ached from being held at such an angle. She sniffed for liquor, but smelled only sweat.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, Rena Pace. Not until we have a little talk.’ He yanked on her hair to make his point, and she let out a yelp. No one would see them out here. He could do anything. Why hadn’t she gone into the store first?

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she begged. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You running your mouth, that’s what.’ His watery blue eyes came into focus. ‘You told Bryn this is your store, that you could fire her anytime. What do you mean talking about our personal business like that?’

  ‘I didn’t mean anything. Let me go, Dale.’ Through her pain, she felt a glimmer of anger. Bryn had tattled on her. Bryn was the reason for Dale’s rage.

  He tightened his grip again. ‘Quit your whining. I don’t know what’s wrong with you any more, Rena. You’re losing it again is what you’re doing.’

  She was losing it, too, tears gushing down her face, her stomach so twisted up that it made her dizzy. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re going to be more than sorry if you don’t learn to keep your trap shut. Where the hell do you get off threatening to talk to Leighton Coulter about Bryn?’

  Finally, he released her. She wrapped her hands around her throat, trying to quiet her trembling and hold back the sobs.

  ‘Leighton is Bryn’s father. And he’s a friend.’

  ‘A wimp lawyer who thinks he’s way smarter than he is.’ He punched his fist into the air like a boxer, and she jumped back. ‘Don’t piss me off any more than you already have. Don’t make me think about you and Leighton Coulter. I swear, if I ever catch you talking to him—’ His voice trailed off, and he lowered his hands. ‘And just because your daddy left you this miserable store doesn’t mean it’s not mine. Understand?’

  She nodded and looked down, hating the words that had deserted her, hating her fear as much as she hated him.

  ‘OK, then, baby. Just do whatever it takes. Keep away from Kendra Trafton and that sick stuff she’s into. Get yourself some hormones. Start acting like a wife again instead of a crazy woman. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ she whispered. ‘I will.’

  He reached out, and she winced.

  ‘Calm down,’ he said with a grin that terrified her even more. ‘I was just going to wipe off that little mascara spot there on your cheek.’ He reached out again and touched her with his fingertip. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m wrung out. I’m going to go inside and get me a beer, maybe stretch out on the bed while I drink it. You want to come along?’

  ‘Maybe later,’ she said.

  ‘Fine, then. But don’t stand out here all day. The heat will kill you.’ He turned and walked back to the store, his blue shirt clinging to his back, his boots digging into the dust.

  The tears left along with him. Rena felt empty, almost separate from her body. Please, don’t let him be right.
Don’t let me be losing my mind again.

  FOUR

  My life had been slashed down the middle, and I could think in only two compartments. Life before the letter; life after the letter. The weirdest thoughts flickered through my head at the least likely times. The checkout line in a supermarket, for instance.

  ‘Credit or debit?’ the clerk asked, and all I could think was, was I illegitimate? Was Kendra Trafton married when she gave birth to me?

  ‘Credit or debit, ma’am?’ the clerk asked in what my mom used to call a gratey voice. My mom. Why hadn’t she told me? Why?

  ‘Debit,’ I said, with a gratey voice of my own.

  On the way out of the store, I remembered what my mom had written. Kendra Trafton was a single woman. Had she always been? My Internet search for her had shown only a real estate company in Washington and a man. Maybe she had married since my birth. Still, there should be some kind of record. If it existed, Farley and I would find it.

  Richard called sometime between my flight to Seattle and my return.

  ‘I heard about Elaine. Let me know if I can do anything.’

  What had my soon-to-be ex-husband heard about my mom? That she died? That she wasn’t my mom? And who told him? If I were a betting person, I’d put my money on Mick. They’d always been close, and Mick had made no secret of the fact that he thought we would get back together.

  I didn’t return Richard’s call; I would not have to deal with him unless and until I chose to. Part of me dreaded seeing even my friends at work, especially Farley and Tamera. Their pity would only underscore how much I had lost, and when I told them the rest … I would tell them the rest, wouldn’t I?

  When I got to the station that Wednesday, I realized how glad I was to pull into that familiar lot, park my car, and walk across the lot toward the side door. In a few minutes, I would have to put aside my feelings and become part of a team. I welcomed the familiarity of business over the uncertainty that had overtaken my life. At least here I would have no time to focus on anything but the job.

  The state-of-the-art station, with its glassed-in announce booth, natural woods, and white walls covered by constantly changing paintings, was the brightest spot in a neighborhood that refused to give into the decay around it. Several rows of loft apartments had attracted young people and other dreamers to the area. A church had purchased a long-closed Art Deco-style theater next door, painted its high, brick side-wall white, and printed it with the giant sheet music for ‘Amazing Grace’. Looking at it, I felt comforted, not so much because of the lyrics as by the fact that it had probably taken someone hours to print them on the side of that two-story building.

  I stood there for a moment and stared up at it. Then, I heard the door open, and Farley stepped outside. His expression was solemn, and his forehead glistened. It’s tough to sweat in Sacramento in early spring when the air is all floral and as soft as a commercial for online dating and hope is as natural as breathing. But he was. I hesitated, and then made eye contact and finally put out my arms. He crossed the lot to me, and we hugged without a word.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kit,’ he finally said as we made our way through the station’s side door. ‘I did my best to carry the show yesterday. Let me know if you need anything.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I kept my voice low and even. ‘I can’t really talk about it yet.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I’m behind on my blog.’

  ‘It’s all right. Leave early today. I can cover.’

  Even in the chill of the morning, Farley wore a T-shirt. It was the same solemn green as his eyes. We got seated, and he clutched a crudely crafted little KWEL mug between his fingers, his thumb over his own likeness, my image untouched. I hoped I didn’t actually come close to looking that young or having wads of unruly dishwater-blond hair like the woman on this very tacky piece of pottery.

  ‘We need to change the topic,’ I said. ‘Wing it the way we used to and just see what we can get.’

  ‘Change the topic?’ He gave me that wild-man stare. ‘What’s wrong with the coed murders? I know my sources are a little flaky, but the listeners dig conspiracy stories. Jimmy J keeps trying to sneak in stuff like that.’

  ‘Tamera will keep him in line,’ I said. ‘I thought we agreed the college-student murders were random crimes. There’s not enough to substantiate the connection.’

  ‘There wasn’t enough to substantiate the Gomez case either.’

  ‘But DNA was involved. Once we raised the question, they could prove he was innocent. This is drunk-cop speculation.’ It sounded meaner than I meant it. I washed down my words with scalding coffee. This was going to be more difficult than I’d thought.

  ‘So was the Gomez case.’ He tried to maintain eye contact, but I looked away. ‘You didn’t seem to mind the strokes we got for helping an innocent man get out of prison.’

  ‘That was a good show. Of course it was, Farley. One of our best.’ I couldn’t say much else. I was choking on tears.

  ‘Kit.’ He reached across the narrow console and grabbed my hand. Distant as I was, I felt the jolt of connection. ‘My contract’s up for renewal. You know that. And while everyone reads your blog, no one cares about mine. Two of the college girls were found in the same park.’

  ‘Years apart.’

  ‘But still, I think we can keep building the show on that.’

  ‘It’s not real,’ I said. ‘I want to do the show on something that is.’

  ‘You’re not thinking,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘My mom.’ That was all I could get out.

  ‘I know. Want me to do this by myself again today?’

  I shook my head. ‘She wasn’t really my mom, Farley. I mean, she was, but she wasn’t. Not really.’

  ‘What are you trying to say?’ Finally, I had his attention. I had to convince him to agree to the only show I could do with him right now.

  ‘She and Mick adopted me and never said a word. I have a mother out there, my biological mother.’ I looked from him to the mic. ‘We can wing it. We’ve done it before. Some of those shows were our best. You know they were.’

  ‘Too soon,’ he said. ‘It’s just too soon. It’ll tear you to pieces.’

  ‘I have to do it.’ I swallowed more coffee. ‘Someone might know something. We’ve been able to help other people. Maybe we can again.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He patted my back in an awkwardly affectionate way that felt more genuine than I would have expected. ‘But why didn’t you call me if you wanted to do this? Why talk it over with me two minutes before we have to go on?’

  ‘I only just decided,’ I said and hoped he could feel how determined I was. Then I pulled my professional voice out of wherever it had been hiding. ‘I’m ready, and I can do it. I promise you I can.’

  He nodded, and his eyes confirmed what I already felt. ‘Let’s go for it, then. You’re going to have to do the lead-in, and then I’ll play catch-up.’

  My partner. At that moment, I would have done anything, paid anything to demonstrate my gratitude, but the mic was on, and I had to talk. ‘Thanks for joining me, Kit Doyle, along with Gnarly Farley,’ I said. ‘We’ve looked at lots of unresolved cases on this show and helped a lot of people. Today, I’m the one asking for your help.’ My voice was shaky, and I stopped to take a breath.

  Farley leaned into the mic. ‘What’s happened to Kit is what we believe happens more than most people know. She’s just discovered that she’s adopted. Twenty-something years of believing one thing, and then, bang, she realizes she has a biological mother, maybe an entire family out there she’s never met. Right, Kit?’

  ‘And I don’t have a clue.’ I’d managed to compose myself while he spoke. ‘All I have is the name of my mother.’

  He shook his head and put up a hand. ‘Are you sure you want to give her name on the air?’

  My skin tingled. Maybe I shouldn’t have risked this, but it was too late now. ‘It’s the only way,’ I said. ‘My biological mo
ther’s name is Kendra Trafton. She lives or lived in Buckeye, Arizona. If anyone knows anything, please call us.’

  ‘We want to hear from you.’ Farley took over, his voice rich and resonant. ‘Give us a call or email us at our website if you can help Kit connect to her biological family. And we’d like to hear from any of you who’ve had to struggle to find your own biological parents. Start calling, folks. We want to hear from you.’

  The first call came through almost before he finished speaking. I spent the rest of the hour immersed in other people’s pain. I hadn’t realized there were so many whose situations mirrored my own – children who didn’t discover until they were adults that their biological families were not the ones in which they had been raised.

  ‘My aunt was really my mother,’ one woman said. ‘Her name was Edith.’

  ‘My lab offers DNA testing,’ said another. ‘We’ve helped many people reconnect with their loved ones.’

  I frowned at Farley as if to say: Who let her in here? Farley shrugged and kept taking questions.

  Just before we finished, a familiar voice came over the line. ‘Frank Vera is innocent.’

  Now, Farley got to frown at me. I shrugged and didn’t bother answering. We both knew Bert the Troll vanished as fast as he appeared.

  ‘Thanks to all of you for calling,’ I said. ‘Well, almost all of you. Let’s talk again tomorrow.’

  Farley and I exchanged glances, and I could have hugged him. The show had worked. I knew we’d still be getting calls for the rest of the week. But I didn’t have much personal hope. No one we’d talked to on the air or off knew anything about Kendra Trafton of Buckeye, Arizona.

  Tamera was waiting for me after my shift. Her yellow shirt and white cargo pants made her one of the brightest spots in the colorful, art-filled lobby. She put out her arms, and I realized she was crying. I hugged her, and we stayed like that for a moment, my cheek pressing into her shoulder.

  ‘I heard it on the way over,’ she said. ‘What a show. God, you’re brave.’

  ‘Not brave. Desperate. And I have no idea if we’ll get any leads.’