Page 25 of Broken Bayou
“I would have if you hadn’t said not to.”
“Good point.”
“It’s all completely untrue.” When Amy doesn’t respond, I say, “What?”
“Are you sure Christopher wasn’t married?”
“Of course, I’m sure.” A sickening taste fills my mouth. Was I sure? We spent every minute together. I slept at his apartment. He couldn’t have still been married. He talked a lot about his ex. Their divorce. But it’s not like I’d ever demanded to see the divorce papers. I just believed him. “Oh Jesus,” I whispered into the phone.
“Look, I’m pretty sure the ex is just stirring up shit. She’s got some new skin-care line and is looking to get some followers. We’re not going to give that rumor any legs, okay? And the one about you cheating on your exams is complete bullshit, and everyone knows it. It’s going todie down. We’ll mitigate damage. I’ve been working on a show idea.” She pauses.
“Amy, what?”
“There are a few busybodies out there questioning your boards and if you passed because of Christopher.”
The temperature in the bedroom rises several degrees. Heat radiates under my skin. “I worked my ass off to pass that exam. I’ve renewed my licensure every year since. Not to mention continuing education every two years. My job is based on my credibility.”
“Easy, Willa. I know. This is what we don’t need. We don’t need you getting defensive.”
“I’m not defensive.” My answer is too quick, and I know it. “Okay, maybe a little bit.”
“You don’t need to be, especially with me. Look, everyone is enjoying your story right now, but it’s not going to last forever.”
I think of the car coming out of the bayou only hours ago. Of the way Rita Meade looked at me.Shit.“When do you want to shoot the show you’re working on?”
“The sooner the better.”
I want to sayWill do; I’m on my way, but I don’t. I don’t say anything.
“Look, Willa, I’ve given you some grace because you sounded exhausted. But you’ve got to come back. You can’t hide from this. It won’t look good.”
A heavy silence hangs between us.
“Willa?”
“Give me a couple of days. I need to figure a few things out.”
“Uh, no can do. This shit is going to fester if you don’t deal with it. Load up whatever it is you went down there for, get in your car, and start driving. And after we clean all this up, we’ll book a trip to Cabo and drink mango margaritas all day. Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say absently and hang up.
I shut my eyes a moment, open them. Glance at the box of tapes. What I really came here for is control. And now I have anything but.
Amy is only trying to help. And I know she needs me to cooperate, but I don’t need her hurry-up mentality right now. Things have changed. I need to take a minute and assess before I go running off again. I thought being out of Fort Worth would help this die down, or maybe, a part of me knew it was time to deal with something other than my career for once. Get my karma in order. Repair the past in order to move into the future.
Whatever I want to call it, I’m here now, and I may have more to repair than I thought.
Chapter Eight
I’m parked in front of the antique store again, this time in my car, not Travis’s. The sign in the front window saysOPENbut I’m dragging my feet. Not sure if going inside is the best idea. I saw what the Sack and Save had to offer, and I’m not ready for another dose of public humiliation. But this place looks relatively empty of people. It is, however, full of memories.
I searched for electronic stores nearby on my phone and called around in New Orleans and Baton Rouge. A guy at Best Buy suggested I take the tapes somewhere and have them digitized to a thumb drive. That’s a hard hell no. I open my phone and check my order. It still says delayed. I click the tracking number, and I’m routed to the shipping site. It saysIn Transit, scanned in Memphis, but now it’s expected to arrive tomorrow. I glance up at the store.
Dolly’s Antiques is my next option.
Part of me wants to hurry in and look for what I need. Another part wants to run like hell. I open the door before the second option wins.
I step inside and exhale a long, slow breath. No disheveled office. No upturned desk. No papers scattered on the floor. Just a treasure trove of junk that contemporary designers would callbrown furniture. Large wooden armoires, heavy dark nightstands, bowfront chests of drawers sitting alongside end tables, lamps, and twin iron bed frames. All waiting to be wanted again. Several used televisions and miscellaneous electronics line a wall in the back. Bingo.
