“And so today was just one big, ole, silly coincidence? You didn’t intend to see me at all?”
“Not today. I had hoped that maybe at some point we might…”
She rolled her eyes and gripped the arms of the Adirondack chair in preparation to stand. “It’s been lovely to run into you again, Dante.” Tanyalee rose to her feet. He stood as well. “Your time is officially up.” She squeezed past him and began the short walk from the dock to Aunt Viv’s car.
Dante put his hand on her waist and tried to turn her toward him. “Taffy—”
Just then, déjà vu—a rush of hot, sensual, electric déjà vu—sliced through her mind and body. She was back in the hotel room in Washington, D.C., looking out the picture window at the city lights, asking herself what in the hell she thought she was doing. And then she’d gone and done it. She’d thrown herself into the arms of a complete stranger, and he made her feel things she’d never felt before, from the tips of her toes to the crown of her head.
Tanyalee took a deep breath of the mountain air, but she couldn’t shake the memory of being in that bed, on her back, smiling at Dante, their eyes locked in absolute certainty. She’d never felt anything so powerful in her life. It had been so pure. So simple. So unbearably intense. Everything stopped in that instant, and everything changed.
And as Tanyalee spun on the dock to throw herself at Dante Cabrera once more, she comforted herself with a thought: Well, at least he’s not a stranger this time!
“Whoa! What—”
Tanyalee jumped into Dante’s arms, wrapping her legs around his waist. Her mouth was on his before he could finish his question, and his hands immediately clamped onto her butt.
“Wait.” He wrested his lips from hers, staggering backward on the dock. “Hold up, Taffy. Oh, shit.”
The next thing she knew, Dante was falling backward through space, taking one of the Adirondack chairs with him. Tanyalee took a breath of air and pressed her lips against his once more, figuring she’d need the oxygen when they hit the water.
She knew she was about to get soaking wet. Her hair would be ruined. She might even lose her favorite sandals.
And she didn’t care.
Chapter 9
“Lord-a-mercy, Taffy Marie!”
Vivienne Newberry’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. For a long moment, the pudgy old lady in pink said nothing, her eyes taking in the wet mess on her front porch.
Dante wasn’t clear on the protocol for this type of situation. “Hello, Miss Newberry,” he said, the leather of his shoes squelching as he shifted his weight uncomfortably.
A voice bellowed from inside the house. “What the Sam Hill is the matter, Vivienne? Honestly, woman, you make such a production about the most trivial little—” A lanky old man poked his head through the front door and his mouth fell open. “Goddamn!” He whacked a rolled-up newspaper against his thigh and bent over laughing.
Vivienne sighed, then smacked the arm of the man Dante figured was her brother, Garland Newberry. “Stop it now,” she scolded. “This is not funny. They could catch their death. Now, go get an armful of those old towels I keep on the cellar landing. They’re in a basket on the second shelf down from the—”
Garland Newberry cut her off. “I know where you keep the damn towels, Vivienne.” He walked off down the center hallway, his shoulders rising and falling as he continued to laugh.
“Sorry about this, Aunt Viv,” Tanyalee said.
“Oh, now, don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll get you inside and I’ll throw everything in the dryer and you’ll be good as new, but…” She craned her neck out the door and looked up at the sky. “It’s not raining.”
“Uh, we…” Tanyalee raised her eyes to Dante, clearly embarrassed. “We kind of fell into the lake.”
Vivienne jerked her head back in surprise, then her eyes went wide as she gave Dante the once-over once more, pausing for a second too long at his soaked dress shirt. “Oh, my goodness,” she breathed.
“It was an accident,” Dante added.
“Taffy Marie, where are your manners?” Vivienne demurely extended her hand toward Dante.
Tanyalee sighed audibly. “Aunt Viv, this is Dante Cabrera. He’s a DEA agent from Asheville. Dante, this is my great-aunt, Vivienne Newberry.”
“A pleasure, ma’am,” he said, squeezing her hand before letting it drop.
Vivienne cleared her throat and patted her chest as if overcome. “Oh, my, my, my,” she said, giggling. The laughter took twenty years off her face. “Now, I would be lying if I said I didn’t already know who you are, Mr. Cabrera, since I’ve spent the last hour on the phone with Gladys and she told me all about you two.” She corrected herself. “You,” she said, her attention shifting to Dante. “She told me about you, is what I meant to say. Not you two.”
“Oh, dear Lord,” Taffy whispered, rolling her eyes just as her grandfather reemerged from inside the house, a stack of towels in his arms and a grin still on his face.
“Here you are, son,” he said to Dante, handing him a few threadbare but neatly folded bath towels. “Name’s Garland Newberry.”
Dante shook the old man’s large hand, surprised by the strength in his grip. “Drug Enforcement Administration Special Agent Dante Cabrera, sir. I work out of the Asheville field office.”
“Well, whadya know? Pleasure, son.” The old guy smiled like he found something immensely entertaining about this situation. “If the fire carnival hadn’t just ended, I’d assume ya’ll took a turn in the dunk tank.”
“They fell in the lake,” Vivienne announced, shooting her gaze toward her brother. “I haven’t yet heard the particulars.”
Dante began rubbing his head with one of the towels, then used the others to sop water from his shirt and trousers. He’d stopped dripping on the ride over here, but he was still soaked to the skin. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Taffy squeeze her long reddish-blond hair with a towel, and the fact that she managed to look delicate and ladylike in her current soggy condition made Dante smile. The last time he’d watched her pat herself dry like this she was naked, lying on her back in the hotel bed, thoroughly, delightfully ravished.
The memory made him feel dizzy. When Dante recovered his wits, he realized Taffy was in the middle of one of her long, explanatory fictions.
“… decided to be hospitable and show him the best vantage point for Cataloochee County’s famous sunsets, which was, of course, out at Newberry Lake. So I was leading him down the dock and got so busy talking and gesturing that I lost my footing…”
Garland Newberry wasn’t looking at his granddaughter. He was studying Dante with sharp, wise eyes, and it was obvious he knew Taffy was spinning and stretching the truth. Dante figured the old fellow had heard more than his share of these little fibs over the years, so he nodded at him in acknowledgment of that fact. Garland’s mouth twitched and his eyes sparkled.
“… and Mr. Cabrera was so kind as to reach for me in an effort to keep me from falling in, but it was too late. One of the dock chairs fell in, too, but Dante … Mr. Cabrera … Agent Cabrera … pulled it out of the muck onto the grass. Then we hosed it off…”
Once more, Garland Newberry’s shoulders jerked up and down with laughter. Dante shifted his weight again, and his shoes squeaked. Though he truly enjoyed standing soaking wet on a stranger’s porch, he needed to get inside as soon as possible and use the Newberrys’ landline to call O’Connor. Regulations required him to report to his supervising agent that his service weapon and secure mobile phone had been submerged in water. He could just imagine how thrilled she’d be with the news.
“All right now, Taffy Marie, Mr. Cabrera,” Vivienne said, ending her grand-niece’s story prematurely. “Just kick off your shoes…” She glanced down at Taffy’s feet and corrected herself. “Your shoe. Anyway, just come on in.” She opened the screen door wide and smiled at Dante. “Are you hungry? I’m making a ham and my famous sweet-potato casserole for supper. Can you stay? If you’re staying, I can w
hip together an apple cobbler for dessert, since I picked up a peck of nice, tart Pink Ladies yesterday at the fruit stand. Do you like yours with ice cream?”
Though he figured that must be a type of apple, the question nearly made Dante explode with laughter. It seemed Bigler, North Carolina, was overrun with pink ladies, and he already knew that one of them would taste great with ice cream, whipped cream, any kind of cream …
Dante stepped over the threshold into the charming old house, nodding through Vivienne’s run-on inquiry. It was no mystery where Taffy got her conversation style. Maybe it was genetic. “Yes,” he managed to squeeze in when Vivienne took a breath.
“You just run on up there and take off your clothes.” She pushed him toward the staircase. “Garland, find Mr. Cabrera something to wear while his clothes are in the dryer. And of course there will be biscuits and gravy and some string beans. Do you like string beans? Does your mama make string beans?”
“Sweet Jesus, Vivienne! Will you give the man a moment to catch his breath?” Garland gestured for Dante to head up the steps. “Go on, son. If you’re a man who likes your peace, it’s best to just nod your head, keep your mouth shut, and retire to the bathroom. That’s what I’ve been doing damn near my whole life.”
As Dante headed upstairs, he looked over his shoulder at Taffy, who was smiling sheepishly. “Sorry,” she mouthed. Vivienne was already moving down the central hallway toward the kitchen, talking to herself about the menu.
A few moments later, Garland handed Dante a stack of clothing. “I know this isn’t a young man’s idea of fashion, but here’s some sweatpants and a sweatshirt to wear while your things are drying. It’ll give you plenty of room for Vivienne’s cooking, at any rate.”
“Thanks.”
Dante headed for the bathroom at the top of the steps but Garland cleared his throat to get his attention. Dante turned back around. “Yes, Mr. Newberry?”
The old man chuckled. “Well, I’m not exactly sure how to say this to you, son.” He sucked on his teeth, looking genuinely perplexed for a moment. “It has to do with Tanyalee.”
Dante nodded. “Okay.”
“Now, I don’t know what the two of you are up to or what ideas you might have about her—”
“You have nothing to worry about sir,” Dante said, cutting him off. “I appreciate your concern for your granddaughter, but I mean her no harm.”
The old fellow’s mouth fell open and his red-rimmed eyes popped. He smacked his thigh and hooted with laughter. “Sweet Jesus,” Garland’s voice had lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s not Tanyalee I’m worried about—it’s you, boy!”
Dante did his best not to smile. “How is that?”
“Woo, Lord.” Garland exhaled deeply and shook his head of thick white hair. “Listen, Agent Cabrera. I’m sure you’ve seen a lot of the world in your line of work, and I don’t mean to imply you can’t handle your business.”
“Of course, sir.”
“But I’m here to tell you that the Newberry women have always been a handful. And I mean all of them, starting with my own mother, God rest her soul, then my wife, Lindalee, God rest her soul, too, and right on down to my son’s wife, Melanie, God rest her soul, as well. And, of course, there’s my sister, Vivienne.” The old guy rolled his eyes. “Shee-it, that is one taxing female. And Cheri, Tanyalee’s older sister—very high-maintenance, that one. But I guess what I’m saying is…” Garland looked down the stairs to be sure no one was listening. He pulled Dante into the bathroom and backed him up against the sink, then shut the door behind him.
Dante couldn’t remember the last time he was trapped in a small pink bathroom with an eighty-year-old man. “Yes?”
“You need to be warned.”
Dante stilled. “I’m listening.”
“Tanyalee Newberry is a bigger challenge than all of them put together,” Garland continued. “She’s the goddamn Godzilla of the female Newberry race. You need to watch your back, son. Watch your wallet. Watch your car keys. Watch your heart. That girl is what they call a man-eater. And I’m saying this to you because I love that girl with every inch of my being. I know how it is with her—it’s impossible not to love Tanyalee, despite everything. But you need to have your guard up if your intention is to spend any amount of time with her.”
Dante took a moment to carefully plan his response. He wanted to diffuse the situation. He most certainly did not want to tell Taffy’s grandfather that he had no intention of spending time with her, because in all truthfulness, he had no idea what his intentions were. Especially after the way she’d hurled herself at him on the dock, which was probably one of the sexiest things he’d ever experienced in his fucking life. He didn’t want to lie to Mr. Newberry by saying his interest in Tanyalee was work-related. The old guy was too sharp for something like that. But more than anything, Dante just wanted out of the bathroom.
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t know Tanyalee very well, so I have no idea where it’s going. But I can tell you this—she intrigues me. She’s a fascinating combination of traits.”
Garland Newberry’s eyelids narrowed into slits. “What kind of traits?”
“Well, for one, she’s sweeter than she lets on.” Dante shrugged. “She’s got a big heart underneath all that false bravado. She’s smart, too, and needs to give herself credit for how well she can read people. She’s fun. She’s beautiful. And I think, more than anything, she really wants to do the right thing from here on out.”
The old man stood perfectly still for a long moment. Then he slowly shook his head side to side. “God help you, boy,” he said, reaching for the bathroom door handle and making his exit.
* * *
The smell. The gross smell. More than anything about the place, Fern had hated the smell of all those chemicals burning together and mixing in the air, making the whole place reek like a hot bag of ass. And she couldn’t escape it, even when she was hiding in that rickety tree house in the woods behind the Spiveys’ trailer. The smell would just float on up there and shoot right into her nose, making her throat close up and her eyes water.
In her opinion, it smelled like cat pee and fingernail-polish remover mixed together with the rusty-red dirt that was everywhere you looked in this county. The stink got in her hair and clothes, the grass, the creek that ran out behind the barn, and the fast food her daddy would bring back for her to eat. Even Daddy himself had smelled like it.
Bobo had smelled like it too, before Great-granny Gladys threw him in the wash with bleach. Fern lifted the stuffed rabbit from her bed and ran her fingertips over the places where Gladys had sewn him up. He had only one eye now. He was missing a foot. It didn’t matter.
Fern put his fluffiness up to her nose and inhaled, wrapping him tight in her arms. Bobo the Bunny was the only thing her mother had ever given her—or at least the only thing she could remember her mother giving her. It was the only thing Fern could call her own, that was for sure. And he didn’t smell like that awful place anymore. The smell was gone. Her daddy was gone, too. The truth was, she didn’t miss him much.
She stared at the ceiling, remembering the day the big DEA agent grabbed her and shoved her into a car, telling her to stay down on the floor until he told her it was safe to climb up into the seat. He must have been driving a hundred on the mountain roads. He’d been a good driver, even if he wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. “Were you aware that your father was engaged in illegal methamphetamine production?” Oh, God. How dumb could a dude get?
She’d never see her daddy again. By the next day he was dead, killed in the county jail. The police said he’d been “executed” by the drug cartel to keep him from talking, but she knew that was just a fancy word for murder.
Fern pressed her eyes into Bobo’s fur. Oh, how she’d hated her daddy for dragging her all the way across the state to that place. For telling her all those lies. Like how they were moving back to the mountains so they could be close to her mama’s people, where Fern
could be around family who would take care of her while her daddy started his big, fancy new job. Of course, none of that had happened. Her daddy’s fancy new job was standing over a metal countertop in an old barn mixing meth, and all Fern ever got was boredom, loneliness, a sore throat from the stink, and sleeping in a falling-down trailer even worse than the Spiveys’, if that were possible.
At least one lie had come true. She was now being taken care of by family. No one she’d ever met before, but apparently Gladys was family—her mama’s mama’s mama. That’s what the social workers had said, anyway.
Fern lay on her back on Granny Gladys’s clean bedspread, breathing deep over and over, sucking in the smell of laundry detergent and shampoo and new-to-her clothes. And dinner. It was true that Gladys was crazier than a hoot owl and dressed awful slutty for a really old lady, but Fern loved the clean smells that were everywhere in this house. And the soft bed she got to sleep in. And the food—real food like mashed potatoes not from a box and cheese sauce that didn’t start out as bright orange powder. She got to drink all the chocolate milk she wanted, too!
It almost made up for the nightmares. At least once a week since her daddy died, the Fat Man’s face would float into Fern’s brain while she was sleeping, and she’d wake up all cold and shaky. She’d only seen him a few times out at the Spivey compound, but it was enough to know the man had her daddy and everyone else by the short hairs. At first, the Fat Man had made her laugh. Here was this chubby guy in a shirt and ugly tie with his hair all greased back using language worse than even Bobby Ray Spivey. But Fern had stopped laughing when the Fat Man pulled out a knife and threatened to slit her daddy’s throat! Holy shit! She couldn’t believe it! From then on, whenever Fern saw his big old car drive into the compound, she made sure to disappear.
In her nightmares, the Fat Man always had that same knife, and he was poking its sharp tip against her throat and pressing his hand over her mouth so nobody could hear her scream. And every time she had the dream she knew she was going to die. Lately, like when she was sitting in prealgebra class that morning, a thought would enter her head and scare the crap out of her …