Million Dollar Road (28 page)

“Can't remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal I didn't make myself,” Bud boomed. “We ate good tonight, huh, Wolf? That French stuff turned out better than I'd-a thought. Never had beef stew so fine before, what with the wine in it and all. Mighty nice.”

Not as loudly, but still too audible for Lireinne's comfort, Wolf asked, “What was that we had for dessert? That shit was awesome.”

Bud laughed. “Well, I don't know 'xactly, but it weren't shit, son. Emma said it was a, a
clafouti
? Yeah, that was it. Seemed like some kind of cherry pudding to me, but man oh man! Sure was tasty. You had seconds, didn't you?”

Lireinne didn't have to listen to Wolf's reply because he'd turned on his Xbox. The familiar EverQuest theme music drowned his voice in a strident skirling of trumpets, bagpipes, and drums.

“You did fine, son.” Bud had raised his voice above the noise. He was being
so
obvious. “You don't need to worry what a nice lady like that might think of your manners. You did just great. Yup, 'bout the best meal I've had in a long, long time. Good food, good company.” The trailer rocked under Bud's heavy footsteps until they stopped at the other side of her door. Her head buried under the pillow, Lireinne groaned in vexation.

Bud knocked. “Lireinne, honey? You still awake?”

Giving up on pretending she was asleep, Lireinne removed the pillow and rolled over onto her back. “Yeah,” she called, her voice raised, determined to communicate how irritated she was. “Who could sleep with all that loud-ass jabber out there? I have to get up early for work tomorrow, you know.”

Bud was quiet for a moment. He said, “Yeah, don't we all. You missed a real nice time, honey. Emma was sorry you weren't feeling well.”

“Why'd you tell her
that
? I'm not sick. You should have said I told her to go to hell!”

Bud ignored that. “She sent home a plate for you, if you're hungry.”

“I'm not hungry,” Lireinne said, even though she hadn't had any dinner. Nothing had appealed to her earlier, the leftover canned supper in the fridge promising to be as unappetizing and tasteless tonight as it had been the night before.

On the other side of the door, Bud said, “You sure? This's some kind of good—different, but real good. Beats the hell out of beans and fried Spam.”

“I don't want any freaking food,” Lireinne said angrily, sick of talking to him. She didn't want
anything
from that woman.

“Okay, Lireinne. But if you change your mind later, I left that plate in the fridge for you, darlin'. Night.” His footsteps receded down the hall before he shut the door to his room.

As if, she thought. Like she'd eat anything from that woman's hands, no matter how much Bud praised her cooking. She'd rather starve.

And yet there had been an unfamiliar note in Bud's voice. He'd sounded . . . well, relaxed in a way Lireinne hardly ever heard him, like for once he wasn't bone-tired, like he'd had a really good night for a change. Yeah, he'd sounded relaxed, but
happy,
too. She couldn't remember the last time Bud had seemed happy over something as ordinary as food. Except . . . she did remember. Ambushed by a bittersweet, melancholy memory, Lireinne hugged Lunchmeat to her chest, rocking him in her arms.

When she'd been little, before Wolf was born, sometimes Bud had come home from work early, and her mother would have made dinner for once. Then the three of them would sit around the table, eating together like a real family. The food, rarely anything but barely passable, had never tasted better than those times. Bud had still smoked then, and after supper he'd light up and beam with contentment, tapping his ashes in an old chipped saucer as the blue smoke rose in a fragrant cloud around his head.

He'd seemed really happy on those nights, for sure, almost as happy as Lireinne had been. He didn't seem to mind the washing up when Lireinne's mother declared she wasn't going to do it, that she was too tired since she'd been running around behind the kid all day. No, when Bud did the dishes, he'd tie a towel around Lireinne's waist and they'd wash plates together, talking and laughing. Her mother would just sit in front of the TV and smoke her own cigarettes until she was ready to go to sleep. Sometimes, she said good night to Lireinne. More often than not, though, she didn't, just stalked down the short hall to the bathroom where she spent a long time with all her soaps, creams, and lotions before she went to bed. Bud would tuck Lireinne in on those nights, making a shadow-puppet show on the wall with his hands and inventing the story as he went along. Sometimes he'd fall asleep in the middle of it, he was so tired, but Lireinne didn't mind. Being tucked into bed was a rare and precious thing to her, something her mother never did at all.

Putting Lunchmeat down on the bed beside her, Lireinne was plenty sure that an indifferent dinner, prepared by a woman who hadn't wanted to make it, wasn't the way tonight's meal had gone down at Emma's house. She didn't know what to think about this unsettling development. She sure as hell wasn't pleased, knowing Bud had been sucked in again by another woman who thought lying to people was okay.

What was the story with Emma Favreaux, anyway? So Bud thought she could cook. Big whup, it was just
food
. Since she'd dropped all that weight this past year, it wasn't like Lireinne was all that into eating anymore. Food, as she now saw it, was just like gasoline, fuel that ran the engine of her body. Only little kids and fat people thought it was anything else. Like those suppers her mother would throw together—Hamburger Helper, Tater-Tot casserole, once some fried chicken she'd burned to a blackened, inedible mess, almost setting the trailer on fire—fuel, all of it. Lireinne had gained some perspective on food since her weight loss: she'd been a pudgy kid and then a fat chick because she'd mistaken an over-full sensation with somebody's giving a damn about her. Well, not anymore. She was over food the same way she was over Emma. For good.

Lireinne propped herself up on her pillows and lifted the now-snoring puppy from his place on the bed, snuggling his warm, sleepy body under her chin.

“Beef stew, huh? Sounds like breakfast for you, Lunchmeat,” she murmured. She gave him a soft kiss on the top of his tiny head. “Beef stew, my
ass
.”

 

Wolf quit the Xbox sometime after ten and shuffled past Lireinne's bedroom door on his way to the bathroom. The water ran for a few minutes and then he came out.

“Night, sis,” he called, his jaw cracking in a yawn loud enough to hear through the closed hollow-core door. The night drew on and soon it was time to go to bed herself, so Lireinne undressed, put on her nightgown, and got under the covers. She turned off the light, but left the TV on so she wouldn't feel so alone in the silent trailer.

An hour later, the flickering
Friends
rerun on the only station she could get tonight turned into an unbelievably boring hair-restoring infomercial. Lireinne wasn't a bit sleepy. Her clock said it was after midnight. Due to Mose's departure, she could have an extra half hour of sleep, but seven a.m. was going to come over the horizon long before she was ready for it. She needed to get to sleep soon or else she'd be wrecked at work in the morning. Lireinne thumped her pillow and tried to empty her mind, but her thoughts were scurrying through her head like unseen mice in a dark room. Right about the time she'd start to ease down into sleep, the memory of Bud and Emma in the front yard would sneak around the corner, as impossible to dismiss as the thought of her stepfather and Wolf sitting down to eat with the woman she'd made up her mind to hate.

Hating Emma, Lireinne thought with a resigned sigh, was turning into a lot of work. She turned over and lay flat on her back, brooding in the wavering light from the TV. She got up and turned it off, but that didn't help. Now all that kept her company was Lunch-meat and the crickets singing outside her window in the moonlight.

Finally, at one o'clock in the morning, Lireinne had to admit she was hungry. Really hungry. Maybe if she ate, she could get to sleep. She threw back the covers, got out of bed, and eased the door open. Tiptoeing down the hall's worn carpet into the front room, she paused. The trailer was dark and soundless except for the muffled, occasional snore coming from behind Bud's closed bedroom door. Sprawled on the sectional like a dropped bicycle, Wolf turned over, one arm hanging off the couch. He muttered in his sleep.

Lireinne tiptoed into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door a crack, trying not to let the light escape because it might wake her brother. She didn't feel like explaining what she was up to: it was none of his business anyway. Inside on the top shelf of the fridge was a plate—a real china plate, not a paper one—covered in aluminum foil.

“Hmph,” Lireinne snorted under her breath. Too good for paper plates, was she? Either that, or Emma seemed to think she'd be getting that plate back soon. With a glance at Wolf on the sectional, she grabbed it off the shelf and hooked a spoon from the drain board by the sink. Lireinne carefully made her way back down the hall to her room, feeling both sneaky and elated, as though she'd just stolen something from Emma and gotten away with it. That was a stupid way to feel, though, because this was only fuel and she was totally starving.

After easing her door shut, Lireinne sat cross-legged on the bed next to a very intrigued Lunchmeat, peeled back the plate's foil, and took a small bite. Even though the food was cold, she had to concede that Bud had been right. This beef stew (
boeuf bourguignon,
her memories from French class reminded her) was the best she'd ever tasted. That spoonful filled her mouth with a delicious mélange of flavors—succulent mushrooms, tender beef, and sweet, mellow pearl onions. The richness of the deep brown braising liquid was so complex and satisfying that she hated for it to end. Lireinne saved a tiny bite of beef for Lunchmeat, but too soon she was scraping up the last of Emma's stew and wishing there was more.

Okay, who knew the snobby cow could cook like that, she thought. Big deal, right?

But now she felt like she could sleep. With a big yawn, Lireinne got up to put the plate on her dresser, her stomach telling her that it was satisfied, as though it had been well taken care of instead of merely fueled. Lunchmeat jumped off the bed and dived into her closet, probably looking for a flip-flop to chew.

“Hey, come back here!” Reaching into the closet, Lireinne scooped him into her arms. Before she shut the door, though, her eyes stopped for an instant, arrested.

There, hanging among the other clothes from Banana Republic, was the sea-foam-colored dress. Emma had bought it for her that day back in September and she'd never worn it. The puppy tucked under one arm, Lireinne ran her hand down the dress's smooth length, fingering the silk, remembering the magical shopping trip to the mall. Lireinne had to admit that it had been a good time, being with Emma, someone she'd allowed herself, however stupid she might have been, to think of as a friend.

“Please.” Emma had looked wistful. “It'd make me happy to buy it for you.”

“You mean it?” Lireinne asked incredulously. She adored how it fit, the way the pale green silk turned her eyes to emeralds. She was already in love with this amazing dress. She'd never owned anything like it. “But, like, where am I going to wear this?”

“Why not Paris?”

“
Paris
? No way.” Lireinne dismissed the suggestion, but gazing at her reflection in the mirror, suddenly she could see herself wearing this dress, this perfect dress, as she strolled down the Champs-Élysées. She would be so cool, just like the
Vogue
models—elegant, confident, and free.

Forget it, though. She wasn't so crazy as to think
that
was ever going to happen.

“Nope. I'm never gonna get to Paris,” Lireinne had said in dismissal.

“You never know,” Emma murmured.

“P
aris?”

The phone wedged into the hollow between his shoulder and his neck, Con shook two Vicodin tablets onto his desk. He hesitated, picked them up, and dry-swallowed them with a grimace. Still a gauze-swathed lump, his left hand rested in his lap while the right one struggled uselessly to get the cap back on the plastic vial.

It was a sunny Monday morning in October, a week after his discharge from the hospital, and Con was still trying to dig himself out from under the avalanche of paperwork that had piled up in his absence. It was proving to be an even more arduous job than he'd expected because he was having some trouble concentrating these days.

“Hell yes, I'm up for Paris,” Con said, trying to sound alert and on top of things. “I'm good to go.” The pill cap twisted out of his fingers, flew across the desk, and landed on the floor beside his feet.

On the other end of the phone, Roger didn't sound convinced.

“You sure, ol' son? I mean, this here BFG deal's headin' west on us. Need to have someone on the ground over there makin' sure we get what's owed us fair and square. You gotta be a hunnert and ten percent, Con, but I gotta tell you, seems like you're woolgatherin' some lately. If there was someone else to cover it, I'd ask 'em. Hail, if I was half the negotiator you are, I'd go myself, but you know how those frogs get my fur up. Prob'ly make things worse and we cain't afford nothing like
that
right now, if you follow me.”

Con's good right hand clenched on the desk. Roger was alluding to the EPA matter: last week Hannigan had been summoned to Washington to answer the agency's charges regarding the farm's illegal dumping of toxic materials—the watered-down blood and feces from 250,000 alligators. The senator wasn't returning Con's calls, the EPA was charging unstoppably as a maddened bull for court, and Roger's fifty-thousand-dollar campaign contribution was as surely down the drain as the problematic wastewater. The French deal couldn't get turned around fast enough.

Con's reply was muffled as he groped around on the floor for the pill cap. “I said I've got it, Rog.” His prize captured, he sighed with relief. He'd get Lireinne to put the cap back on the vial later. Damned things were a bitch to get on and off under normal circumstances. It was next to impossible with one hand.

With a gusty, dubious-sounding exhalation, Roger said, “Okey-doke. Bring these French sons-of-bitches back to the table. There's a lot riding on this deal, I mean to tell you—cash flow's hanging fire and we got bills to pay. Feed, natural gas, insurance, quarterly taxes. Cain't have 'em blowin' hot and cold. Nail it down, Con. Get your ass to Paris by Thursday and get her done, whatever it takes.”

Roger hung up without saying good-bye.

Whatever it takes. Con slumped in his chair, thinking about that. He was a long way from feeling as certain he could pull this off as he'd assured Roger he was. He was afraid he'd lost his edge somewhere in the hospital. A week out from his discharge, Con was still dosing himself liberally with painkillers. At least Binnings, that little snake, had come through with a generous prescription, but that was only right, especially in light of the fact that he was surely plotting to make time with Con's not-yet-ex-wife.

Con had called Liz only once since the scene in the hospital and that call had been difficult enough. He'd been told in no uncertain terms that he was to leave her the hell alone. Beyond a cold reference to the impending divorce, she refused to discuss her plans for the future, and when Con had mentioned the baby, she'd cut him off and ended the call. He didn't know how he was supposed to feel after that. Wistfulness and regret were emotions he normally had little time for, but Con was pretty sure that these were the feelings he experienced whenever he allowed himself to think of how his latest marriage was ending. Aside from leaving him flat and as close to broke as possible, what was Lizzie going to do next?

And now Paris. Con wondered if he was up to it at all.

Waiting for the pills to take effect, his left hand throbbing, Con remembered the French tanners from his last visit to Paris six months ago—a slippery, smiling people, cunning as Arab emirs looking for an advantage in the oil markets. He knew he wasn't in the best shape to take them on. Even if Con merely adequately drugged himself, there was a strong likelihood that those sharp-dressed, urbane thieves would steal the BFG skins away from him with a smirk and a Gallic shrug and he might not be alert enough to notice.

Where was his A game now, where was that old Jedi, Obi-Wan? Somewhere in the bottom of the vial of Vicodin, Con suspected. He was sure Roger would take a dim view of the extent of his self-medicating, but Roger didn't have to cope with the ever-present pain. As soon as the pills began to work, Con hoped he'd be able to concentrate on the westward-headed French deal. He had to: his future with the company might be riding on this one hugely important sales meeting in Paris.

This pressure aside, traveling out of the country also loomed as a trial by fire. There'd be bags to carry, terminals to negotiate, immigration to get through: all this, one-handed and doped to the eyeballs. Con's mouth tightened while his left hand continued to throb an insistent drumbeat, deep and unrelenting. He was trying to stretch the interval between doses as far as he could stand it. He'd craved his medication a half hour ago, but had wanted to be sharp for Roger's call. No, that conversation had been an agony, but at least it'd been a coherent agony. Hurry, Vicodin, Con thought grimly.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Con?”

During the phone call, Lireinne had looked up from the pile of papers she was working on over at the conference table. In spite of his aching hand, Con basked in the concern he was certain he heard in her question.

Ah, Lireinne.

She'd been so very attentive to him since his return to work, so much so that he sent the home-help nurse packing after the first day. Every morning since his discharge, Lireinne had picked him up from the new apartment so he wouldn't have to drive. She had his newspaper and a cup of coffee ready and waiting, and during this stolen time in the car Con had come to appreciate that she was more free with him when they were out of the office. While Lireinne was behind the wheel, he greedily ate up her young, artless chatter, thinking that her unself-conscious beauty was sweeter than any drug. These hours alone together had become necessary to him, and it seemed to Con that she genuinely enjoyed being with him as well. Whatever Lizzie's plans might be, day by precious day, his relationship with Lireinne was growing into something he'd never imagined feeling for a woman before.

With a self-deprecating smile, Con handed Lireinne the cap to the pill vial. “Can you help me with this?”

Soon enough the bandages would have to come off, but he had no fear now she'd be repulsed by his mangled hand. Lireinne's compassion was a comforting flame he turned to again and again, a welcome antidote to Liz's antagonism and disgust.

She replaced the top and handed him back the Vicodin, but Lireinne's grave, green eyes were easy to read. Although she hadn't actually said anything yet, Con had perceived for some time that she was worried about the narcotic he was taking.

This morning Lireinne's doubtful expression tugged at his heart, but Con was in the habit of telling himself every four hours—after he'd had a dose—that he had this shit under control. Well, maybe he was becoming somewhat concerned about his escalating need for the drug, but what else could he do? Even now the slow, languorous ease approached on stealthy feet. Soon the narcotic would soothe his hand's damnable throbbing, giving it a junkie's kiss to make it all better. Anticipating the Vicodin's warm embrace, Con almost groaned, hungering for its promise of relief.

“You want me to get you some coffee?” Lireinne asked helpfully.

“That would be great, Lireinne.”

Today of all days, he was going to need plenty of caffeine. He needed to keep his edge keen while he worked his way through the daunting backlog piled on the desk in front of him. Con didn't want to have to leave for Paris without being as prepared as possible before meeting with the tanners.

“Be right back, then.” Lireinne's tentative smile was uneasy, but Con was wading into the sweet, seductive pool of the Vicodin by now and so didn't mind very much.

Heading to the kitchen to fetch his coffee, as she walked away Lireinne smoothed her skirt over her hips, an unconscious lure, and those exquisite, swaying hips called Con's name.

 

The coffee helped somewhat. Still, it wasn't until after he'd asked Lireinne to call United for a round-trip flight—for Wednesday, New Orleans to De Gaulle, First Class, bulkhead window seat—that Con came to an elegant solution to his travel dilemma. It was classic, it was obvious, and more importantly, it solved another problem as well.

“Lireinne,” he said, his voice full of renewed cheer, “could you get away for a few days? I'm going to need you to go with me on the trip to Paris.” Oh, this was a
great
idea, the best he'd had in a long time.

Seated at the conference table, Lireinne looked up from the EPA documents she was collating for the litigation. Her full lips parted, her eyes widened to shining green stars.

“Really?” she gasped. “Me?
Paris
?”

Con grinned at her breathless questions. God, she was such a sweetheart. “Paris. As in Paris, France. Can you go? I really need your help.”

Lireinne sagged against the back of the chair, her long-fingered hand at her half-open mouth. “Oh, Mr. Con. I've wanted to go there, God, like my whole
life
. Do you really mean it?”

“Of course I mean it, honey.” Con lifted his bandaged hand. “You see how it is for me right now. Notwithstanding your lovely presence, I'm going to need an assistant to help me get around. That would be your job, right? We've only got a couple of days, so we'll need to get you an expedited passport, but Jackie's done that before. I'll put her on it before lunch and you can drive to New Orleans to pick it up tomorrow.”

Yes sir, Obi-Wan had come through again, Con thought in happy complacence. Lireinne would be a godsend for the travel problems he might face on this trip, and what better place to make love to her the first time than Paris? Vastly pleased with himself for this offing of two birds with a single rock, Con reached for a cigar from the humidor on his desk, struggling to get the cellophane wrapper off one-handed.

“Here. Let me help with that, Mr. Con.” With alacrity, Lireinne leapt up from her chair. She leaned over his desk, proffering the cut-crystal lighter, and he glimpsed the white swell of her breasts, revealed in all their splendor under her dark blue shirt.

“Thanks, Lireinne,” Con said, drawing on his cigar and feeling like a sultan. “Now call United back and make a reservation for yourself, too. Oh, and you'll need to go get the phone number from Jackie for the Plaza Athénée, too.”

“The Plaza Athénée?”

Lireinne's French pronunciation wasn't bad, Con thought in mild surprise. Better than his, for sure. “That's where I stay when I'm in Paris,” he said in careless good humor. “They'll have me in their system, so book my regular suite on the fifth floor, the one with a view of the Eiffel Tower.”

The Plaza Athénée was one of the most prestigious hotels on the continent, a staggeringly luxurious palace of a hotel with its romantic red awnings and spectacular rooms. The staff there was excellent, too, Con remembered. Once he had a little privacy, he'd call the concierge himself. The man could be trusted to see to it that several of those enormous flower arrangements and a cold bottle of Taittinger champagne would be delivered to the suite before their arrival, perhaps a box of chocolate truffles from Vosges as well. Why not? It was all going to go on the expense account.

Recently, Con had confronted the disagreeable fact that money was becoming even more of a problem than usual. There was the note on the house where Lizzie had staked her claim, Emma's alimony, the car payments, insurance, and now the rent on the apartment down in Covington. All this and a pile of credit card debt was stretching his means like a fraying rubber band. Yes, this fortuitous trip, underwritten by Sauvage Global Enterprises and Roger Hannigan, was the answer to the question of Lireinne and their all-important first time together. The apartment, while a marginal improvement over the dismal suite at the Marriott where he'd spent a single night, was largely bare of furniture and depressing as only rented, anonymous rooms in a sprawling complex could be. It was no place at all for the night he'd schemed to bring about for so long. A local hotel room, even one in New Orleans, would be nothing more than . . . tawdry, a place of assignation, and he wanted only the best for Lireinne.

First, Con decided with a Vicodin-inspired optimism, he'd get on the plane. He'd fix this gone-to-hell deal by Friday, by God, and then he'd have the rest of the long weekend to spend with Lireinne, showing her the best of Paris. The timing, the place, the season—his plan was falling into place. A perfect trip for the perfect girl.

“Go on, see Jackie about that number and your passport,” Con reminded her. Lireinne hadn't moved an inch, visibly glowing with excitement.

“I'll get to it right away, Mr. Con.” She hurried down the hall. Con grinned, smoking with more pleasure than a cigar usually afforded. He glanced at his watch: it told him the four-hour window between Vicodin doses was a good hour down the road. He really should wait.

“Oh, to hell with it,” Con muttered.

He could afford to cut himself some slack today. He'd gotten through that phone call with Roger, hadn't he? He didn't want the hand distracting him now, didn't want the pain to sneak up on him again.