Rexanne Becnel - Leaving L.a.

Alice was going to shit a brick.

Oops. Alice was going to freak out, I amended. I’d given up cursing in deference to the baby, who all the books said would be able to hear long before she was born.

Anyway, Alice was going to freak out, which was the whole point. As for Daniel, I’d better interview him soon, before Alice turned him entirely against me. But he hadn’t been home when I left, and I didn’t want to go back there anyway.

I climbed into my Jeep. The whole day stretched ahead of me, but I wasn’t sure where to go or what to do.

As if in answer, my stomach growled.

“Food,” I muttered to Jenny Jeep. “Find me a restaurant, baby. Preferably one with oyster po’ boys and fried onion rings.” My ob-gyn in Los Angeles had given me permission to eat whatever I wanted to. No dieting at all, at least for the first few months. She probably hadn’t had fried onion rings in mind, but it wasn’t like I ate them everyday. Besides, most days I couldn’t eat much breakfast. It made sense, then, that I make up for it at lunch.

I found a place—Sara Mae’s—that looked like it had been serving lunch specials for the past fifty years. It was well past the lunch hour, but there were still enough cars there to reassure me that the food was good.

I slipped in without fanfare—I thought. Of course, every head in the place swiveled my way.

This is a small town, idiot. And you’re a stranger. The outfit didn’t help either. As I slid into the first empty booth, I reminded myself that from now on it would be jeans and T-shirt for me. Nothing flashy. And I needed to keep my always-rioting hair in a ponytail or bun.

I gave the waitress my order, then took out my cell phone. Three more messages from G.G. I slapped it closed. The hell with him. He probably just wanted to know where the file for the next tour was. And if I was really leaving him, could I please return all the jewelry he’d bought me?

Fat chance. I’d already sold most of it. I had a little nest egg started. Barely five figures, but if I was frugal, it would keep me going a few months until I received my inheritance. Then I’d settle in, just me, Tripod and my sweet baby.

The waitress returned with my lemonade and onion rings just as the door opened.

“Hey, Joe,” she called out. “You’re late today.”

“You got any pork chops left?” the man called to her. That man. That Joe.

Like radar, his eyes seemed to find me.

Shit. I mean, shoot.

He greeted a couple of old guys at the bar. The regulars. It reminded me of Cheers, a place where everyone knows your name, so it was no biggie to figure out who would be the big topic of conversation once I left the joint.

“Hey,” he said, stopping at my booth.

I’d done the mental calculations in the short time it had taken him to reach me. Six feet tall, maybe six-one. One-eighty or so. G.G.’s height but a good thirty pounds heavier. Probably never been strung out. A big plus in his favor. Too bad he was a reporter.

“Hello,” I responded, not smiling.

“You’re eating alone.”

“I am. Unless, pushy reporter that you are, you intend to invite yourself to join me.”

He grinned. Damn, he had a great smile. I meant darn.

“You don’t like reporters. Now why is that?”

“I don’t like lawyers either,” I said. “Or dog catchers, or tax collectors.”

His eyes glinted with humor. “Surely the fact that I’m not a lawyer, love dogs and pay taxes instead of collecting them should offset the fact that I’m a reporter.”

I’ve always been a sucker for charming men. Charming, smart or talented, preferably all three. G.G. had once been charming and talented. They hadn’t dubbed him “Guitar God” Givens for nothing. But fame and cocaine had eventually ruined him for anything but staring in the mirror.

This man, Joe Reeves, was charming and probably a talented writer—and smart, too. Unfortunately he could also be a threat to my need to lie low. But there were ways to deal with a man like him.

So I perched my chin on my hand, smiled up at him. “At least you like dogs.” I gestured to the bench seat opposite me. “Go ahead then, and sit. Have an onion ring.”

The waitress appeared with his iced tea and a house salad. “Thanks, Marie,” he said. “Have you met Zoe?”

We exchanged pleasantries as she sized me up. Thank God he hadn’t mentioned my last name. With all the old-timers in this place, someone was sure to remember me.

“Find what you needed at the library?” he asked.

“I was just browsing. How’s the newspaper business?” We’re not talking about me, buddy, so just forget that you’re a reporter. I leaned forward and smiled. “How did you get into writing for a living?”

“I don’t know. I was an oddball kid. Part nerd, part jock. I worked on my high school newspaper and yearbook staffs, and played baseball and basketball.”

“And had all the girls crazy about you, no doubt.”

He chuckled. “Not as many as I would have liked. And probably not as many as you had guys chasing after you.”

I wasn’t going to bite. But it was hard. He had this very observant way of looking at you, like whatever you said was really, really important to him. A good trait for a reporter, I reminded myself.

Marie showed up with my po’ boy and his pork chop and white beans.

“You eat here often?” I asked as we dug in.

“Couple of times a week. Mel advertises in the paper. I come in to keep them honest in the taste department.”

“Mel?” Inside I began to shake, but on the outside I kept it cool. “As in Melody or Melvin?”

“Melvin Toups. He owns this place.”

Melvin Toups. Oh, my God! That creep Melvin Toups who’d chased me into the river? I kept my breathing even. In through the nose, out through the mouth. “Why do they call it Sara Mae’s?” I asked, just to fill in the awful silence.

“This was his mother-in-law’s place before Mel took over.” That meant he had a wife? Poor woman. When Melvin and his thug friends had chased me to the river to escape them, I’d been so scared. Four teenaged boys; one teenaged girl. I’d been petrified that they’d meant to rape me.

I suppressed a shudder and bit into my po’ boy. I love oyster po’ boys, and no place makes them like the small mom-and-pop joints spread around southern Louisiana. But this one could have been cardboard for all I could taste. Melvin Toups had made this sandwich and these onion rings.

I felt the rise of bile in my throat. You will not be sick. You will not be sick. I chanted the words, breathing slowly, deeply, knowing I had to get out of here. I dropped the remains of the po’ boy on the plate and pushed it away. I wanted to throw it across the room.

“You okay?” Joe asked.

I shook my head. “Too much mayonnaise.” I snagged my purse, dug out my wallet and pulled out a twenty. “See you around.” Then I pushed out of the booth, shoved the money in Marie’s hand and fled. The last thing I heard was someone chortling. “Hey, Joe. What in the hell did you say to the little lady?”

I didn’t know where to go, what to do. I hated the farmhouse. I would have gone to the library, but it was right next to Joe Reeves’s office and I sure didn’t want to run into him again. If I could have, I would have loaded up Tripod and all my gear and just left, heading to Florida or the Carolina coast, anywhere warm and near the water. But I needed my money. My inheritance. Without it I would have to put my baby in a day-care center while I worked, and I was determined not to do that. Bad enough she wouldn’t have a father. The least I could do was give her a stay-at-home mother until she started school.

So I jumped in Jenny Jeep and just drove. Down two-lane blacktops, turning onto gravel roads, veering onto rutted, overgrown dirt trails. I had to switch into four-wheel drive as I careened down one muddy lane. It ended at a river, coffee-colored and moving fast. The water was high, but then that was typical in the spring. By August this same river would be way down, warm and moving slowly.