Potter Springs (22 page)

“Say that again.” As he stared at the bright red letters on the cup, his voice hoarsened.

“I said she left,” Katy repeated. “I didn’t get her amusing little note until this morning. Naturally, she didn’t ask
my
opinion-driving off in the middle of the night…”

The bottom of his office chair fell into an abyss.

What had Dale
said?

“She gets it from her father. Never mind worrying her mother to death.”

“When?” His own mind whirled in circles, touching down at odd points.
Note. Driving off. Morning.

“Last night. I already explained-what’s the matter with you?” Katy’s imperialism had no problem traveling long distance.

He fought for calm, for the clarity to speak. “She’s not back. She hasn’t come home.”

“Whatever are you talking about?”

“She
isn’t here.”

“That’s not funny, Mark.”

“Are you sure she left?” Hope, like a fragile shield, held the whirlwind at bay.

“Quite. Her room’s cleared out. The van is gone.” She paused.
“Stunning
color, by the way.”

He let that slide. Unable to comprehend Dragonlady’s jabs while her daughter might lie dead, crashed on the side of the road
in a volcano of metal.

The clicking of a lighter sounded over the line.

He took measured breaths to quell the spinning hysteria. “So, what do we do? How do we find her?”

Inhaling deeply, Katy didn’t answer right away. Then, “Call her cell phone.”

“Her what?”

“Cellular phone. Portable. Wireless. The kind you can take with you, in a car for instance. Or a minivan, if you’re so blessed.”

“She doesn’t have one,” he said. “She doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“Yes, she does. I bought it for her when she got here. I’ll call her.” With a click, Katy Thompson ended the conversation.

A cell phone. Still holding the extension with his shoulder, Mark pried his hands off his desk, one digit at a time. He prayed
for a miracle while the empty line beeped in his ear.

He hung up, defeat washing over him like a stain.

Then the truth hit.

My wife has a cell phone. And I don’t even have her number.

A
t the border crossing, a flashing light warned travelers to stop. Deadlocked in traffic, Amanda ignored the cell phone ringing
in her bag and stared at the atlas. The open window siphoned in sounds of other road travelers, running engines and children
squabbling. A faint tinge of sewage stained the air.

She looked for a good place on the map, somewhere near the water to spend the night. Or rather, the day. Having driven through
the morning hours, a long nap in a warm place sounded like Christmas.

She considered Mexico’s boundaries, and chewed a Snickers. Since finding herself on the wrong road last night, the idea had
tickled the edge of curiosity and kept her driving. Mile after mile passed, carrying her farther from Potter Springs. What
started as a mistake evolved into whimsy, then escalated into full-fledged flight.

After so many wrong turns in her life, could this one be a piece of serendipity?

Evening clouds had lifted, revealing a star-spread midnight sky. She put the minivan on cruise control, coasting to nowhere.
To anywhere.

Why make the long journey to the Panhandle, without knowing, truly, where she and Mark were headed? The perfect pastor and
his wife. With hidden secrets and hidden hurts eating them both alive.

She had no desire to play childhood games anymore. In Houston with her parents or in Potter Springs with Mark. Playing house
as the new bride. A raggedy doll with a perfect smile and an aching heart. Destined to twirl on that spindle, headless and
trapped.

The minivan’s radio stayed silent as the music of her thoughts passed the time.

Mark needed her. She knew that without question. From the yearning in his voice, his relentless pursuit of her. Yet last night,
he wasn’t home. Maybe he’d grown tired of the chase.

Maybe he was chasing someone else.

She wouldn’t speed back to prove Dale right or wrong. The deacon and his gossip didn’t matter. She had no power to stop an
affair, if that’s what Mark wanted. He would have to make that decision on his own.

However much she loved him, she had to find her own way. With the edge of dawn, her head cleared and purpose hummed with the
promise of day. Night turned to morning, and still she drove.

Now, at the crossing, she teetered on the edge of Texas. Another country lay ahead, beckoning with unfamiliarity and adventure.
Did she dare, really, to cross the border?

On the map, a name printed on the eastern coast caught her attention. Laguna Madre. A small inlet, carved into the seaside.
She trilled the alluring name aloud.
Laguna Madre.
The Mother Lagoon.

Not too far away, but far enough. Maybe there, alone with the sea, she’d find the solution.

What do you want?
echoed the question in her heart.

I want to get better.

Folding the map, she eased the van into the traffic flow once again. The road straightened, narrowing like a painting on perspective.
The future a mere pinpoint on the horizon. She snapped on the radio and found a station with an upbeat tempo in a language
she didn’t understand.

She would find her joy, she decided. Even if she had to go all the way to Mexico to do it.

THE HOT-PINK HOTEL
with scraggly palm trees exuded a relaxed cheerfulness. After passing several others, cracked adobe with peeling signs, Amanda
feared she’d never find her oasis. But there it was. Palacio del Grande. The lobby smelled of salt water and coconut oil,
and the humidity caressed her skin.

When she checked in, a slender man behind the counter voiced a hearty welcome and gave her a tiny bottle of tequila and a
magnet with a sombrero on it.
MEXICO!
it proclaimed in block letters. “Do you need some help with luggage?” He handed her a keycard emblazoned with the hotel’s
name.

“No, this is it.” She held up her small bag, full of unsuitable clothing. Jeans. Long-sleeved shirts. Fall in Potter clothes.
“Do you have a gift shop?”

He pointed the way to a minuscule room full of postcards, shell jewelry, tanning lotion and swimsuits. She chose a turquoise
bikini, a garish metallic she’d usually never wear. But it was either that or a grandma suit with a knee-length skirt. At
least it wasn’t a thong. She added sunblock, a pair of flip-flops and a
Cosmo
to her pile.

Handing over the “Katy credit card,” Amanda silently thanked Jesus and her mother for the family account. Somehow, she knew
deep in her heart that if anybody could see a runaway trip to Mexico as necessary emergency spending, it would be Katy Thompson.

She’d call Mother later, maybe tomorrow after a full night’s rest, to let her know where she was and okay the expenses. But
she had to have at least one night, even if it took months to pay it back.

Upstairs, she opened the window and let in the sounds of the gulf while she examined her new quarters. Clean, with local accents
of painted pottery and art. A wrought-iron lamp by the bedside, a small but tidy bathroom. She put her suitcase and new purchases
on the foot of the queen-size bed. The marble floors chilled her bare feet after nonstop socks and tennis shoes. She pulled
the tags off the swimsuit and grabbed a soft towel to wrap around her waist.

A quick elevator ride and a short pathway later, Amanda arrived on the beach in all its glory. The waves winked at her under
the white sun as the undulating blue danced a timeless step. The tide laved the powder shore with gentle foam, a lover’s caress
between land and sea.

Smoothing the wind drifts in a sunny area, she spread out her towel and lay on her stomach, snuggling into the sand. A few
tourists drank beer and a brown-skinned boy splashed in the water, playing games with the breaking surf. His laughter rollicked
with the waves, musical and free.

Something nagged at the back of her mind. Something she’d forgotten to do or pack. Whatever it was, she refused to let it
bother her. Instead, she closed her eyes, listening to the eternal ocean and the calls of the gulls, letting the warmth of
Mexico lull her to sleep.

DUSK HAD SETTLED
when Amanda woke. A puddle of spittle formed on the towel beneath her and sand crusted in her eyes. The coming night chased
away the day’s heat and sunset tipped the waves with orange caps.

She rolled over and a thousand tiny needles pierced her. Somehow, in her slumber, someone had shrink-wrapped her back in scalding
plastic. Flipping to her stomach, she reached a hand behind her and felt the fire on her skin.

The sunblock. That’s what she forgot. Still in the yellow bag upstairs. Unopened. A typical tourist mistake. With all her
years at the family lake house, she should have known better.

She’d just been so tired. Tired enough to sleep for hours on an unknown beach in a horrific bathing suit with no protection
on her fair skin.

Wincing, she gathered her things and slipped sandy feet into her new sandals. She gathered the towel around her, thankful
for its cover as the cool lobby air hit her cooked body.

“Oh, senorita!” A dark-haired woman in a flounced skirt halted at the sight of Amanda’s flaming skin. “The sunburn, ouch it
must hurt!” Holding a clipboard in one hand, the woman fluttered the other, talking with heavily accented speech. “You must
put on the medicine. The green… aloe.”

“Do you know if the gift shop carries any?” Amanda pulled the towel tighter, shivering.

“Yes, they do. But the day, it is over, and the store is no longer open.”

Amanda tried not to break into tears in front of the stranger. A familiar insignia decorated her bright lapel. “Do you work
here?”

“Yes, I am Consuela. A hostess for the hotel.” She smiled. “And the store is closed, but we have a treatment, for the skin.
A massage in the spa with the aloe.”

“A spa? I didn’t know you had one….”

“It is new and very small. We are just starting the service, but I can make a call for you?”

GENTLE CELLOS FLOWED
from the small radio as cool hands lightly stroked the salve into Amanda’s fiery back. Surrounded by pale marble walls on
a padded white table, she faced straight down with closed eyes and let the masseuse do her work. The aloe smelled fresh and
pleasant as it slid into her pores and stopped the stinging.

A sheet covered her lower half, the room a mild temperature. She relaxed in the calm atmosphere, enjoying the professional
touch.

She missed Mark’s touch. The way he knew her body and accepted her. What she thought were flaws, her round thighs and full
bottom, he adored. Made pet names for her, whispered wild compliments in her ears while they made love. Even now, she blushed
into the table’s comfort, remembering.

After losing the baby, his touch hadn’t been the same. Careful and fragile. Like she’d turned to ice and would shatter with
too much pressure.

The weight of the masseuse’s hands skimmed the tautness of her skin with the gel, gently massaging the tension from her neck
and shoulders. The strokes manipulated the tightness, tendered the brittle.

Maybe she was ice, maybe she would shatter.

Maybe she
had
been cold, with the walls and the cave. Too withdrawn into her own broken heart. Did she, drowning in her loss, somehow chill
them both?

Yes, Mark must make his own choice, but had she forced his hand? Could he have turned to Courtney in desire? In desperation?

Sadness welled inside her, brought out by the cool, the smell, the firm hands. Tears fell slowly to the padding that held
her face. The tip of the iceberg, revealed in the balm on her skin, melting with the burn’s fiery heat.

Her husband in the arms of another woman. Her lost baby. The loss of babies never to come. Her childhood dreams of happily-ever-after
tossed to the wind, landing in the pool of her sorrow.

Yet she kept quiet, and let the rhythmic hands run over her body without judgment or condemnation.

With puffy eyes, she assured the receptionist that the massage had been perfect. “Just what I needed.” She signed the charge
and made it back to her room in a daze.

Moonlight poured through her open windows as she lowered herself onto the wildly printed bedspread, flowers bursting from
palm trees, peacocks nesting among the branches. She burrowed her head into a pillow, the sadness breaking free in shudders
and sobs.

Why? Why her? Why was she chosen, out of the masses of women, to never bear a child? To never be a mother, to love and be
loved in that most precious of ways?

And now, running away from home, leaving her life a million miles away, abandoned in a wake of hurt.

Pain smothered her, held her under, choked her as she gasped and heaved. A dual-handed grip clenched her throat, fingers taut
with death and fear. The death of her child, and of her dreams.Fear of trusting a God who disappointed her so deeply. And
fear of moving toward a future she couldn’t see.