Red (23 page)

Twenty minutes later, Zoe decided Jack Gallagher was a monster. He fired direction after direction at her, without pause, without giving her a moment to think or evaluate.

When she failed to respond to his demands either quickly enough or to his satisfaction, his criticism bordered on cruel. “That's not sexy,” he told her, his tone scathing. “Unpucker your mouth, you look like a Kewpie doll.”

Furious, Zoe decided that somehow, some way, she would bring Jack Gallagher to his knees.

By the end of the forty-minute session, she was exhausted. His “Not bad for a first try” as he wrapped the shoot infuriated her. She wanted to castrate him with a butter knife, then hang him by his toes and let the sea gulls feed on his rotting carcass.

She glared at him, not hiding her feelings, and he laughed and crossed to stand before her. “I told you it was going to be tough, babe. I told you you'd hate me. If you want to quit now, I'll understand.”

She stiffened her spine. “I'd rather die.”

He laughed again, then kissed her. Just a light brush of his mouth to hers, but it sent a shock of surprise—and awareness—coursing through her.

“Good girl,” he said. “We'll process these, and Becky Lynn will call you. If the shots are good enough, she'll arrange another sitting. I've got a call to make, so I'll see you around.”

Zoe watched him walk away, a dozen different emotions racing through her: awareness, respect, dislike.

And, more than anything else, determination. The shots would be good. So good, in fact, that Becky Lynn wouldn't just call for another appointment, she would fall all over herself to get Zoe to agree to it.

B
ecky Lynn couldn't stop thinking about her mother. Ever since her birthday six weeks before, she had been plagued by thoughts of her. She wanted, needed, to tell her mother how her life had changed, she wanted to hear her voice. The need to talk to her grew every day, until she couldn't sleep for dreaming of her.

Becky Lynn had decided that she wouldn't feel right until she talked to her mother and assured her that she was okay.

She couldn't call her directly. She was afraid her daddy or Randy would answer, afraid that even if neither did, her daddy might overhear her mother talking to her. She had decided her only recourse was to call Miss Opal at the Cut ‘n Curl.

She would have to call early, before Fayrene or Dixie came in. If anyone besides Miss Opal answered, she would hang up. Eventually, she would reach Miss Opal, and when she did, she would beg her to get a message to her mama and to arrange a time and way for them to connect. Miss Opal would help her, she was certain of that.

Becky Lynn let herself into the silent studio, disengaging the alarm system as she did. She had decided today would be the day—she didn't think she could bear putting it off another. So here she was at the studio at six-thirty in
the morning, wishing she'd had the funds to have a phone installed at her apartment.

Jack slept in the loft, and she moved carefully, quietly through the studio, not wanting to awaken him. He didn't know about her past. She hadn't told him or anybody else—the truth anyway. When someone asked, as Marty had, she told
The Story.
The tragic-farm-accident-and-loving-but-impoverished family tale had gone a long way, and no one had ever questioned the story.

Jack she had told nothing. The idea of lying to him felt wrong. So she had simply avoided his questions.

She reached the phone and stared at it, scared to death. She breathed deeply through her nose and told herself being so frightened was silly. Her father couldn't touch her here. Ricky and Tommy couldn't touch her. They couldn't hurt her.

But she could become the girl she had been back then.

And she couldn't bear that.

She wouldn't, she told herself. She had come too far; she had left Bend, Mississippi, and that Becky Lynn Lee behind forever. She picked up the receiver, hand shaking. She dialed Information, learned the beauty shop's number, hung up and redialed.

Miss Opal answered. The blood rushed to Becky Lynn's head and for a moment she couldn't form a thought, let alone a word.

“Cut ‘n Curl,” Miss Opal said again. “Is anyone there?”

“Yes, ma'am, Miss Opal…it's me.”

“Becky Lynn?” The older woman drew a shaky breath. “My God, child, is it really you?”

“Yes, ma'am.” Becky Lynn twisted the phone cord around the fingers of her left hand, heart thundering. “It is.”

For a moment, the other woman said nothing, then she
cleared her throat. “It's a relief to hear your voice, child. Where are you? Are you all right?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Becky Lynn assured her. “I'm fine.”

“Your daddy spread all kinds of terrible stories about you. He said you stole his pay and ran off. He'd said you'd up and gotten yourself pregnant.”

She thought of what she had been through, of the horror and pain Ricky and Tommy had inflicted on her, and then of her own daddy telling stories like that. Her heart hurt so bad, it felt as though it were busting in half.

She cleared her throat. “None of it's true. You've got to believe me, Miss Opal.” She hated the tremor in her voice, hated the way the plea made her feel—as if she had to beg for her innocence, like the girl everyone had always believed her to be. “I left because…because Ricky and Tommy…”

“Dear Lord, did those boys, did they—”

“Yes.” To Becky Lynn's horror, her mind careened back to that night, the dark road, the sound of her voice floating eerily on the breeze.

Her eyes filled with tears, and she blinked against them, drowning in the memory.

“I never believed those stories your Daddy spread. When you didn't come in to work the next afternoon, I feared the worst. I told myself that nothing could have happened to you because of the pep rally, then my granddaughter mentioned that…that Tommy's face was all scratched up. I knew then…I knew.” Miss Opal sighed heavily. “It's all my fault. I should have made sure you got home, I should have insisted you—”

“It wasn't your fault, Miss Opal. You did all you could.”

“I just wish—”

“Miss Opal,” she interrupted, not wanting to talk about that terrible night any longer, “I called about Mama.”

The woman said nothing, and chill bumps raced up Becky Lynn's arms. She took a gulp of air. “I really need to talk to her. I was hoping you would set it up. It would mean everything to me.”

Becky Lynn rushed nervously on, afraid to give the woman a chance to refuse, unsettled by her silence. “I wouldn't even ask, but I can't call the house because of Daddy. I know it's a big favor, but it would mean so much to me.”

“Becky Lynn…honey…I don't know how to tell you this, so I'll just tell you plain. Your mama's…dead. She took real sick a couple weeks ago and just…up and died. I don't really know what she caught, only that she collapsed down at the market. They…they buried her last week.”

Her mother dead?
Becky Lynn shook her head, Miss Opal's words resounding in her head, her own denial with them.
It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

“I'm so sorry, child. If I had known how to reach you, I would have. I promise you I would have.”

“No.” Becky Lynn's legs crumpled beneath her, and she sank to the floor, the receiver still clutched in her hand. The phone came off the counter with her, toppling a tray of slides. The slides hit the floor and scattered. “No,” she repeated. “It's not true.”

“I know it's little comfort now, but when I took her the money you sent, she cried. She told me she had always known you were special, she said she had never doubted that you were alive and doing well.”

Despair welled up in Becky Lynn's chest, strangling
her.
Her mother had believed in her. She had been the only person who had ever believed in her.

And now she was gone.

The receiver slipped from her fingers.
Gone. Her mother was gone.

She drew her knees to her chest and pressed her face to them, keening with grief.
She hadn't been there. Her mama had needed her, and she hadn't been there.
Becky Lynn curled her arms around herself, hugging tightly, shock and grief creating a kind of hysteria inside her.
She had no one. No one to love, no one who believed in her.

What was she going to do? she wondered. How was she going to go on?

A crash awakened Jack. He sat bolt upright in bed and looked around in confusion. Soft morning light peeked around the edges of the blinds and from below he heard the faint blare of a horn followed by the squeal of tires skidding to a halt.

Jack rubbed his eyes and glanced at his bedside clock. Six fifty-six. He drew his eyebrows together. The alarm hadn't gone off and it was too early for Becky Lynn. He must have been awakened by traffic noises or a neighbor arriving early for work. Or maybe he had dreamed the noise, he decided, plumping up the pillows and leaning against them.

He closed his eyes, then reopened them as he heard another sound, this one hollow and full of despair. A chill ran up his spine, and he sat back up. It was the kind of sound made by someone who had lost everything. He shook his head at his own thoughts, threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.

He pulled on a pair of jogging shorts, deciding that if anything was amiss he didn't want to face it stark naked. With that in mind, he armed himself with the baseball bat he kept under the bed and started quietly for the stairs.

The sounds of grief became louder and more wrenching as he descended the stairs. When he reached the first floor, he saw Becky Lynn. She sat on the floor, knees to her chest, face pressed to them as she rocked and cried. The phone lay on the floor beside her, a tray of slides with it.

“Becky Lynn?” he said softly, crossing to her. “Baby…what's wrong?”

She didn't look up or respond, and he wasn't certain that in her distress she had even heard him. He squatted beside her and laid a hand gently on her hair. “Sweetheart…it's Jack.”

She tilted her head and met his eyes. The despair in hers took his breath. “Oh, baby…what's happened? Come here. Let me help you.”

He put his arms around her. He felt her stiffen a moment as if she might reject his offer of comfort, then she sagged against him, sobbing softly, her face buried against his naked chest.

A fierce protectiveness moved through him, stirring a place deep inside. He wedged his arms around and under her, and scooped her up. He carried her up the stairs to his loft, to the unmade bed. He sat on its edge, her body cradled on his lap, and let her cry, rocking and stroking her, murmuring sounds and words of comfort.

Finally, her sobs abated, becoming soft, helpless mewls of despair. He didn't know what to do or say. He had never found himself in a situation like this one before. He had
never allowed himself to get caught in one. But here he was. And he found himself torn between wanting to comfort her and wanting to run.

Such an abundance of emotion unsettled him; it frightened him. He feared if he allowed it to, it would eat him alive.

Jack swallowed past the lump in his throat, fighting the desire to escape. He couldn't leave her; she was his friend. She had no one else. He didn't know why that should matter so much to him, but it did.

She mattered to him.

“Can you tell me, baby, can you tell me what's wrong?”

She burrowed closer into his arms and murmured something he couldn't make out. Her breath stirred against his naked chest, warm and soft.

“Sweet…you'll have to speak up. I'm sorry, but I couldn't hear you.”

She tilted her face up to his and again emotion clutched at him. He forced the emotion back, forced himself to breathe deeply and evenly. He smoothed his fingers ever so gently across her wet cheek. “Take your time, love. I've nowhere to go.”

Her tears welled up again but didn't spill over, her lips trembled. She fought crying; he saw her battle. She was the bravest person he had ever met, he realized. What had she endured that had made her so strong? Had she ever had anyone to lean on, anyone she had trusted to catch her if she fell?

“My…mother, she's…she's—”

The words brought a fresh wave of tears. They spilled silently over, and she pressed her face to his chest once more. He stroked her hair; he ran the flat of his hand soothingly down her spine. Little by little he felt the tension ease
from her, the tension and the fight, leaving her limp and spent in his arms.

She didn't look at him, but she turned her face so that her cheek rested against his left shoulder. “My mother's dead,” she said so quietly he had to strain to hear. He tightened his arms around her. “I called this morning. I wanted to talk to her, I needed to tell her…I was—”

Tears choked her words and he could feel her struggle to clear them. “Miss Opal told me Mama had…that she was…dead.”

“Oh, God, Becky Lynn.” He held her closer, hurting for her. “I'm sorry.”

“They didn't know…where I…was.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “Now she's gone and I…I didn't even get to say goodbye. It hurts so bad.”

The last ended on a sob, and he threaded his fingers through her fiery hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

Becky Lynn met his eyes. “She needed me, Jack. I wasn't there for her. If only I'd stayed…maybe I could have done something, maybe I could have helped.”

“Shh.” He moved his fingers tenderly over her face. “Don't. Don't beat yourself up that way.”

“Miss Opal said she'd taken sick. Maybe if I'd been there, I would have seen that she needed a doctor, maybe I could have insisted she go.”

She flexed her fingers against his chest, a note of hysteria in her voice. “Instead, I…I left her alone and—”

Jack cupped her face in his palms. “You couldn't have done anything. It wasn't your fault.”

She shook her head, and struggled free of his arms. “I heard her crying, the night I ran away. I almost went back, but I didn't. I didn't. I saved myself instead.”

She stood, breathing hard, as if she had just run a long distance. “I would have died if I'd stayed there, Jack. They said they would do it again. They would have. I couldn't have faced them…I couldn't have faced that again. No one believed me…I was all alone. All alone.”

Jack frowned, the blood pounding in his head. “What didn't they believe?” he asked quietly, forcing calm. He caught her hand, moved his thumb softly and rhythmically across her knuckles, hoping to gentle her. “What couldn't you have faced?”

She shook her head, her eyes wide and panic-stricken. “Their jeers, their amusement… I couldn't have taken it again. If they had done it again—”

She bit the words back and tugged against his grasp. “She wasn't strong enough to help me. She couldn't help me. So I left. I had to. Don't you see? I had to.”

Instead of releasing her one hand, he caught the other. He shook her gently. “What, Becky Lynn? What happened? Who are you talking about?”

She pulled against his grip, moving her gaze wildly around the room. “I should go. I have to go.”

“Becky Lynn.” He laced their fingers together. “Look at me. Where should you go?”

“I don't know.” She blinked in confusion. “Home, I guess… I need to go home.”

“I'm here for you, babe. You don't want to be alone right now. I know you don't.”