I step further into the elaborate gardens, and if I needed any more proof that Jorge wasn’t working here anymore I’d find it in the uncovered rose bushes and leaf detritus that has been left to accumulate in the fountain.
The fountain serves as the centerpiece to the entrance of the backyard’s elaborate maze-like English garden. Jorge was my mom’s secret weapon. Even if the upper crust of New Canaan shunned my mother in every possible way, they still always wanted this garden on the garden tour. I walk further into the labyrinth of hedges, trying to get away from the reception and clear my head. As soon as I can, I’ve got to figure out how to get in touch with Jorge and Carmen. Maybe they can tell me what the hell is going on around here.
I walk deeper into the tall hedged pathway of the garden and duck under a small apple tree. There, in a little hidden spot, is a wooden bench. Nobody can see me here, not even from the house. Jorge made this spot just for me when I was just a little girl looking for a way to disappear from the constant fighting between my mother and stepfather, my grandmother’s endless orders to stand up straighter, and later my mother’s drinking and crying. It had always been a safe and secret spot for me to hide.
I fish my phone out of my purse and call Carmen and Jorge again, but it goes right to voicemail. I don’t understand how they wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be trying to find me. They are my only family, more real than any blood shared between my mother and I. I stare down at the phone as my eyes fill with tears.
I want to say that I loved my mother, but that is too simple a statement for the complex, heartbreaking relationship we had. Yes, I loved her. But I loved her the way a child learns to love a fragile, easily broken thing - gently, and with more concern for the other than for the self, a difficult way for a child to live. Made even more difficult by her constant pressure to make me perfect in the ways she failed to be.
My mother, Belinda Yates, grew up poor in Colby, Texas, but that all changed after her dad struck oil on some property he owned for hunting. After that, she was rich as sin. And she was beautiful, strikingly so. She was crowned the youngest Miss Texas in the state’s history, earning her the title at the young age of only seventeen. When she turned eighteen, she’d gone on to California to try a stint at modeling and acting but only ended up pregnant by nineteen and tight-lipped about who the father was.
She came home unwed, to the embarrassment of nearly everyone in her very religious family. Her mother shipped her off to live with a second cousin in Connecticut with a very weak story about being a young widow. Luckily, she still had looks and money and quickly caught the eye of Jonathan Bradley III, whose family offered the semblance of blueblood respectability that my mother desperately longed for. She thought he married her for love, but later she understood that the Bradley’s had more blueblood than actual cash in the bank. Needless to say, their wedded bliss didn’t last long.
They had some things in common though. My stepfather and mother shared a similar enjoyment of spending money. My mother loved shopping, and my stepfather loved gambling. They also traveled extensively, and separately, leaving me behind in what would become a familiar pattern for most of my life.
You’d think that abandonment would be the true seed of my bitterness, but actually them being gone was a huge relief. I avoided the worst of their drinking and fighting, and Jorge and Carmen became like second parents to me. They couldn’t have children themselves, and I spent all my spare time helping Jorge and Carmen with their work. Honestly, it very likely saved me from the misery that my mother grew in her heart as easily as Jorge grew his prize-winning roses.
I text Carmen and tell her that I’m planning to come over to their house later tonight. I want to ask why they didn’t tell me about being fired, why they aren’t returning my calls, I just want to find out if they are alright. I wish I could leave right now, but I know I need to stay a little longer. My mother, the consummate beauty queen, cared a great deal about appearances, and her only daughter leaving her funeral reception early would just flame the gossip she so loathed.
I start to stand up and head back inside when I hear two muffled male voices approaching. They seem to be arguing as they approach me on the opposite side of the thick, tall hedgerow. Almost no one knows about my little hiding spot, so I sit as quietly as I can, too startled to make myself known to them, especially as I realize one of the voices belongs to my stepfather.
“This isn’t the time or place,” I hear my stepfather say. “My wife just died.”
“Don’t give me that mourning crap. I’ve seen you around, Johnny! And you’re pretty lucky she did go and die on you. Now you have the money you owe me. So I say, why put off for tomorrow what you can collect today,” a gruff, angry voice retorts.
I hear the sound of a lighter igniting and then smell cigarette smoke. The gruff man takes an inhale of the cigarette. When he speaks again, his voice isn’t overtly threatening… just icy cold. In my experience, the icy cruelty is far scarier. I wonder what the hell my stepfather has gotten himself into.
“Saves us the trouble of having to collect in another, more painful way. Because we both know you aren’t much for pain.” I feel goosebumps on my arms. Whoever this man is, my stepfather is no match for him.
“I already told you, just give me until tonight. The lawyer said there was some formality. But you’ll have your money. Everything I owe.”
The man takes another long drag from his cigarette. “Funny how you said the same thing to me last week. You seemed so sure. And that was before your rich wife even had her accident.” The man takes another drag of his cigarette. “I pegged you for a chickenshit, but maybe you’ve got balls after all.”
My stepfather’s voice is tremulous. “I don’t know what you are implying.”
“Never mind. I remember now how you’ve got a shit poker face. It’s what got you into this mess in the first place. Get my money to me ASAP or you’ll be joining your pretty bitch of a wife in the grave. I’ll help you the way you helped her, got it?”
I hear steps walking away and then my stepfather slump against the shrubbery. He’s still so close to where I am hiding and I can’t believe what I just heard.
But what did I just hear?
The man had implied that my stepfather had something to do with my mother’s death. I hear my stepfather stand up straight and take a step toward the party just as my phone beeps. It’s a text from my grandmother asking me where I ran off to.
I freeze, icy blood in my veins. My stepfather pauses, then, as I practically hold my breath in fear, he shuffles off back toward the party.
Did he know I was here? That I just heard some scary gangster imply that he murdered my mother to pay off some debt he owes?
And if he could do that to her, his own wife, what will he do to me if he realizes I know the truth?
I shiver, suddenly chilled to the bone.
Chapter 2
Lincoln
I finish bleeding the brake fluid and tighten up the brake line on the Harley Davidson CVO Limited I’m working on, then wipe my hands clean on an old rag.
This bike is one of the most expensive on the market, and it is in pristine condition, mostly because the owner is a fat banker from the rich side of town who only rides her once or twice a summer to show her off. He probably nearly shits himself the entire time, but brags about how much of a bad-ass he is is for the rest of the year.