Ruby's Slippers (18 page)

“You tell me.”

“My grandmother worked with Judy Garland.”

“What else?”

“I don’t know.”

“Be careful, ma’am. Whoever stole those shoes committed a felony.”

I swallow hard.

“You don’t know who might be after those shoes,” Chesterfield continues. “Or what they’ll do to acquire them. When you’re dealing with something as valuable as the ruby slippers …”

“Of course.”

Agent Chesterfield says good night and disappears into the fog.

Leo takes me by the arm and steers me back toward his room. Once inside the complete darkness, he clicks the bolt and adds the chain. Then he leans his back against the wall, easing the curtain away from the window and squints out at the solid grayness. Unable to see much in the room beyond, I wait for my eyes to adjust. Across the room, Tim lets out a hefty snore. Closer, Sophia’s snores are gentler.

“What’s wrong?” I whisper, not wanting to wake either of them.

“We’re leaving.” His tone is sharp as a blade slicing through the quiet. “Now.”

“What? But why?”

“That guy is no more an FBI agent than I am.”

“But he said—”

“Doesn’t make it so. Don’t you see? He could be the one following you.”

“But—”

“He could have broken into the room. How else do you explain that he was this far north of L.A.?”

“There could be a million reasons.”

“Okay.” He crosses his arms and waits.

But I have no suggestions. He’s right, of course. I’ve been a naïve sucker.

“I’m an idiot.”

He hooks a hand behind my neck and pulls me toward him until our foreheads are almost touching. Staring deeply into my eyes, he says, “Why didn’t you tell him about your father?”

“I don’t know.”

“You could have told him you had the shoes. Why didn’t you?”

“Because you—”

“No. You already had your doubts about him.” As quickly as he pulled me to him, he releases me. “Mother, Tim, wake up!” Leo moves through the room, shaking beds, tossing a suitcase onto the end of one. “We need to get out of here.”

Tim stirs, pushing up slowly, awkwardly. “What’s happened?”

“Leo?” Sophia tosses back the covers. She sits up and readjusts her curves, pushing them into place. “Someone turn on the lights.”

“No. No lights.” Leo’s movements are brusque.

My body begins to tremble with tiny aftershocks.

Moving through the room, gathering his things, Leo bumps into me. He braces my shoulders with his hands. “You okay?”

“This is all very strange.”

“I know. Give me the shoes.”

“Why?”

“I’ll keep them safe.” There’s a hesitation in me, and Leo reads it. “You’re going to have to trust me. Can you do that?”

I teeter on the brink of indecision for a moment, maybe two. I glance first in Tim’s direction. He’s slowly getting up from the bed. Sophia tucks the bedspread around the pillow. Leo waits for my answer. All my life Momma told me
to obey the law, follow the rules. And I have. But what if this FBI agent is an imposter? What if he’s after the shoes? I don’t know whom to trust. Whom do I believe?

My friends watch me.
My friends
. Sophia pauses in helping Tim pull his shirt over an undershirt. But they’ve quit moving and wait for my answer. Suddenly I know what to say and whom to trust. It’s not just my friends though. I toss a prayer heavenward because this is going to take a miracle to turn out all right.

Then I say, “Okay. Let’s go.”

Dale Earnhardt Jr. has nothing on Leo in the aggressive driving department. He takes a turn without slowing the Jeep or even signaling.

A friend of mine, Ralph Perkins, taught driver’s ed back in Kansas. The car his students drove had an extra brake pedal on the passenger side. Ralph said he’d only had to use it twice. I could use it now.

When Leo pumps the gas pedal and swerves the wheel, I slam my hand against the dashboard to brace myself. Otto leans his paws on the door, then the dash. I try to keep him from flying through the windshield. Leo weaves the Jeep in and out of early morning traffic, changing lanes as fast as Abby changes her mind.

We pass three billboards promoting my sister’s stage show, her jaded face blown up ten times its normal size.

“Why my little party’s just beginning!”

“I can cause accidents too!”

“What have you done with the ruby slippers?”

Her eyes glare at me from the billboards as if she’s watching my every move, taking note of where we’re going.

Could Sophia be right? Could Abby have broken into my motel room? Could she be that desperate? Does she know Chesterfield? Could he be one of her actor friends?

* * *

A FEW HOURS later we pass a large road sign that reads,
Welcome to Seattle, the Emerald City.

Cloaked in clouds, the city rises out of the mist and gloominess as a sparkling diamond of hope. The wind buffets the Jeep, making the clouds shift and sway, slowly receding. The sun emerges, and I can see the Space Needle towering over other buildings, reaching heavenward. The skyline looks futuristic, like a city beamed down from some other planet. Of course, most any modern city would seem futuristic after living in Maize all your life. A flash of gold grabs my attention as we zip north.

“What was that?”

“The Needle?”

“No, close to it. Looked like … well, nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“The Blob,” Leo says. “Some call it the hemorrhoids.”

I wrinkle my nose. “But what is it?”

“Sort of a rock-and-roll museum on steroids.”

The address Tim has provided for my father is north of the city.

“He’s in the ritzy part.” Leo turns the wheel confidently. “Your dad must have bucks. It’s like Cinderella in reverse.”

“What?”

“You’ve got the glass—or in this case, ruby—slippers and you’re searching for your prince.”

“My father is no prince.”

“Isn’t he what you’ve been searching for all your life?”

I never saw myself as an animated Disney cartoon, but then I never saw my life as a yellow-brick road either.

As I stare out the window at the BMWs and Jaguars mingling with Suburbans and hybrids, I contemplate the decisions I’ve made in my life. Were they all rooted in my father’s leaving? My nerves twist and twitch at the thought. I lick my dry lips, hook a loose strand behind my ear.

At least I no longer look like a country bumpkin, thanks to Sophia. I’m wearing a long jean skirt and white blouse with dressy boots that match the leather jacket. It’s a citified outfit and somehow boosts my confidence. If I’d arrived in my mismatched clothes, then I’d look as needy as I feel. Because I realize, as we wind our way through the streets of Seattle, that I
do
want a father. The father I never had. My expectations are too high. So once again, I mentally downshift to prepare myself for disappointment.

From the backseat Tim gives directions. He and Sophia have been whispering about something. We turn into a shopping center.

Surprised, I ask, “This is where my father lives?”

“No, my dear.” Tim places a steady hand on my shoulder. “A girl doesn’t meet her father for the first time every day. I thought you girls might enjoy a few hours at a spa.”

Sophia claps her hands against her face. “Isn’t that great, Dottie?”

Part of me wants to stall my imminent family reunion as long as possible, though part of me feels the need to hurry.

Time is running out on the farm; the auction is fast approaching. Putting off seeing my father till this afternoon won’t make that much difference, will it?

The idea of getting my hair styled is appealing, but pampering is not something I’m suited for. All the attention makes me uncomfortable. I’m accustomed to doing, as Momma trained me, not having things done for me.

“What about Otto?” I ask, thinking of a good excuse for us to skip the spa. I cup my hands around his body, which wiggles, his nub of a tail twitching with excitement.

“There’s a groomer next door,” Tim points out.

“He’ll
love
that,” I say, my tone as sarcastic as any teen I’ve taught.

“Terrific!” Tim rubs Otto’s head.

“He’ll be as cute as a bug,” Sophia says.

Reluctantly I get out of the Jeep. It appears to be a glamorous spa, not like Betty’s Cut and Curl back home. “Maybe they’re too busy.”

“I made us all reservations, my dear.” Tim waits patiently for Leo to fold the front seat forward. “Nothing like a good massage to work out the kinks after a long drive.”

“Us?” Sophia asks.

“All of us!” Tim proclaims. “My treat.”

“What do you mean? All of us?” With his mane of hair being blown by the wind, Leo looks wild and crazed, like a lion about to be placed in a cage. “I’m not—”

“You could use a shave and trim, my boy.” Tim pats the younger man on the shoulder as Leo helps him out of the Jeep. “And a good steam bath will make us all feel human again.”

* * *

OVER THE NEXT few hours, I see very little of my friends, except passing in the hall in big, fluffy robes as we shuffle from facials and salt glows to massages and pedicures. All the attention makes me squirm and my insides tighten as lotions and oils are rubbed into my skin and my muscles kneaded and plied. I close my eyes, try to force myself to relax.

I remember a time in the first grade. I had joined the Camp Fire Girls because I wanted to go camping. Instead, our troop held a father/daughter banquet. I didn’t bother to tell Momma about it. Why hurt her more? I left the special invitation on the school bus. But our troop leader’s husband called Momma and offered to take me. Momma scrimped and saved to buy me a special dress. She made me sleep on sponge curlers the night before. My hair kinked and curled in directions God never intended. I stared into the mirror at my ridiculous reflection and tried not to cry. Momma was so proud. All I could think about was how the lace socks made my ankles itch.

I felt that itch deep in my soul. I had been waiting for my father, watching the road for him. I wished for him, prayed for him to come home. And all those times the wrong car drove up our drive had convinced me that God didn’t hear my prayers. Wishes didn’t come true.

It’s not the pampering and primping that makes me uncomfortable and tense today. It’s the fact that I know what I want. I know why I’ve come to Seattle. It’s not the farm. It’s not the shoes. It’s the man I’ve never known, the man hiding behind my little-girl memories: my father.

If ever I needed to believe in wishes and dreams, in prayers and miracles, it’s now. So while the massage therapist tugs on my toes, I squeeze my eyes shut and pray like I’ve never prayed before.

God, I’m not good at this. I don’t ask much. Sophia says
to just believe. So I’m putting it all on the line here. I’m gonna
believe you can make this work. I’m gonna believe I’ll find my
father. And that he’ll want me. I’m gonna believe he didn’t steal
the shoes. You know what I want, probably better than I do.
Because right now, I’m confused. The shoes. The farm. What am
I going to do? What do
you
want me to do, God?

It’s the first time I’ve ever asked God that question, and it’s a bit unnerving to put all my hopes and dreams out there for God to destroy or to renew.

After I’ve been buffed and polished to a high sheen, I stare at the woman in the mirror, barely recognizing her. Maybe it’s that my hair looks glossy and as bouncy as a shampoo ad on television. I’ve never seen my nails so smooth and clean. I asked for a simple look and ended up with what the woman called a French manicure. She went to a lot of trouble to make my nails look natural. Maybe it’s not the new clothes or the new “do” or the massage. Maybe it’s hope beginning to percolate inside me that makes me feel suddenly reborn.

As I push up from the stylist’s chair, I find Sophia in the waiting room already. Her sandy-colored hair no longer looks dry as straw but is styled in a smooth blunt cut that accentuates her square jaw and big eyes.

“You’re stunning.” I hook a lock of hair behind my ear. I told the stylist to cut it short and leave the bangs long. A ponytail is no longer an option.

“You’re beautiful, Dottie.” She touches a lock of my brown hair, which the stylist had wanted to highlight with “shimmers of gold.” I told her, “No, thanks,” holding on firmly to the chair like I was sitting in a dentist’s office.

Tim comes around the corner, moving more agile than we had seen him. He does a quickstep, as if he borrowed the
move from Fred Astaire. “Whoa ho! Look at you two lovely ladies!” But he’s staring straight at Sophia. Still, I give him a hug, my thanks caught in my throat. He pats my back. “My, my. I’m going to have to spring for a fancy dinner with you two looking so fine.” Tears shimmer in his gray eyes like morning mist. “Now, wait till you see—”

Leo appears behind him. At least I think it’s Leo. I recognize the T-shirt and faded jeans. But the rest is a shock to my system. His blond hair has been trimmed and frames his tanned face. His beard is shaved into a stylish goatee with mustache. He looks like a movie star or movie mogul. “Ready?” His tone is gruff. He pulls the Jeep’s keys out of his jean pocket. “Let’s go.”

I get the sense he’s embarrassed by all the fuss and attention. Women in the lobby turn his way, the staff fawns over him, and I find myself staring at him and breathing in the clean woodsy scent of him. We follow him to the Jeep. Leo isn’t content waiting for the valet to bring the car; he seems anxious to get away from the spa.

While the rest pile into the Jeep, I pick up Otto from the groomer’s. My scruffy dog now has tiny red bows on each ear. He looks like Ottila the Huntress, an old man in drag. He must not realize how ridiculous he looks or he wouldn’t be wagging his bobbed tail as much as he is.

“That’s the wrong dog,” Leo says as I climb in the front passenger seat.

“Don’t make fun of him.”

“Don’t worry, Otto ol’ boy,” Leo buckles his seat belt. “I’ll find you a mud puddle or cow patty to roll in.” He starts to key the ignition but pauses and looks at me. “You okay?”

“Yes. Sure.” I stare down at my hands—manicured and polished, tense with awareness. “And you?”

“Ready to get out of here.”

“Not your cup of tea?” I steal a glance in his direction.

His eyes are warm as melted honey. “You look good, farm girl.”

“Oh, uh …” I fiddle with a red bow on Otto’s ear but feel my body turn up the heat. “Thanks. So do you.”

* * *

WE STAND OUTSIDE a wrought-iron gate with stone extensions. It’s large enough, grand enough to be the entrance to Hearst Castle. Except this apparently leads to my father’s house.

“Who
is
your father?” Leo asks.

“Duncan Meyers.” The name has no other special meaning. Not to me anyway. Could all this belong to him? From the looks of it, he’s made millions. Or billions. A man with this much money wouldn’t steal a pair of shoes from a museum, would he? I look to my uncle. “What does my father do?”

Tim shrugs, looking equally impressed and surprised. “He was an engineer. That’s about all I know. He wanted to make airplanes.” He shakes his head. “Looks like he’s done all right for himself though.”

Slowly I back away from the gate. There go my theories for why my father never came home. No money? Wrong. Dead? Wrong again. The only remaining theory hurts too much to contemplate.

Leo puts a comforting arm around my waist. “You can do this.”

Sophia sandwiches me in on the other side. “Give him a chance. Maybe it’s what he’s been waiting for.”

I remind myself that he did come to see me at the facility. Sorting through the barbed thoughts that prick my heart
is painful. My father is rich. With a capital R. I always had an image of him living in a hovel, too poor to afford a phone, much less a computer where he could search for me and Abby. But the truth is, nothing kept him from finding us. Nothing kept him from helping my mother, who lived hand to mouth her whole life. He didn’t lose track of us. He couldn’t
not
get to us. He simply
chose
not to. Until I was in a coma.

“Dottie?” Leo says. “What do you want to do?”

My friends crowd around me. Otto sits at my feet, his eyes searching for an answer. An electronic eye peers at us from the stone wall that surrounds my father’s property. Someone is watching us. Suddenly I don’t want my father to know I was ever here.

“I can’t do this. I can’t. We should go. Really. Now.”

Sophia grabs my hand. “Dottie, you have to try at least. If you don’t, then you’ll always wonder ‘what if.’”

“Believe,” I whisper, the word not even audible but pounding in my chest. Tears scald my eyes. I squeeze them shut, draw a shuddering breath.

“That’s right.” Sophia squeezes my fingers. “Keep believing. We’re here with you. We won’t leave you.”

“Want me to go punch Duncan in the nose?” Tim’s features are so severe, so contrary to his usual look, that I laugh.

“No, I …” But I hesitate. Doubts swirl around me like a cyclone, blowing away my confidence, tossing my dreams recklessly aside.

“You have to face this.” Leo’s breath warms my cheek. “Remember, you’re only afraid of what you already believe.”

I pinch my lips together.

“You said I shouldn’t run away from my problems,” he says. “Fear can’t run my life. Was that just advice for me? Or
is that what you really believe? You can’t run from your life either. You have to face your fears.”

“No matter what?” My voice sounds as congested as my emotions feel.

“No matter what. You can do it.”