Authors: Meg Muldoon
“Please, Bitters?” she said, tears brimming from those rodeo queen eyes.
I bit my lip.
She grabbed her purse and pulled out a Kleenex for added effect, knowing that was just would was needed to push me over the edge.
Dammit
.
Here I was, getting suckered into something I shouldn’t have cared about for one measly second. Knowing that if I didn’t help her, my conscious would never let me hear the end of it.
I went over to the door, put my jacket on and started grabbing my purse.
“All right,” I said. “But if you show up later this week with another guy hanging off of your arm, then all bets are off. You got it?”
She stood up and smiled.
“You’ll do it?” she said.
I sighed.
“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.”
Chapter 12
Broken Hearts Junction got its name over 150 years ago over a tragic incident that, for the most part, has been lost to time.
But it hasn’t been lost to me. Some days when I’m driving along the river, I can’t help think about her.
The Crooked River, a wide, slow-moving, deceptively tame-looking stretch of water meanders right through the middle of today’s Broken Hearts Junction. Back in the 1840s, the Oregon Trail took pioneers through this area, and crossing the Crooked River was a necessary evil. Countless pioneers died trying to cross the river, getting dragged down by the swirling currents that still push and pull today under those placid waters.
But the town didn’t get its name based on the many who lost their lives here.
Just one death gave the town its name.
Her name was Zerelda Richmond.
The story goes that Zerelda had come from a small farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, Joshua, the two of them making the journey with a wagon train. Their dreams were fixed on the Willamette Valley, just a couple hundred miles away from here.
They were so close to getting there. So close to their dream.
But halfway into crossing The Crooked River, all those dreams went to hell in a hand basket. Their wagon capsized in the currents, and Joshua was dragged under, drowned, and swept away downstream. Zerelda was saved by another in the wagon party, though accounts say she was screaming and kicking the whole while, not wanting to be separated from her beloved.
Rattled by the difficult crossing, the wagon party set up camp that night on the edge of the river, right where the small town of Broken Hearts Junction sits today.
But when the wagon leaders awoke the next morning, Zerelda was nowhere to be found.
One of the children later said they’d seen her standing down by the river early that morning, staring at those currents in the pale moonlight.
The story goes that all the wagon party found of Zerelda Richmond the next day was a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the river bank, and a calico dress laid out next to it.
Everyone knew that Zerelda waded in the river that night to join Joshua.
And ever since then, this spot of land has been known as Broken Hearts Junction.
Most people have forgotten the story. All that’s left to remind us is a rusted monument near the banks of the river.
But the story’s always struck a certain chord with me. I don’t know why, but sometimes I find myself thinking about Zerelda. The image of her wading into those dark waters, going after Joshua like that.
Sometimes that image would drift into my head when I drove alongside the river, like this morning.
Cold sunshine glistened off the rippling water, and it made it look almost cheerful. No traces of the tragedy that played out so very long ago.
I slowed down and made a right turn onto Brush Canyon Road, heading for Sunny Banks Nursing Home a few blocks away.
Thinking about Zerelda and Joshua.
Thinking about all those photos up on my wall, of all the happy couples I’d helped over the years.
Thinking about how it’d been so hard to take down that photo of Jacob and me the night before, even after three years had passed.
Thinking about his voice on his answering machine last night. How my heart still did somersaults when I heard that voice.
How helpless it made me feel.
And about how he still hadn’t called me back.
Chapter 13
“You’ve rigged the deck, you sneaky old dog,” I said, picking up another Skip-Bo card. “How do you expect me to keep coming back here if you go on cheating the way you do?”
Lawrence Halliday leaned back in his wheelchair, rubbed his full, white beard and smirked as he looked down at the few cards he was holding in his hands.
“Because I’ve got under your skin, that’s why,” he said. “Once good old Lawrence gets in a lady’s head, she can’t help but keep coming back. Drives her wild to be away from him.”
He winked at me.
“No need to feel bad about it, Bitters. It’s happened to the best of women. Lawrence is just too much for the lady folk to han—”
“You
are
one arrogant son of a gun, aren’t you?” I said, shaking my head.
He laid the last of his cards down on the table.
“A
winning
arrogant son of a gun,” he said, smiling at me.
I sighed loudly, throwing down the large stack of cards in my hand.
“You’re just lucky we’re not in the Old West,” I said. “I could have shot you for your cheating ways.”
“Sure, but then you would have deprived yourself the pleasure of my company.”
All I could do was shake my head some more.
Lawrence Halliday, or “Law Dog” as he’d been known once upon a time, was an 85-year-old sneaky, low-down, full-of-himself old man who could be a real pain-in-the-ass to me and to the people who took care of him at the nursing home.
But I loved him dearly anyway.
He’d been in the assisted living home for about four years now, ever since he had the stroke that had put him in a wheelchair. But that setback didn’t stop him from cheating at cards or flirting with all the nurses on staff. No. Despite not being as mobile as he used to be, Lawrence was the same old scoundrel he’d been his entire life.
“Well, that’s it for me,” I said, putting the cards back in the pack. “Being beat three times by you is quite enough for one day.”
“Aw, don’t be sore, Bitters,” he said. “Most folks would lose their shirt to me.”
We were sitting in the nursing home’s main dining room. It smelled of greasy mashed potatoes and old age, and like always, that made me feel a little uncomfortable. I wished that it weren’t so cold outside and that instead, we could be sitting out on the nursing home’s large deck, overlooking the river, far away from the depressing fluorescents of the cafeteria.
But despite the bad atmosphere, it was worth it to see Lawrence for our weekly donut day. Every Sunday morning, I’d come over with donuts, and he’d school me at card games.
He took another bacon maple bar from the pink pastry box, and bit into it. His eyes lit up behind his thick bifocals.
“It’s nice to know that some things never change,” he said, taking another large bite, closing his eyes and savoring each moment of the fried sugar dough.
Hank, who I always brought along when I visited Lawrence, sat with his head on the old man’s lap, looking up hopefully at the donut.
Lawrence broke off a small piece and dropped it down to the St. Bernard. He caught it in his mouth and chowed down, acting the part of starving and deprived dog. Which we both knew couldn’t be farther from the truth.
“So, seems like things are getting rougher at The Cupid
these days,” Lawrence said, a passing concern flitting across his face as his eyes fixed on my swollen cheek again.
I shrugged.
“Just another Saturday night.”
“Wasn’t that way when I was in charge,” Lawrence said, a faraway look in his eyes. “The Cupid was a no-nonsense establishment back then where women didn’t get hurt.”
I pat his hand.
“I’m fine,” I said, for the hundredth time.
He grumbled something inaudible, taking another bite of his donut.
Once upon a time, Lawrence had owned The Cupid. He got the nickname “Law Dog” back then because he didn’t take crap from anybody, and because he was notorious for kicking people out.
Especially minors with fake IDs.
Which is how we had met, all those years ago, the night I tried to get in to see
The Rusted Spurs
.
I spent years being angry at him about that, but these days, it seemed like ancient history, given everything we’d been through together.
About seven years ago, Lawrence sold The Cupid and used the money to retire on. I think he’d have rather had his son or grandson take over, but neither of them had any interest in running the saloon.
“Dale and Courtney still at each other’s throat?” he asked.
“Those two are more mismatched than a cat and a snake,” I said. “All they do is fight. Which means I’m the only one in the place who works.”
“Who was playing there this week?” he asked.
“Some band, called themselves
Cattle Carnage
.”
“Were they any good?”
“I think Dale and Courtney’s fighting provided better listening,” I said. “Or nails on a chalkboard, depending on your tastes.”
He smiled.
“Some things never change, but I guess The Cupid just isn’t one of those things,” I said. “The acts that come through these days are a real sad sight.”
“Needs new ownership if you ask me,” Lawrence said, stuffing the last of the donut in his mouth. “That place used to be the pride of Broken Hear—”
Lawrence stopped mid-sentence as his eyes drifted up behind me. They suddenly grew wide.
“Quick! Cover up them donuts. Nurse Ratched is coming through.”
I took the cue and draped my jacket on top of the pink box, covering it over completely. I heard soft footsteps on the linoleum behind us and then saw her shadow fall over Lawrence’s face.
Obviously, her real name wasn’t Nurse Ratched. Lawrence, along with lots of other residents in the assisted living home, liked calling her that because of the parts of her personality that resembled the hated nurse in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. I, myself, didn’t think she was all that bad of a person. Belle O’Malley was just a middle-aged lady with a hard, thankless job.
But if she caught old Lawrence snacking on some donuts, I knew neither him or I would ever hear the end of it.
“Well, hello, Loretta,” she said, stepping in between me and Lawrence.
I looked up at her, noticing she was wearing a nurse jacket dotted with little kittens in raincoats. She had a lukewarm smile on her face, and I could read suspicion in her eyes. She glanced down at the jacket spread out awkwardly across the table.
“Hi, Belle,” I said. “How are you today?”
I gave her my best nothing-to-see-here grin.
“Just fine. Dear me, what happened to your eye, Loretta?”
I glanced at Lawrence, who had his most well-behaved, respectable face on.
“Ah, just a hazard of my job at The Cupid,” I said, playing it cool.
“Well, you ought to be more careful, dear,” she said, glancing over at Lawrence. “Mr. Halliday, it’s time that you have your medication.”
Lawrence sighed.
“Are you sure about that, darlin’?” he said.
“Mighty sure,” she said, glancing at her wrist watch.
“Well, Loretta, looks like I’m in popular demand,” he said. “But don’t get jealous of me and Belle here. Despite what it looks like, we’re just good friends. Isn’t that right, Belle?”
“If you say so, Mr. Halliday,” she said, grabbing the handles of his chair.
Lawrence winked at me.
“Don’t let this old man get fresh with you,” I said, glancing up at her. “You know that he’ll try.”
She cracked a smile like she wasn’t used to it.
“Oh, believe me,” she said. “All the girls on the staff know all about old Lawrence Halliday.”
I smiled back.
Belle wasn’t a bad sort at all. The residents in this place just gave her a bad rap.
She started wheeling him away, but he put his hand up to stop her for a sec.
He turned around to look back at me.
“Uh, I meant to ask,” he said. “You, uh, you hear anything from my grandson, Bitters?”
I looked out the window, trying to think how best to answer the question.
I wanted to lie to him. Tell Lawrence that I had heard from him. Tell him that he was doing great in Austin. That he’d be back to visit him soon. That he loved and missed his grandfather.
But I knew that Lawrence was old enough and smart enough to see through any lies I might tell.
“No,” I said. “I haven’t heard from Jacob in a little while.”
His face fell a little, and Anabel wheeled him away across the cafeteria room, leaving me with a half-f pink box of donuts and a sinking feeling in my gut.
I wished I was a better liar.
Chapter 14
As I was leaving the old folks home, I got a text message from Dale, asking me to come to work early.
He had some nerve sending me a text like that after the disappearing act he pulled the night before. But me, being a better employee than he or Courtney deserved, headed over to The Cupid anyway.
I had become a bartender for two reasons. The first was that it worked perfectly with my matchmaking gifts, back when that sort of thing mattered to me. The bar was the number one place where people came to when they were looking for love. True, most weren’t looking for their soulmate when they sidled up next to a stranger and bought them a drink. They were looking for something a little more immediate. But still, the main thing was that they
were
looking. And that always made my life easier when I didn’t have to do too much convincing.
The other reason I became a bartender was because I loved music. Especially the kind that The Cupid used to be known for. And because I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, and I was wholly uncoordinated when it came to playing a guitar or other instrument for that matter, I settled on becoming a full-time music appreciator-slash-bartender-slash-matchmaker as my profession.