Authors: Leanna Ellis
“With God, maybe. Not so sure about people.”
It’s then I realize he’s as scared of me as I am of him. Without thinking, without contemplating or calculating the risk, I rise up on my tiptoes and brush my lips against his. Some part of me wants to stir the passion that beats deep down inside this man. The edges of his whiskers tickle my mouth. Before I can pull away, he grabs me, his fingers pressing into my arms. He meets my startled gaze. Then he slants his mouth over mine and kisses me harder and longer than I’ve ever been kissed in my life.
The surprising thing is that I kiss him right back, for all I’m worth. Which doesn’t seem like much, but combined with what Leo has to give … well, it begins to add up.
“Otto!” I break away, drawing in a gulp of air. I’m not sure how long we kissed. At once it seemed an eternity and yet too short. Which unnerves me.
Leo chuckles. “Not exactly what a guy wants to hear when he’s kissing a woman.”
“I’m sorry. But …” I scan the misty gray area. “Otto!”
A muffled bark answers me before I hear the click of his nails against concrete. He comes across the parking lot into view, one red bow bouncing along with him. I scoop him up into my arms, cradle him against my chest.
“So,” Leo rubs his jaw thoughtfully, “are you sorry you thought of Otto? Or that you kissed me?”
I don’t have an answer.
After Leo sees me to my room, I discover I’m all alone. Trying to escape my chaotic thoughts, and feeling a deep restlessness, I change into a donated pair of men’s button-down PJs with drawstring pants in a pale-blue stripe then crawl between the stiff bed sheets. I lay in the dark, my eyes wide open. About midnight, Sophia slips into the room.
“Should I ask where you’ve been?” I smile into the darkness.
“Oh, you’re awake! Tim and I went down to the pool.”
“Oh, really.”
“The whirlpool makes it nice and warm in there. Helps his arthritis.”
“Uh-huh. I see.”
“Really, we were just talking.”
“He is nice.”
I sense rather than see her smiling. “He is. But he’s getting over his wife. So there wasn’t any hanky-panky. He’s lonely and needs a friend.”
“You don’t have to make excuses to me.” I slide an arm under the pillow and roll to my side. “You’re both adults.”
“What about you? Where did you go?”
“I just walked Otto, then came back to the room.”
She gathers up her toiletries and goes into the bathroom.
One late, late night, when I was in college, I heard Momma’s voice coming out of the dark. “Where’ve you been?”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
“If you’d been thinking about me, then you wouldn’t have stayed out so late and worried me.”
“I’m sorry, Momma.” I sat on the footstool. “I should have called.”
“Yes,” she tapped my side with her blue slipper, “you should have. This is something I expect from your sister, from your …” She paused for a long, strained moment. I had a feeling she expected it from my father too but she never said those words. “But not from you.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“I heard you.”
Staring down at the floor, I clasped my hands between my knees, squeezed hard. “What was it like when you dated?”
“That was a long time ago.”
“Did you,” I paused, waiting for her to cut me off, but she remained silent, “do things that, well, maybe you shouldn’t have? Stay out too late—”
“Are you in love with this boy?”
“No.”
“Did you do something you’re ashamed of? That you should tell me about?”
“Not really.”
“Are you going out with him again?”
“Probably not.” If he asked, I supposed I would. Just for something to do. But I doubted he’d call. I didn’t encourage boys the way I saw other girls doing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t say things I didn’t mean. And I had a way of rejecting boys before they could reject me.
“Sometimes, Dottie, we do foolish things when we’re in love. Sometimes in life we make bad decisions. But that doesn’t excuse what we do. There are always consequences. Do you understand?”
“Do you regret that you got married?”
She placed her worn hands on her knees and pushed to her feet. “It’s time for bed.”
I never knew if she’d done foolish things with my father or if she regretted marrying him.
Sophia comes out of the bathroom, dressed in a lavender sleep shirt. She carefully puts her clothes back into her suitcase then turns off the light, and I hear her padding across the room. Gingerly, she settles on the edge of my bed. “Dottie?” she whispers loud enough to wake someone down the hall. “Are you asleep?”
“What is it?”
“I just wanted to say …” she locates my hand and places it between her two, “Leo isn’t as gruff as he pretends. It’s his defense mechanism. He really does care deeply.”
“I know.”
“Oh. Well, good.” She pats my hand. “He’s very nice too.”
“I know.”
“And handsome.”
I smile but keep my feelings, and whatever is developing between Leo and me, to myself. I was never one to chat about boys with friends, my sister, or even Momma. Yet I have an itch to confide in Sophia.
She stands and goes to the other double bed. “Just giving you food for thought. Well, good night.”
I toss and turn, my mind as jumbled as the bed covers. Unable to erase the memory of Leo’s kiss, I relive it over and over in my mind. It feels like my body has finally awakened and doesn’t want to waste time sleeping anymore.
With my eyes grainy from lack of sleep, I crawl out of bed as soon as I detect light coming through the separated curtains. Sophia lies on her side, sound asleep. Quietly I gather Otto and my jacket, pulling it over the baggy pajamas, and slide on my tennis shoes without tying the laces. Maybe the cool morning air will cool off my heated thoughts.
When we reach the parking lot, I spot Leo, leaning against the Jeep. I glance down at my striped pajamas and cringe. Maybe I can make a quick U-turn and go to the other side of the hotel without him noticing, but Otto sees his friend and takes off running. Too late.
With his shoulders hunched forward as if warding off the morning chill, Leo looks up. He grins at my slower approach. I shove a hand through my mashed hair. It’s one thing to have kissed him last night, but it’s quite another for him to see me all rumpled from lack of sleep early in the morning before my shower.
“Morning,” he says.
“Hi.” I fist my jacket closed.
“Just wake up?”
“Yeah.”
He offers me a Styrofoam cup. “Coffee?”
“Sure.” I take a sip, wondering if his lips have already touched the rim. “Thanks.” My body warms from the inside out. “You didn’t stay out here all night, did you?”
He shakes his head. “Just wanted to check on the Jeep. See if I saw any familiar cars, like the one that followed us.”
“Did you?”
“Nothing unusual. Did you sleep okay?”
“I had a lot on my mind.”
“Really?” He wraps a hand around the Styrofoam cup and leans forward to sip from the place my lips touched. “Were you thinking about me?”
Arching an eyebrow, I say, “I was trying to figure out the best way to find my sister. And what might happen when we go see my father tomorrow.”
His gaze is steady, but the glimmer of humor dims. “And what did you figure out?”
I shrug, disappointed at myself for rebuffing him. I’m not good at this relationship game. “The only thing I know to do is go to the theater where her show is playing.”
“Makes sense.”
I want to restart the teasing, flirtatious banter, but I’m at a loss how to do that. I stick a lure into the water with, “Your mom was out late with Tim.”
He remains quiet.
“She said it was innocent, but I think she likes him.” When he doesn’t respond, I give up. “Come on, Otto.” But he seems content sniffing around, leaving his mark on every tire and potted plant. “He’s not in a hurry.”
“Are you?”
I shrug. “I guess not.”
“I wanted to say something about last night.”
A wedge of panic lodges in my throat. “Okay.”
“I should have apologized to you.”
An urge to duck and run overwhelms me, and if it weren’t for Otto, I would. Before Leo can apologize for kissing me, I rearrange my features, attempt to appear calm and serene. “Oh?”
“I shouldn’t have tried to force your dad to see you.”
“My dad?”
“At his estate. I should have stayed with you. Helped you.”
My panic dissolves into relief. He doesn’t regret the kiss! And he doesn’t seem to recognize my sudden, inexplicable joy. I try to contain the smile that wants to break out all over my face and concentrate on what he’s saying.
“But … I …” He shrugs a broad shoulder, his muscles flexing and bunching. “I grew up without a father. Just like you. I don’t know what it’s like for a woman, but for a man—a boy—it’s like a hole that needs filling. I searched for something to fill that emptiness in sports. I idolized my coaches. I was jealous of friends whose fathers stood on the sidelines hollering or those who volunteered to coach. But no one stepped in to offer me guidance.” The lines around his mouth form deep grooves.
His hurts are so like my own. “I can understand that. My friend’s dad coached our softball team. I didn’t let on that it hurt, but it did. I felt that same emptiness. Especially one time when I had to go to some father/daughter dance. Momma made me go. But it wasn’t the same going with someone else’s dad.”
He nods, his lips pressing flat, pinching dimples in the planes of his tan cheeks. “Your mom tried. So did mine. She
did the best she could, but she’s a woman. She didn’t know how to be a man, what a man thinks, how he expresses his emotions, what he needs. She thought I could just turn to God, like he was a fairy godmother ready to grant my fondest desire.”
“Doesn’t work that way, does it? Fathers are important.”
Leo steps toward Otto. “Come on, boy. Do your thing.”
“It’s hard to find the perfect spot.”
“I guess.” He smiles. “When I started working in the computer industry, I had a mentor. He gave me advice. Even helped finance the start of my own business. I made the mistake of letting him into that empty place. I started thinking of him as a father figure.” He rolls his shoulders backwards. A blast of cold air makes his hair wave like the tops of the cornstalks back home. “And I got burned. It was business for him, pure and simple. He called the loan, which I couldn’t pay. Took over my company, fired me. Fired me from my own company. It was a rude awakening.”
I want to reach out and touch his arm. Leo seems so solid, so strong, that it’s hard to imagine him wounded so deeply. But I should have known. The teens I worked with who were the most ornery were usually nursing some emotional injury.
He shrugs. The corners of his mouth pull in opposite directions. Uncertainty glimmers in his eyes. His pain pulsates within my own skin. “It is what it is. I should have known better than to put him in that position.” The tautness in his voice pulls me toward him. “Or give him that kind of authority and control over me.”
I place a hand on his arm. “I think I’ve always done the opposite. I’ve kept a distance from others so no one could hurt me the way my father did. Maybe that’s a lesson for all
of us—not to let anyone have that kind of control over our emotions. I put too many hopes and dreams, too many expectations on my father when I was a little girl. No one could live up to that. Especially an absent father. And my disappointment set me up for other disappointments.”
“With men?”
“I was thinking more of God.”
He nods. “He’s not a genie in a bottle.”
“That’s the thing about wishes. People want something just plopped down in front of them, without being willing to provide any of the effort. Abby was like that. She always wished she’d make good grades, but she wasn’t willing to put in the effort. Then she wished for a man, and two marriages and a fiancé later, I wonder if she’s willing to work on a relationship. But that was never me. I was capable. I was strong.” I smile. “Little but strong. And that kept me from depending on others. Even God. Until the tornado … and my coma.”
“Then you had to depend on others. At least for a while.”
“Now I hope I’ve achieved some balance. Or getting better.”
“You know,” he says, “a genie is supposed to grant you your wish, right? No questions asked. But God, I’ve learned, asks those pesky questions.”
I never thought of God asking questions. Maybe I’ve been too focused on myself. “Like what?”
“Like whether what you want is good for you or not.”
“So did you figure out what was good for you?”
“Yeah, my business wasn’t good. I was a workaholic. And there’s more to life than work.” His gaze is potent.
“Being out of work,” I say, “I’m not sure what else there is.”
“You’ve found it, haven’t you, Dottie?”
“What? What have I found? My father? Not the father I wanted.”
“You’ve found freedom. Friends.”
I study the ground. The grass looks like it’s been dipped in sugar. Slowly I raise my gaze to meet his. “Definitely.”
The phone is ringing when I get back to the motel room. Sophia glances up from reading a book. “Took you a while. Everything okay?”
“The phone’s ringing.” I state the obvious as I move toward it. She doesn’t seem inclined to answer.
“It’s for you.”
“Are you clairvoyant?”
“Some woman has called three times.”
Picking up the phone, I give Sophia a quizzical look. “Hello?”
“Miss Dottie Meyers?” a male voice asks. I mouth to Sophia,
It’s a man.
She shrugs and goes back to her reading. “Yes,” I say into the mouthpiece.
“I know you have those shoes. I want them. Now I’m willing to pay and pay well. But I won’t be ripped off. I won’t be cheated. I need to see them and make sure they’re the real deal, not some dime-store copy. Did you get them from the museum? Don’t get me wrong. I don’t care where they came from. Long as they’re authentic. But don’t think about selling to someone else. You’ll regret it.”
“You’re mistaken.” I speak calmly, although my heart is pounding and my ears buzzing. “I don’t have any shoes.” I hang up.
Immediately the phone begins ringing again. I grab it, feeling more forceful, more irritated. “I told you—”
“Dorothy Meyers?” A feminine voice.
Startled, I stop my tirade. “Yes.”
“I am calling to inquire about the ruby slippers.” Her accent is exotic, like Persian perfume. “You must be careful with these shoes. They have great powers. If they are not cared for properly, who knows what damage they might cause.”
A cold shiver runs down my spine. I recognize her voice. The one in my room back at the facility. “I know,” she says, “how to handle them. They would be safe with me. You do not have to worry. Do you have an asking price? Because I am willing to go as high as I must.”
I pull the phone away from my ear, stare at it as if what I’m hearing is unbelievable. Who are these people? Where did they get my number? My name? Are they all following me? Should we get a tailgate party going?
Slowly, feeling every ounce of energy drained out of me, I explain to the woman that I don’t have any shoes. She blathers on about magical powers like I’m now living in a Harry Potter book. Politely, if not decisively, I hang up.
The phone continues to ring even after we ask the front desk not to allow any calls through. Finally we take it off the hook and place two pillows over it.
“This,” I tell Sophia, “is getting weird.”
She closes her book, and I realize it’s the Bible. “What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” I rub Otto’s ears, then start picking at the one remaining bow, tugging at it. It’s held by the tiniest rubber band I’ve ever seen. “Any answers in that book of yours?” I realize my question sounds sarcastic, but I don’t mean it that way.
She hands me the good book. “Every answer you’ll ever need.”
Before I can take it from her, she pulls back. “But I must warn you.”
“What now?”
Your mission, should you choose to accept
it …
“The Word of God is powerful. Sharper than a two-edged sword. Search for the treasures between these covers,” she tenderly caresses the leather cover, “but be warned.” She gazes deeply into my eyes. “It can be dangerous.”
She places the book into my hands. Her words sound a bit like the woman on the phone. I’ve grown up in the church, I learned the books of the Bible, Old Testament and New, in third grade. It’s never seemed mystical or dangerous. “I don’t think you have to worry, Sophia.”
“It takes the Holy Spirit to discern these holy words, to make God’s ways clear to us. If we rely on our hearts, we can easily be deceived.”
I almost expect a blast of air as I turn open the front cover. But there is no gust, no trumpet sounding, nothing spooky or spectacular. On one of the first pages, I read that
this Bible was given to Sophia by a church, maybe the one that ministered to her so long ago. Turning the fragile, ultrathin pages, I flip past Genesis, Deuteronomy, Samuel, until I settle into Psalms. I skim along until one verse smacks me hard:
Your word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path
. I hear Maybelle saying “ooh” in my head. I place Otto’s red bow between the pages so I can find it again.
* * *
IT’S NOT HARD to find my sister, not with her gigantic green face posted all along the West Coast. We’re not the first to find her either.
Parking outside the theater, Leo points toward a dark-blue sedan. The one that’s been following us.
“I’m going to talk to whoever is in that car.” Leo takes a step in that direction before I grab his arm.
“Don’t.” I’ve told him about the phone calls. “You don’t know if they’re crazy.” I’m thinking of the woman who believes the shoes have special powers. “Or armed.”
Leo gives me a look that says he’s not afraid of any weapon or hidden agenda.
“Come on.” I tug him toward the theater’s box office.
“I’ll stay and keep an eye on that car.” Leo leans against the Jeep, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’ll stay with him,” Tim says, not looking half as tough as Leo.
“Me too.” Sophia hesitates, her features crumpling into concern. “Unless you want me to come with you.”
“I’ll be fine.” I’m not sure how my sister will respond to the news that I’ve found our father. She hinted a few months ago that she had an interest in finding him. Was it only because she wanted to find the slippers? Did she suspect that
he had Momma’s shoes? I’m not sure if she’ll agree to go with me to see him. Or will she race to him? Their reunion could leave me out in the cold.
Pressing down the hurt stirred by this thought, I yank hard on the theater door, half expecting it to be locked. It’s heavy, but it opens. A vast lobby opens to me. The chandeliers above are dark. The deep-red carpet muffles my footsteps. I approach a set of inner doors, remembering an old game show Momma sometimes watched when her leg was hurting and she needed rest. Monty Hall would swing an arm wide and say, “What’s behind Door Number One?”
Behind the heavy carved door are row after row of darkened empty seats. The house lights are dimmed; just a few along the outside walls give off enough light to make the place eerie, like a Gothic tomb. But the stage down front is alive with activity. The footlights, alternating red and blue and green, shine brightly. A stagehand shoves a fake tree off to the left, behind a brown curtain. A flat drape of scenery flutters and makes a lemonade tidal wave out of the yellow brick road. Another backdrop descends, setting the stage for a Kansas wheat field, with stalks of corn painted in one corner. It reminds me of home, and longing swells inside my chest.
The door creaks behind me as it closes, and I slip into a seat in the back row. Even though no one is wearing makeup or costumes, I try to imagine what part each person is playing, easily picking out the Munchkins, who probably double as the flying monkeys. A pudgy man stands at the corner of the stage laughing, and I wonder if he’s the wizard.
“Let’s start with act two, scene three,” someone calls from the dark seats in the middle section.
“Then you won’t need me, right?”
I recognize my sister’s voice from off stage.
Combing her long, wild tresses with her fingers, she ambles barefoot onto the stage and secures her hair with a ponytail holder. She steps over the footlights to the edge of the stage, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Lou, can I take a break?”
“Sure. Bring me some coffee when you come back.”
“Will do!” Wearing jeans and a plain black scoop-neck T-shirt, she jumps down off the stage. She picks up a large purse and hooks it over her shoulder. She punches the bar across a doorway, and sunlight swallows her as she leaves the theater. I get up to follow.
“Who are you?” A deep voice startles me.
Pulled up short, I stare at a broad-shouldered man, with a shaved head and no sense of humor.
“What are you doing here?” he demands.
“Oh!” I scoot out into the aisle. “I’m early. Thought the show was this morning.” I widen my eyes innocently but doubt I’m believable. “Guess I’ll come back later.”
The bouncer’s brow pinches into a serious frown.
I exit the building as he watches to ensure I do leave.
It’s an unusually sunny day in Seattle. The sky is a brilliant blue, and the grass and trees seem even greener. Pointing to the side of the building, I signal to Sophia, Tim, and Leo my next destination. They start toward me, crossing the parking lot. Sophia walks along a yellow line, like she’s maneuvering a balance beam.
Keeping to the sidewalk, we walk around the perimeter of the building until we see Abby sitting with two men on concrete steps. One man has hair that stands on end. The other wears a T-shirt too small for his jumbo-sized belly. They look like Stan and Ollie. My sister laughs and talks,
dramatizing some story with broad and exaggerated hand gestures. She doesn’t care what the spotlight is, as long as she’s at its center. As we approach, cigarette smoke irritates my eyes.
“Then we went out to—” Abby’s gaze collides with mine. Slowly, she stands, placing a defiant hand on her hip. “Look who finally came to see me perform!” She glances at the men beside her. “My sister. What an unexpected pleasure.”
“How are you, Abby?”
“If you’d given me some warning, I would have gotten you front-row seats.” She takes a long, slow pull on her cigarette, smoke curling from her nostrils. “The show doesn’t start till tomorrow night.”
“I know.” I step up onto the sidewalk. “I was hoping I could talk with you. Privately.”
When one of her friends snubs out a cigarette under his tennis shoe, she puts a hand on his shoulder. “If your friends get to stay, then so do mine. I don’t have anything to hide.”
Is this how it will always be—animosity sparking between us like static electricity? We’re a part of each other’s lives, and yet we rub each other the wrong way every time we get near one another. Disappointment tugs at me.
“We haven’t met. I’m Sophia. Do you have an extra?” Sophia walks up to Abby and indicates her cigarette.
The short, squat man pulls a pack from his hip pocket. He offers it to Tim and Leo, but they decline.
Sophia taps the end of her cigarette on the back of her hand and smiles. “It’s been a long time.” She leans over as the guy offers her a light. “Are you in the show?”
“The professor … wizard …” He thumbs the guy next to him. “He’s in lighting.”
Sophia blows out a long stream of smoke like one of those actresses from the forties when cigarettes were cool and came without health warnings. “I do love the theater. This is such a fabulous show.” She begins chatting with the men, asking for their credits, their résumé of shows. She oohs and ahhs over every one. Tim and Leo move over toward Sophia, nodding and grinning at her stories, forming a hedge between us. They turn their backs on Abby and me to give us some semblance of privacy.
My sister takes a drag on her cigarette and blows a stream of smoke in my direction, tilting her head in a flamboyant and egotistical way. Even with all her acting skills, she can’t carry off Sophia’s elegance and sophistication. Abby merely looks like a rebellious teen, defiant and insolent. “So what do you want, sister dear?”
“I’m doing well, thanks. Look, I can walk and talk now.”
“All at the same time? Do you want applause?”
“That’s your department. I’ve left assisted living.”
“That’ll save a bundle each month. So what do you want? Money? Clothes?” Her gaze skims over the stylish used clothes I bought in Carmel. “A place to live?”
“Actually, I came to return the favor.”
Her eyes widen. Her black lashes are spiky and thick with mascara. “What favor?”
“You took care of me when I couldn’t. And even though you made decisions I never would have made, I still appreciate your help.”
She looks startled, then her gaze narrows, her brow furrowing. “You’re returning the favor? As in, you think I need your help?”
“A man came to see me recently.”
“Well, good for you! It’s about time.”
“From the FBI. He wanted to know about you.” I let that sink in fully while withholding my suspicions about the agent. “And the ruby slippers.”
She glances over her shoulder at our friends. Then rising, she tilts her head to the side and takes a few steps away from the others. She waits for me to catch up before she asks, “What about the shoes?”
“Apparently a pair was stolen from some museum.”
“Why should that concern me?”
I lift one eyebrow in retaliation. “You were looking for them.”
“Now you think I did it? Great! My own sister—”
“
He
thinks you did it. The FBI suspects you. They’re sitting outside this theater right now.” Or at least someone is.
She glances over her shoulder. “I don’t have anything to hide. So what do you want, sister dear? The shoes? Well, I don’t have them. I never have.”
“I do.”
Her eyes widen. “How? Where?”
“They’re safe.” But I don’t know for how long.
“Did your lawyer find them in the house rubble? Claim them as yours? If they were—”
“No. How did you even know about them?”
She shrugs and her gaze drifts off as if looking back toward the past. “Momma told me.” Then it’s like something clicks in her brain. “You’ve seen Dad then?”
“Not exactly. Not yet anyway.”
“I figured if they weren’t at the farm, then maybe he had them.”
“What made you suddenly look for them after all these years?” I suspect she needed the money.
“I was at a dinner party and someone mentioned Judy Garland. I told them my grandmother worked with her during the making of
The Wizard of Oz
. We went around the table telling what we were most afraid of—the witch, the Munchkins, the flying monkeys.” She laughs as if caught back up in the memory of that moment. “And then someone said they’d heard the ruby slippers had been stolen from some museum.” She rolls her wrist. “I don’t remember which one now. But it got me to thinking. And I wondered if those shoes Momma told me about were real. If she’d hidden them in the basement because she knew I was too scared to go down there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that’s what you wanted?”