Hidden Hearts

• Other Bella Books by Ann Roberts
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• About The Author
  

Copyright © 2012 by Ann Roberts

Bella Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 10543

Tallahassee, FL 32302

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper

First published 2012

Editor: Katherine V. Forrest

Cover Designer: Sandy Knowles

ISBN 13: 978-1-59493-287-8

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

Paid in Full

Furthest from the Gate

Brilliant

Beach Town

White Offerings

Root of Passion

Beacon of Love

Keeping Up Appearances

Deadly Intersections

Petra’s Canvas

Author’s Notes

Inspiration comes in many ways and the idea for this story stemmed from my father’s memories of Phoenix during the forties and fifties. While I’ve taken huge liberties with city history, the enclave really exists, surrounded by a wonderful post-WWII neighborhood that I call home. 

I’m grateful for my neighbors, who plan impromptu happy hours, or let me borrow a pound of pasta when dinner is twenty minutes from completion, and I finally realize what I forgot at the store. And none of them have a problem requesting the “lesbian babysitters” when they want a night out.

One such neighbor is my friend Alexis, another writer who’ll get back to writing when her amazing little daughter doesn’t need all of her attention. She read the manuscript and provided great moral support as well. It’s wonderful to know such a person is just across the alley.

My partner Amy is my biggest fan and my most important critic. She always makes the story better, telling me which scenes don’t work, when she’s lost, or why a character’s name needs to change.

Finally, I’m always honored when Katherine V. Forrest edits my book. I learn so much from her. And, of course, I’m thrilled to work with Bella Books, who support my passion and love of storytelling. 

For Morgen

Cousin by blood, friend by choice

PhoenixConnect.com
(Women Seeking Women)

Definitely Friends First! – 27 (Central Phoenix)

Date: 2010-06-05, 11:18PM MST

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To
This Post

GF, 27, ready to try again.
I am a professional career woman who recently moved to Phoenix from Indiana. I love art, politics, hiking and a good debate.
Looking for friends first and then maybe more.
I’m gay, not bi, and I’m not into men or threesomes. No games, drama, drugs or addictions. Who are you? Carpe Diem!

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October, 1953

“Vivian Lucille Battle, you are a complete moron! You could’ve been killed! No one with a brain would do something as ridiculous as jump off the roof, but apparently God handed your brain to the next child in line. Whoever
that
boy is, he’ll probably grow up to be president seeing as he has
two
brains!”

I gazed up at Mama, a screaming silhouette against the blinding sun. A familiar pain chewed through my left arm, and I was pretty sure I’d broken it, just like I’d broken my right one two summers before. I held it against my stomach, praying that it didn’t split in two. Douggie Kerns had told me he’d seen a guy whose broken hand fell into a well and he never got it back. I needed mine for drawing. 

Mama yelled some more, and I hoped she’d finish soon because I knew she wouldn’t take me to the doctor until she’d said her piece, and her pieces tended to run at least as long as a radio commercial when it came to scolding me.

She yanked me off the ground in one motion and my left arm swung free.

“Don’t you expect any tea and sympathy from me, young lady,” she said as she shoved me into the front seat of the Cadillac. “This is your own doing. If they have to cut off your arm, then so be it.
Can’t believe a twelve-year-old is so thoughtless.”

She slammed the door shut and went to the other side. Her lips kept moving, but I couldn’t hear most of the words. Those Caddies were well-made cars.

“This is just like what happened to Mopey,” she added as she turned onto Missouri Avenue.

It wasn’t anything like what I’d done to our dog Mopey a few years back, but I knew better than to argue. My brother Will had dared me to shake a leftover bottle of champagne, and poor Mopey was walking through the kitchen when the cork flew off. Blinded him in one eye, and for the rest of his days whenever he’d bang against a doorjamb or knock something over because his side vision was gone, Mama shook her finger and said, “There’s a dog with more sense than my daughter, the moron!”

When we turned left I knew we weren’t going to the emergency room. “Why aren’t we going to St. Joseph’s?” I asked,
remembering the last time. I thought broken bones automatically meant the emergency room.

Her breath seemed to catch. “Can’t,” she said simply.

When we stopped at an intersection a young guy in a Ford called, “Hey, beautiful! You
babysitting?”

Her face slid into a grin.
“Hey, yourself.
You plannin’
on stayin’ here all day?”

“If it means talkin’ to you,” he said coolly.

She laughed. This happened all the time, especially when she was forced to go out in her house clothes. She always wore her blonde hair in a ponytail and people thought she was seventeen, not thirty-seven. I’d noticed two tiny crow’s feet near her eyes, but I didn’t dare mention it. She prided herself on her appearance even when she was wearing pedal pushers and a simple cotton blouse, like she was now.

“Well, I need to get going,” she said. “My
daughter
needs to go to the doctor.”

I waved and his face fell. He tore away and she just kept laughing.  

We drove to Dr. Steele’s office. He’d been our family doctor for as long as we’d lived in Phoenix, and I’d been a regular visitor since I seemed to need stitches, splints and medications more than most kids. He enjoyed my
exploits,
as he called them. His most favorite story was how I busted my lip when I flew over my bike handlebars after Will convinced me that blind people could ride bicycles and I could close my eyes as I flew down the hill. Dr. Steele had laughed so hard he’d caught the hiccups. That visit had actually worked out okay because he didn’t charge Mama since he was so amused.

I followed her inside and my eyes watered from the strong smell of rubbing alcohol. I went to my usual chair while she talked to the nurse. Soon they were both staring at me and frowning. My arm was killing me, but I didn’t make a peep. That would make Mama yell more. Will had told me that she yelled to keep from crying because I scared her most of the time. I tried to stay out of trouble, but I’d get these pictures in my head and I wanted to see if I could make them come true. He said I needed to get out my sketchpad when those moments happened and
draw
them instead of
do
them
.
Sometimes that worked, but it didn’t help that he dared me to do some of the stuff.

Even though there were other people ahead of us, the nurse took us right back like she always did. We never waited long, and I wasn’t sure if it was because she worried I’d set the whole place on fire before I saw Dr. Steele or if he just wanted to spend more time with Mama. Men loved spending time with her—the plumber, the milkman and even the grocery delivery boy.

I hopped on the table while she checked her face in the mirror. She reapplied her lipstick and pulled the rubber band out of her hair. She shook and fluffed a bit and undid the second button of her shirt. When she turned around she looked different, not so much like a mother and more like a model in a magazine. By the time he walked in she’d lit a cigarette and was leaning against his instrument counter with one hand on her hip.

He ignored me and went right to her. “Lois, it’s always good to see you.”

“Hi, Hank,” she replied with a broad smile. “We’re back.”

I guessed he was somewhat older than her since he had a lot of gray hair and a potbelly. He wasn’t very tall, and he always looked tired with big bags under his eyes. But when he looked at her he found a bunch of energy. And for some reason when she talked to
Hank,
whatever I’d done was funny or amusing because she never sounded angry.

“What happened this time?”

She sighed and played with her hair. “Fell and broke her
other
arm, I think.”

He chuckled and gave me a sideways glance before stepping closer to her. It was their little ritual. She sniffled, and then he’d put a friendly arm around her, assuring her that she was a great mother and my stupidity wasn’t her fault.

By the time they got to this part, my arm felt like someone was pounding it with a hammer, but it was like I wasn’t there. I opened my mouth to say something but they were giggling and whispering so I kept my mouth closed.

“Um, Hank, there is one thing,” she said. “Chet can’t make another shipment until Friday.”

He nodded thoughtfully, and her face tensed while she watched him think. His arm was still around her but he wasn’t stroking her shoulder anymore.

“Hmm.
I seem to remember this happening last time, Lois.
Everything okay in the orange growing business?”

I could tell he was making fun of Pops by the way he asked the question. It made me mad because I loved those trees even if Pops didn’t make a lot of money.

“We’re fine, Hank, but money’s tight.”

“Isn’t it always?”

I didn’t recognize the soft voice that answered. “Uh, well, I was also hoping you could check a mole for me. It’s on my chest. It looks funny.”