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“Yeah, you are.” She’d left her mom’s house over ten years ago, bitter and determined to do her own thing. A mom who hadn’t given Lola much didn’t get to tell her how to live her life or shame her for how she chose to make a living. But Dina had been consistent. She’d always had some kind of dinner on the table and had never spent even one night away from the house when Lola was home.
“We fought a lot over my choices,” Lola said. “I used to think it was because you were trying to ruin my life. But you were just being a mom.”
“I wanted to be around more, believe it or not. When you told me about the stripping, I blamed myself. Thought it was because I did wrong.”
“I know.” Lola picked at nothing on the comforter. “You did the best you could, and I see that now.”
“How far along?” Dina never made apologies for changing the subject when it suited her. “You know the sex?”
“Only five weeks.” Every day since Lola’d seen the boy playing in the snow outside the motel, she’d thought of him. He’d made some kind of unshakable impression on her. The strange thing was, she’d been inexplicably drawn to him but hadn’t even known she was pregnant at the time. “It’ll be a boy. I’m pretty sure.”
“Lucky. They’re lots easier than little girls.” Dina laughed good-naturedly, and Lola giggled along with her.
“Come and see me when you get back? If you need a place to stay…” Dina hesitated. “You know. We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone, baby.”
Lola needed to get off the phone. She wouldn’t be able to keep the tears from spilling much longer. Her mom hadn’t called her “baby” since she was a teenager, since before she’d announced she was taking a job at Cat Shoppe and it wasn’t open for discussion. “I will. Night, Mom.”
Lola hung up and dried the corners of her eyes with her sleeves. Her burden was a little lighter knowing her mom would be there for her again.
Her relief was short-lived, though. Now, Lola had her confirmation—Beau was looking for her. She didn’t believe he was capable of hurting her, but Lola had purposely tried to drive him to the edge. And if he was there, he’d want her there with him. Lola glanced down at her hands, instinctively spread over her stomach.
15
Beau emptied his pockets into a small, circular tray and added his Rolex to the top of the pile.
A stocky security woman by the metal detector waved in the direction of his feet. “Shoes too.”
He slid off his Italian loafers and placed them on the conveyor belt. She nodded for him to pass.
On the other side, he put himself back together, tucking his wallet into his jacket, delicately twisting his feet into his shoes. He normally had a shoehorn in his carryon, but it only occurred to him now that he’d packed it away. He’d already held up the line at check-in, unable to find the airline confirmation in his e-mail. It took a phone call to his assistant to remember he hadn’t asked her to book anything.
The first flight out of New Orleans to Los Angeles was a redeye. Beau didn’t have to wait at the gate long before priority members were invited to board. He sat, his window rain-splattered, the runway misty. He looked away and checked his e-mail. There wasn’t enough to keep him occupied.
People filed by him. He actually hoped to get stuck next to someone chatty. Bonus if it was a beautiful woman. Nobody stopped, though, and eventually the cabin doors shut, the engines vibrated to life. A glassy-eyed flight attendant recited her safety speech.
When they were in the air, she made her way down the aisle. “Get you anything, Miss? Sir, would you like a drink? Do you need anything?”
She parked her cart next to his seat. He looked up at her. “Scotch, neat.”
“Right away, sir.”
She left it on the seatback tray in front of him. The cabin dimmed and went dark, leaving him alone with his drink. He punched on the light above his head and opened the inflight magazine to a random page.
“Ten Midwest Destinations You Can’t Miss.”
He’d been to three. What about Lola? Had she driven to the St. Louis Arch in her red sports car and tight leather pants? Where did she keep all that cash? Beau looked up at the low ceiling, stretching his legs out under the seat in front of him. If first class was this cramped, he didn’t think he’d survive in coach. He leaned into the aisle. “Miss? Hello?”
After a moment, the attendant appeared, bending over to whisper, “Yes, sir?”
“Another Scotch.”
“Certainly.” She turned away and within a minute, came to refill his cup.
“Leave the bottle,” he said.
“I’m sorry, but—”
“I’ll pay.” He shifted to get his wallet. “How much is it?”
“We aren’t allowed, sir. Are you all right? Do you need a barf bag?”
Beau grimaced, leaning away from her as if she were about to be sick. “I feel fine. I just don’t—fly well.” He flew all the time and had never had an issue. Beau took a too-big sip of his drink as the stewardess stood there. He needed a barf bag for his life. He wanted to tell her the story of how a gravely bad decision had rippled through his neatly-packaged world and turned it into shit. Not even thinking about his healthy bank account gave him comfort at that moment. She was a woman—maybe she could tell him what the fuck he didn’t understand about the female gender.
Beau finished the drink and held out his cup. “One more. Then I can sleep.”
She looked around the cabin, quiet except for one snoring idiot. She filled his drink to the brim and left.
