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Her gas-guzzling fifteen-year-old Buick Century sat like a rusty wart between a shiny new Lexus and a Cadillac CTS. Despite repeated vacuuming, the Rustmobile still smelled of cigarettes, sweat, fast food, and peat moss. She lowered the windows to let in some air. A sheen of perspiration had formed beneath the gauzy top she wore with jeans, a pair of hammered silver earrings she’d made from some buckles she’d found in Laos, and a vintage maroon felt cloche hat that her favorite L.A. resale shop advertised as having come from the estate of Ginger Rogers.
She rested her forehead against the steering wheel, but no matter how hard she thought, she couldn’t see a way out. She pulled her cell from her purse and did what she’d promised never to do. She called her brother Dylan.
Even though he was three years younger, he was already a hugely successful financial whiz. Her mind tended to wander when he talked about what he did, but she knew he did it extremely well. Since he refused to give her his work number, she called his cell. “Hey, Dyl, call me right away. It’s an emergency. I mean it. You have to call me back right now.”
It was useless to call Clay, who was Dylan’s twin. Clay was still a starving actor, barely making the rent, although that wouldn’t last much longer, since he had a degree from Yale drama school, a growing list of off-Broadway credits, and the talent to back up the last name of Koranda. Unlike herself, neither of her brothers had taken anything from their parents since they’d graduated from college.
She snatched up her phone as it rang.
“The only reason I’m calling you back,” Dylan said, “is curiosity. Why did Lucy bail on her wedding? My secretary told me an online gossip site is saying you’re the one who talked her out of getting married. What’s going on down there?”
“Nothing good. Dyl, I need a loan.”
“Mom said this would happen. The answer’s no.”
“Dyl, I’m not kidding. I’m in a jam. They took my credit card, and—”
“Grow up, Meg. You’re thirty years old. It’s sink-or-swim time.”
“I know. And I’m going to make some changes. But—”
“Whatever you’ve gotten yourself into, you can get yourself out of. You’re a lot smarter than you think. I have faith in you, even if you don’t.”
“I appreciate that, but I need help now. Really. You have to help me.”
“Jesus, Meg. Don’t you have any pride?”
“That’s a shitty thing to say.”
“Then don’t make me say it. You’re capable of handling your own life. Get a job. You know what that is, right?”
“Dyl—”
“You’re my sister, and I love you, and because I love you, I’m hanging up now.”
She stared at the dead phone, angry but not surprised at this evidence of a family conspiracy. Her parents were in China, and they’d made it blazingly clear they wouldn’t rescue her again. Her creepy grandmother Belinda didn’t give out freebies. She’d force Meg to enroll in acting classes or something equally insidious. As for her uncle Michel . . . The last time they’d visited, he’d delivered a biting lecture on personal responsibility. With Lucy on the run, that left Meg’s three other close friends, all of whom were rich and any one of whom would lend her money.
Or would they? That was the thing about them. Georgie, April, and Sasha were all independent, unpredictable women who’d been telling Meg for years that she needed to stop screwing around and commit to something. Still, if she explained how desperate she was . . .
Don’t you have any pride?
Did she really want to give her accomplished friends more evidence of her worthlessness? On the other hand, what were her options? She had barely a hundred dollars in her wallet, no credit cards, an empty checking account, less than half a tank of gas, and a car that could break down at any moment. Dylan was right. However much she might hate it, she needed to get a job . . . and fast.
She thought it over. As the town bad guy, she could never get a job here, but both San Antonio and Austin were less than two hours away, just about reachable on half a tank of gas. Surely she could find work in one of those places. It would mean skipping out on her bill, something she’d never done in her life, but she’d run out of options.
Her palms were sweaty on the steering wheel as she pulled slowly out of the parking lot. The roar of the bad muffler made her long for the hybrid Nissan Ultima she’d had to give up when her father stopped making the payments. She had only the clothes on her back and the contents of her purse. Leaving her suitcase behind made her crazy, but since she owed the Wynette Country Inn for three nights, well over four hundred dollars, there wasn’t much she could do about it. She’d pay them back with interest as soon as she found a job. What that job would be, she had no idea. Something temporary and, hopefully, well paying, until she figured out what to do next.
A woman pushing a stroller stopped to stare at the brown Buick as it belched a cloud of oily smoke. That, combined with her bellowing muffler, hardly made the Rustmobile an ideal getaway car, and she tried to sink lower in the seat. She passed the limestone courthouse and the fenced-off public library as she edged toward the town’s outskirts. Finally, she spotted the city limits sign.
YOU ARE LEAVING
WYNETTE, TEXAS
Theodore Beaudine, Mayor
She hadn’t seen Ted since their awful encounter in the church parking lot, and now she wouldn’t have to. She’d bet anything that women all over the country had already lined up to take Lucy’s place.
A siren shrieked behind her. Her eyes shot to the rearview mirror, and she saw the flashing red light of a police cruiser. Her fingers clenched the steering wheel. She pulled to the shoulder of the road, praying her noisy muffler was to blame and cursing herself for not having had it fixed before she left L.A.
