Cheri on Top

  “I understand,” she said.

  As planned, she swung by the house on Willamette to meet Aunt Viv for another party-planning session. She nearly turned around in the driveway when she saw that Tanyalee was there.

  But what did it matter? Cheri would see her next week at the party anyway. It wasn’t like she could avoid her for the rest of her time in Bigler, whether another week or the rest of her life.

  On her way to the front door she patted the lawn jockey on the head and thought of Candy. Their conversation last night had been a little rocky. In fact, Cheri would have to classify it as an argument, a rarity for the two of them.

  She told Candy that she’d gone ahead and had her lawyer file her personal Chapter 7.

  “I had to. Every day I feel like more of a hypocrite,” she’d told her best friend.

  Candy sighed. “So are you going to tell everyone?”

  “I don’t know. But here I am, running a newspaper dedicated to finding out the ugly truth behind a murder and I’m pretending to be something I’m not. I’m digging to expose decades of employee theft and I’m a walking, talking lie myself!”

  “Then just tell everybody.”

  “But it’s too late.”

  “Then don’t tell them.”

  “But I can’t live with myself!”

  Candy sighed louder at that point. “Listen, if it’s killing you, then you have no choice but to tell everyone. Besides, the world is going to catch up with you soon anyway. You’re the publisher of a small newspaper in North Carolina, not living in a cave in Botswana. You’re still on the grid. And now that you’ve filed, it’s public record.”

  “But what about your mom?”

  “Oh, the hell with it,” Candy said. “If she finds out I lost her nest egg, then she finds out. She was going to have to know sooner or later. I can’t protect myself if it hurts you.”

  “Maybe I should just tell J.J. Honestly, that’s what bothers me the most. I’ve been sleeping with him almost every night. I’m falling in love with him—no, I am in love with him, Candy. No doubt about it. He deserves to know. I love that man.”

  That was when Cheri thought the call had been dropped from Candy’s new pay-as-you-go cell phone. “Hello? Candy? Can you hear me?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “What?”

  “You just said you’re in love with J.J. You’ve been there a grand total of two weeks!”

  “I know.”

  “Be careful,” Candy said, her voice suddenly stern. “J.J. and Bigler have a lot in common.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Well, they both look really charming from a distance, but once you get settled in, something always happens to make you wish you’d just kept on driving.”

  No, Cheri hadn’t exactly hung up on her, but it had been a curt good-bye.

  “Hello?” Cheri popped her head in the door and found Viv and Tanyalee all cozy on the sofa together, looking over a large sheet of paper. From where she stood, Cheri swore they were poring over some kind of seating chart.

  A seating chart at a barbecue?

  “Cheri!” Viv said, jumping up. “Come on in here! I’ll get you some sweet tea!”

  “No, no, that’s okay, Aunt Viv.” For once Cheri managed to stop the pink tornado from spinning out of the parlor and into the kitchen. Cheri put her hands on Viv’s shoulders. “I can just stay a minute. Really. Just sit down.”

  Viv frowned a little but took her seat.

  “Hey, Tanyalee.”

  “It’s my brilliant sister!” She jumped from the couch and came at her with such enthusiasm that Cheri felt compelled to check for sharp objects. “So good to see you!” Tanyalee planted a kiss on her cheek and looked her in the eye.

  Her sister looked positively manic. Her chignon was lovely as usual, but she was one hair comb shy of a matched set. Lucky for her, Cheri had the other tucked safely in her purse.

  “Oh, this is gonna be such a fabulous party!” Tanyalee said. “We’re gonna have a live band and Wim’s gonna trailer his party boat out to the lake so we’ll have that, too. Have you ever seen Wim’s pontoon boat? It is just fabulous!”

  Cheri froze where she stood. Why the sudden change in Tanyalee’s demeanor? Was she medicated? No longer medicated? Thrilled to have gotten away with breaking and entering? Or was this an act for Viv? Regardless, it was godawful embarrassing to witness.

  Suddenly, Cheri had a stab of sympathy for Tanyalee. Maybe there was something wrong with her and, as her sister, it was her responsibility to get her help.

  The sympathy was fleeting.

  “We have tables of eight, which is turning out to be a little tricky with seating for the head table,” Tanyalee said.

  “Why is there a head table?” Cheri asked. “Why is there seating at all? I thought this was a casual barbecue.”

  “Oh, it is,” Viv said. “But Taffy and I were thinking that with the mayor coming and so many older people invited, we had to have tables and chairs, so it just kind of grew from there.”

  “Please don’t call me that,” Tanyalee snapped.

  Aunt Viv’s mouth fell open, then closed tightly. She nodded. “Well, now.”

  “You know I don’t like that name, Aunt Viv.” Tanyalee caught herself and continued on in a much sweeter tone of voice. “Now, I’ve asked you about a million times to stop calling me that, right?”

  Aunt Viv shrugged, obviously hurt.

  Cheri dared look over at Tanyalee. Her smile was way too cheerful and her eyes far too bright for the topic at hand. She then clapped her hands with an unnatural amount of enthusiasm.

  “So,” Tanyalee said. “Y’all will be over here at the table next to the head table.” She pointed to the chart with a long, frosty fingernail.

  “Hmm,” Cheri said, trying not to laugh at the idea that the new publisher—one of the intended honorees of this shindig—would be seated at the kiddie table. “You can put me wherever you’d like, Tanyalee. I’ll probably be mingling and running back and forth from the kitchen most of the time anyway.”

  “We have caterers,” she said.

  “Huh?” That was news to Cheri. She looked at Aunt Viv and frowned. “I thought Tater Wayne was cookin’ up a mess of pork ribs.”

  “Oh, he is,” Viv said. “But we’re having all the extras catered.”

  Cheri’s head began to spin. When had Aunt Viv ever allowed anyone else to cook for her? Granddaddy wasn’t kidding when he said he’d be broke after this affair.

  “Well, this all sounds great. Glad to know you two have everything under control.”

  “Of course we do!” Tanyalee said, an abnormal amount of giddiness in her voice. “We know how busy you are juggling your publisher duties with all your business dealings down in Florida. Y’all have plenty on your plate without having to bother with this little ole party.”

  Cheri nodded. She kissed Aunt Viv on the cheek. Then she stuck her hand inside her bag and pulled out the comb.

  “You left this at my place when you popped in the other night,” she said, tossing it onto the seating chart. “Y’all have a good day.”

  * * *

  “I’m kidnapping you.”

  Cheri looked up from the figures she’d just received from Gladys and tried to shift her focus to J.J.

  “What did you say?”

  “Kid. Nap. Ing. You.”

  She laughed.

  “We’re playing hooky.” J.J. held out his hand and scanned the newsroom behind him as if to be sure no one had heard of his secret plans. “But this is a limited-time offer, so you’d best be getting a move on.”

  Cheri looked at the jumble of papers spread all over her desk and knew that she needed a break. In fact, if she didn’t take one, she might just scream.

  Besides, this latest news was so bad she’d best approach it with a clear head. She grabbed her purse. “Where you taking me?”

  “No questions. Hurry.”

  J.J. grabbed her hand and pulled her through the news
room. They got out to the employee parking lot and J.J. opened the passenger door of his truck for her, but Cheri couldn’t help but notice what he’d stashed in the truck bed. It made her heart soar.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Serious as a heart attack—which is what we’re both going to have if we don’t slow down for a few hours. Boss’s orders.” He closed her door and ran around to the driver’s side.

  “But I’m the boss,” Cheri said

  “I’m talking a higher authority here.” J.J. started the engine and swung the pickup onto Main Street. Cheri figured they were headed up Randall Road and their usual put-in place.

  “I’ve never heard you talk about God,” she said.

  J.J. tipped his head back and roared. She enjoyed the view—his thick black hair blowing back from his face in the open window, his Adam’s apple dancing. Truly, when Jefferson Jackson DeCourcy smiled and laughed it was as if everything else in the world fell away, leaving just happiness and joy. She loved him something awful.

  “God? Hell, no. I’m talking about Gladys. She said you’d been grumpy the last few days and that today was bound to be the worst yet.”

  “Hmph,” Cheri said. Of course Gladys would want her out of the office today—those reports she’d just handed her were dire. Cheri had promised that no one at the Bugle would lose their jobs this month, and now, somehow, she’d have to keep her word.

  The only way she saw to do it was to stop paying somebody.

  That somebody was going to be herself.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No, I do not,” she said, closing her eyes against the wind as they climbed the hill. “I’m sick of talking about serious shit. I’m in the mood for something else entirely.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” She turned to look at J.J., and found him all smiles and sweet, sexy eyes. Of course he knew what she was about to say, so she paused for effect, then shouted out, “I’m in the mood for…”

  “The tube!” they hollered in unison.

  * * *

  “Perfect!” Gladys stepped back and examined the handiwork of the maintenance staff. Every frame was perfectly level and perfectly spaced, just the way J.J. had wanted it, and seeing the Newberry history displayed like this was almost like seeing the history of her own life.

  She’d been there for Garland, for Loyal, for Garland again, and now Cheri. the Bugle had been her life, her love.

  Looking at all those photos on the wall like this—set off so pretty in the bright white frames J.J. had chosen—it was enough to make an old broad tear up, it truly was.

  Gladys straightened the brass nameplate one last time before she turned off the lights and closed the door to the publisher’s office.

  * * *

  Cheri looked like an angel over there in her inner tube, all loose and relaxed in the bikini top and cutoff shorts he’d grabbed from her dresser, limbs askew, a Miller Lite dangling from her fingertips as it cooled in the gentle current of Little Pigeon Creek.

  Sure, there may have been men in her life down in Miami and Tampa who knew how to show her a good time—fancy meals and champagne and sparkly gifts—but J.J. had no doubt that this date beat them all to hell.

  Cheri opened her eyes and smiled at him. She parted her lips to speak but seemed to decide it was too much effort, so she just closed her eyes again and let her head fall back against the old patched-up Michelin forty-six-incher.

  The sun itself was his sparkly gift to her today.

  And what a perfect day it was. In the mid-eighties already, not a cloud in the sky, the light dappled by miles of overhanging trees. J.J. reached behind him into his specially designed beverage cooler and cracked open a fresh one.

  “That right there is beautiful music,” he said.

  Cheri laughed dreamily. “Damn, this is awesome, Jay.”

  “Yep,” he said, taking a swig.

  “You did arrange for someone to pick us up downriver, right?”

  “Of course I did! You think I’m some kind of amateur?” J.J. retrieved his BlackBerry from its waterproof holder and called Turner. “Can you swing down to the Little Pigeon basin off the state highway and pick us up in about two hours?”

  When he completed the call he found Cheri staring at him in amusement.

  He shrugged. “I got so excited about kidnapping you that I forgot a few details.”

  She shook her head. “Can I tell you something?”

  “Anything.” He paddled closer to her so he could reach out with his non-beer hand and mesh his fingers with hers.

  “I’ve never known a man who could play like you.”

  J.J. wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but he was counting on it being a good thing.

  “What I mean is that you’re just damn goofy, Jefferson Jackson. You’re playful. You can just be fun—and I’ve never found that kind of playfulness in any other man I’ve ever dated.”

  J.J. hated to ask, but now was the time.

  “How many was that?”

  Cheri shrugged and took a sip, spilling a little down into her cleavage. Not that he minded. “Not so many. At first, they were older, a lot older. I thought it made me look more mature if I was dating a man in his forties when I was twenty-five. It didn’t hurt with the promotions, either.”

  “Right.”

  “But my last boyfriend—Evan—he was younger than me, and the most uptight, materialistic, shallow man I’ve ever come within arm’s distance of.”

  “Sounds like a real winner.”

  Cheri shook her head and suddenly looked solemn. “I think I chose him like I’d choose a nice watch—I wanted people to see that I accessorized myself with only the most beautiful and expensive things.”

  “Did Evan know that?”

  Cheri laughed. “Of course he did—he chose me for the same reason. But—” She looked down at their intertwined hands. “I was lost back then. I’d forgotten what it was like to be myself. To be a kind and real person.”

  “Something must have happened to change that. You’re not like that now.”

  Cheri’s eyes locked with his. This was it, he knew. She was going to tell him the truth, and God, how relieved he was. All this love he felt for her needed a side dish of honesty to feel like a complete meal to him, and besides, he knew she’d have to shed her façade before she’d ever consider staying in Bigler.

  Cheri smiled softly. “I came back home—to you.”

  J.J. raised her hand to his lips to hide his disappointment. Clearly, she’d tell him the whole story when she was damn good and ready, and not a moment sooner.

  Chapter 24

  It took about forty minutes for Cheri to reach the small dirt road in Maggie Valley where Carlotta Smoot McCoy lived. Since she’d already passed plenty of shacks and trailer homes on the way, she should have been prepared for the spectacle of Carlotta’s living conditions.

  She wasn’t.

  Cheri slowed the pimpmobile to a crawl, swallowing hard, looking around at the scene. Mimi Grayson had prepped her for the interview. In addition to outfitting Cheri with a crisp new reporter’s notebook and a new pen, she’d explained that Carlotta had been a widow for twenty-plus years and that her kids were nowhere to be found.

  It certainly showed.

  The property was strewn with gutted cars and pickups of every description, discarded appliances, tire rims, bed frames, and mounds of garbage obviously picked through by wild critters. At the center of it all was an orange-and-yellow striped trailer home that might have been at the height of double-wide fashion a few decades ago, but was now a pile of sagging vinyl and rusted metal, and, she suspected, unfit for human habitation.

  In comparison to this dump, the cottage on Newberry Lake was gracious Southern luxury, and Cheri’s former Harbour Island home had been the freakin’ Biltmore Estate.

  The screen door opened, and the small lady Cheri had seen at Wim’s construction site two weeks ago appeared, hand on hip. Several dogs began barkin
g and growling behind Carlotta, trying to jockey for a spot at the door and a shot at the trespasser.

  Cheri exited the car and cautiously approached the trailer. “Good afternoon, Ms. McCoy. I’m—”

  “Garland’s oldest granddaughter. I know who you are.”

  Cheri tried to smile, but knew she probably looked as uncomfortable as she felt. Despite the invitation, Mimi had warned her not to expect a warm welcome. She hadn’t been joking.

  Shouting over the dogs, Cheri said, “Is this a good time? I would have called ahead but you don’t have a phone!”

  Carlotta kicked at the dogs and stepped outside on the tiny metal stoop, closing the door behind her, which muffled the racket. She took a moment to look Cheri up and down.

  She must look ridiculous to this woman, Cheri realized. Her hair was perfectly styled and she’d worn a pair of sleek black trousers, boots, and a tailored silk blouse—an outfit Cheri had considered an embarrassingly off-the-rack budget ensemble back in Tampa. Carlotta wore a dirty and torn housedress. Her collarbones jutted out from her wrinkled skin. Her legs were thin as twigs, her wrists large knots of bone under wasted flesh. The lady looked like she was quite ill, or just plain starving.

  “I got damn little to say to you newspaper people after all this time, but if you’re suddenly gonna decide to do your job, I won’t stand in your way.”

  Cheri nodded, trying to appear polite and professional when she wanted to scream—how was it that human beings were left to rot like this in Cataloochee County? Of course she knew there was hunger in Appalachia, like everywhere on earth, but she’d never thought much about it. She’d never let herself.

  She looked around nervously, seeing nothing but poverty and decay, and Cheri had to wonder, how had she let herself get swallowed up in crap that didn’t really matter? For so long? The shoes, the cars, the collection of man-accessories she’d called lovers? And after it all disappeared, why had it been so easy to wallow in a puddle of self-pity and shame? At the time, Cheri had seen the Tampa studio apartment and the temp jobs as deprivation, when she’d still had a clean and safe place to live, a best friend, nice clothes, and food. Clearly, the lady scowling down at her from her trailer doorway would have been grateful for a scrap of that life.