Sweet Sinful Nights(86)
He dropped a hand to her thigh and squeezed. “The red-eye was booked. No room on it. Turns out my wife got the last seat, and I’m having none of that. I missed the chance to be there for you in the past. This is important. You’re not going alone. I’m going with you. Every step of the way. I called Tanner and said I wouldn’t be able to make it.”
She brought her hand to her chest, overwhelmed by what he’d done. How he’d chosen her. How he’d walked away from work to stand by her. “What did he say? Was he angry?”
“He wasn’t too happy about it. I said I had to be here for you. Case closed.”
“But you’ll lose New York if you don’t go to the picnic tomorrow.”
He flashed her a million-dollar smile. “Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. And sometimes you decide there are more important things than a business deal. Like you. Always you.” He pointed to the radio. “Now, let’s crank up some tunes. You got a desert driving playlist? We need something to rock out to.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Would ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ be too ironic?”
“Irony is my middle name.”
She turned on Johnny Cash and held her husband’s hand the whole way through the desert as the sun rose high in the sky, blazing through the windshield, the road unfurling before them in a slate ribbon, her heart fuller than it had ever been.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The air conditioning hummed, blasting out sheets of cool air in the stark visiting room. Shannon rubbed her bare arms, wishing she’d brought a sweater. She didn’t remember it having been so chilly the last time she was there. Perched on the edge of a hard plastic chair at a table inside a small room, she waited.
She tried to conjure up an image of her mother, tried to remember how Dora had looked at Christmas, but the images that paraded before her eyes were older ones, so much older. Sewing Shannon’s leotard, the corner of her lips screwed up in concentration as she threaded. Placing a Band-Aid on Shannon’s knee when she’d skidded on her bike. Holding her hand as she walked her to school. So young, so vibrant, so blond. Just like Shannon. She’d had the same bright blond hair. Absently, Shannon raised her hand to her now-brown hair.
Someone opened the door.
Shannon rose. Nerves skittered across her flesh. The corrections officer appeared first, a tall, sturdy woman with dark hair in a braid. Holding the door open, the guard nodded and grunted a curt hello.
“Hello,” Shannon said, the word feeling strange on her tongue. Even after all these years, it still never felt normal to be conversing with a corrections officer.
Her mother entered, and Shannon did her best impression of a sealed-up box. Otherwise she’d fall to pieces. Keeping her chin up, her muscles steady, she managed a simple, “Hi, Mom.”
Her mother was a shadow of the woman she’d once been. Her bright blond hair was the color of dishwater, her cheeks were sunken, and her green eyes were a shade of sallow. Even so, she smiled. Her lips, with their cracked red lipstick, quivered as she held out her arms for a hug.
“My baby,” said the woman in orange.
Shannon walked into her arms, embarrassment and shame smacking her from all directions. She wasn’t ashamed this woman was her mother. She was ashamed for Dora, for what she’d become, for the choices she’d made that led her to this. Thin arms wrapped around Shannon, arms that had once been strong and maternal. Her mother clutched her.
“Oh, baby. My baby. It is so good to see you again,” Dora said, her mouth closer to Shannon’s neck than she would have liked.
“It’s good to see you, too, Mom,” Shannon said, lying, but knowing it was only a white lie. It wouldn’t hurt anyone for her to say that.
“I’m so happy you’re here.” Another firm grip, then she felt the first drop from her mom’s eyes. A tear had fallen on Shannon’s bare shoulder as Dora embraced harder and tighter, as if she could graft her body onto Shannon’s and escape as a growth on her kid.
“All right, Prince. That’s enough,” the CO said, her command clear.
Shannon’s mom pulled away, and shot the woman a contrite look. “Sorry. I just missed my baby girl so much. She’s a dancer. Isn’t she lovely?” Her mom held out her arms to Shannon as if she were presenting her on Wheel of Fortune.
“Mom, stop,” Shannon said, embarrassed now for a whole new reason. She glanced at the woman. “We’re fine. We’ll sit down now.”
“Behave, Prince,” the woman warned as she shut the door, leaving Shannon alone with her mother. They sat at the gray plastic table, like the kind in a cafeteria.
“Baloney,” her mom said.
“Baloney?”
“That’s what they fed me the other day. Baloney on white bread. Can you believe it? Baloney.” Her mom brought her hand to her eyes, covering them, as if the memory of the cold cuts was too much to bear. “I hate baloney.”
“Tell them you hate it.”
“I tried. I asked for turkey. They don’t think I deserve turkey.”
“Did they say that?” Shannon asked.
Her mom raised her face. “They don’t have to. I can tell. They don’t like me here. They don’t like me at all.”
“Mom,” she said, doing her very best to sound comforting and caring, because that was all she could do. “Why would you say that?”