The Reasons to Stay

“Yeah, no problem. But Ryan?”

“Damned wind is brutal. Yeah?”

“Um. I ran into my half brother. He’s like ten. They’re putting him in foster care.”

“That sucks. What’s it got to do with you?”

“Well, I was thinking...what would you think if I brought him with me?”

“To Boulder?” His voice rose higher at the end than the question warranted. “Why would you want the baggage? You always said you were a free bird.”

“I know. I am.” She pulled at the roots of her hair as memories chewed at her with wolf-size bites. “Damn, Ryan, I told you what those places are like. Believe me, I don’t want the hassle. But I’m not sure I can leave a kid to that.”

“Um, Priss, I don’t mean to sound all evil, but I didn’t sign up for that gig, you know? We got a good thing, just you and I.” She heard his teeth chatter. “Listen, I’ve gotta go, or they’re gonna find me freeze-dried like that guy in that Stephen King movie. But I gotta tell you, Priss, three’s a crowd that I’m not interested in hanging with. See what I’m saying? I mean...”

She let her head fall on the back of the seat, suddenly weary down to her DNA. “Yeah, I hear you. Listen, I’ll call you later, okay?”

He must have walked back into the bar, because Rihanna wailed in her ear. “Yeah. Later, babe.”

Click.

Talking to Ryan only solidified what she’d almost known before the call. She was done with Boulder. But of the zillions of flight paths she had, was one of them taking custody of her half brother?

She hadn’t realized until she stepped into that apartment how much the past weighted her. The fact that she hadn’t made it ten miles out of town was proof that today her wings had been clipped.

“Shitshitshitshit!”

Leaning her head on the cool plastic of the steering wheel, she waited until her breath stopped hitching. Then she sat motionless for a long time, poised between past and present, between facts and emotions, between flight and landing.

Her stomach pitched with the rapid altitude change.

Maybe doing this would be the last payment, the final stamp that said “paid in full” on the chit she owed her mother for giving Priss life.

Then she could fly off, unencumbered. Karma balanced.

But don’t think you’re forgiven, Mother, for leaving this mess for me to clean up.

She sat up, pulled the county social worker’s card out of her back pocket and after staring at it for a while, called the phone number listed.

* * *

“MOTHER, BE LOGICAL.” Adam Preston lifted a box of dishes and carried it to the hallway to add to the rest of his mother’s carefully selected household goods. “If you’d look at this unemotionally, you’d see I’m right.”

She stumped behind him, one wheel of her walker squeaking. “Don’t you ‘Mother’ me. I’m allowed to be emotional. This is the house your father and I bought when we married. Leaving it isn’t easy, you know.”

Olivia Preston wouldn’t let a little thing like recovering from a broken hip keep her from looking presentable—from her beauty-shopped silver hair to the soft loafers on her petite feet.

“That’s my point. You don’t have to leave. We could set you up in the downstairs bedroom, and have a ramp put in so you don’t have to navigate the porch steps. And I can take the bedroom upstairs.” Thank God his mother was healthy, but at seventy-nine, brittle bones and balance issues were an accident that hadn’t waited to happen.

“Ruining the facade of this cottage with an ugly, old-lady ramp would be criminal.” She straightened to all of her five feet. “And you are not moving in with me. How would it look to my potential daughters-in-law, you living with your mother?”

He wasn’t touching that one. “Your friend Lily lives in that retirement place in Santa Maria. Why don’t we look into it?”

“And leave Widow’s Grove? I’ve lived here all my life. Besides, can you see me getting on one of those odious little buses to go for a rousing night of bingo?”

Not without a partial lobotomy, he couldn’t. She’d been a professor of philosophy at UC Santa Barbara for thirty years. “But, Mom, above the store?” The only reason this was remotely possible was the elevator that survived the renovation when his father bought the two-story Ben Franklin dime store, back in the ’60s.

“If I can’t stay in the bedroom Tom and I shared, I’d rather be in our old apartment. That way I’ll still have his memories around me.”

His dad had died six years ago but you’d never know it, hearing his mother talk. He was proud of how she’d soldiered on afterward—not that there’d been any doubt. His mother was a strong woman. Maybe too strong. Because this was a crazy idea. Adam had moved into one of the apartments over the family drugstore when he’d returned from college with his degree and pharmacist’s license. “You’d be all alone up there.”

“You’ll be working right beneath me. Besides, if you hadn’t broken that sweet little schoolteacher’s heart she’d still be living in the apartment across the hall.”

He dropped the box on the growing pile. “Mom, let’s not start that again.”

“Why else would she have left in the middle of the school year if not because of a broken heart? I hate to point it out, but you’re not getting any younger and neither am I. I’d like to meet my grandchildren before I move on to whatever is next. But if you keep being so darned picky—”

“Mom. I didn’t break her heart.” He looked at the ceiling and blew out a breath. “She was gay, okay? She said that dating me made her sure that she wasn’t interested in men. She moved to Carmel and in with her ex-girlfriend.”

Mother winced. “Ouch.”

“And thanks for reminding me of the lowest point in my love life, to date.”

“Well, then, you need to pick yourself up and get on with your life, Adam.” She patted his hand. “Jesse at the café gave me a couple of names of nice girls you can call.”

He had to get out of here before his head exploded. “I’ve got to get to softball practice, Mom. I’ll stop by on my way home with a load of my stuff.” He walked out, shaking his head. His mother discussing his love life, or lack thereof, with the town matchmaker? How pathetic was he? He bounded down the stairs to his midsize sedan, the backseat loaded with bats, bases, and dirty laundry.

So maybe pharmacist wasn’t on the “top ten sexiest careers” list. But he wasn’t hideous looking. He was neat, led a quiet life, and—

And arguing your good points with yourself is even more pathetic.

Mom was wrong. He waved to Burt Hanks, who drove past, then unlocked the car and sank into it. But lately, the safe life he’d put on like a Teflon suit so many years ago had started to chafe—as if it were made of wet wool.

But just the same, the thought of stepping out of it made his stomach muscles clench to guard his guts.

CHAPTER TWO

A WEEK AFTER her mom’s funeral, Priss walked down Hollister, Widow’s Grove’s main drag, trying not to sweat. It had been chilly when she left the hotel this morning, so she’d worn a turtleneck with her pencil skirt and heels. But the day had turned warm, especially downtown, where the buildings blocked the breeze.

She paused at the display window of Hollister Drugs, more to rest her feet than to window-shop. Toeing out of one shoe, she rubbed her toes on the back of the other calf while glancing at the merchandise.

It had taken some convincing but Ms. Barnes had finally agreed to a temporary custody hearing with the Family Services Court. She didn’t seem to trust Priss or her intentions but didn’t have much choice since Priss was Nacho’s only unincarcerated kin.

The judge seemed wary as well, in spite of Priss dressing up and being on her best behavior. Though to be fair, her lack of a job and spiky hair probably had something to do with it. She hated looking so young. People often guessed her ten years younger than her twenty-nine years and assumed her maturity level matched her youthful face. They had no way of knowing that she’d gained her street smarts at a younger age than Nacho was now.

But the judge did grant Priss temporary custody, with strings. That meant home visits and interviews, and the judge had left the timeline open-ended. Priss would have to prove herself as a parent to Ms. Barnes’s satisfaction before she and Nacho could leave Widow’s Grove.

Priss had agreed to their terms. This would be as good a place as any to settle, at least in the short term. If she didn’t like it down the road, she’d make a different choice. What worried her more was the fact that she hadn’t a clue about how to be a parent. After all, she’d never been exposed to a good one.

But the worry about screwing up Nacho’s psyche had to take a backseat. They had to eat in the meantime. She needed a job.

The lady at the temp agency had no openings for office workers. Turned out tourist towns weren’t big on office management. And the few jobs they did have wouldn’t support Priss, much less her and Nacho. She had to find something soon. The hotel was expensive, and Ms. Barnes wouldn’t release Nacho into Priss’s care until she had a job, and a proper place to live in. The apartments she’d looked at on the outskirts of town were way too expensive, and too far from Nacho’s school.

So here she was, footsore and sweating, walking the streets looking for work. She’d stopped in The Gift of Words bookstore, a trendy clothing store for kids and an antique boutique. She’d never been a store clerk, but if it paid enough she’d find a way to become the best damned clerk they’d ever hired. But none of the shops needed help.

God, she was thirsty. She leaned in, cupping her hand around her eyes to see past the window’s glare into the drugstore, but still couldn’t make out much. Surely they sold cold soda. She slipped back into her shoe, stepped to the door and opened it.

Her heels tapped hollow on the wooden floor. A wall of blessedly cool air bathed her face, bringing with it the smell of coffee, French fries and old building. Two checkout counters faced her and beyond that, several shoppers wandered aisles that led to the pharmacy counter against the back wall.

But it was the area along the left wall that snagged her attention. An old soda-fountain counter stood on a black-and-white-checkerboard tiled area with a huge mirror behind it, reflecting stacked parfait glasses and sundae boats. Several of the frilly white wrought-iron tables were occupied by early lunchers. The whole area was bathed in light streaming through the huge front window, making it look like an oasis in the desert—or heaven.

Her feet led her without conscious direction around the tables and chairs, straight to the counter where she collapsed on the red vinyl stool farthest from the sun.

A girl stood behind the counter, flipping burgers and snapping gum.

“Could I have some water?”

Snap, snap, snap. “Okay, but you gotta order something. You know, something that costs money.” She didn’t move to get a glass.

Probably just out of high school, the girl wore a pink, sixties-throwback A-line dress, with a white frilled apron and a pink pillbox cap perched on hot-magenta shoulder-length hair. The rims of both ears were encrusted with stud earrings, and her lipstick and short nails were both painted black.

Rising irritation only made Priss hotter. “You’re going to lecture me on manners?”

The girl rolled her eyes to the back of the store. “Hey, it’s not me. I could give a crap. It’s the boss’s rule.”

“Okay. After you bring me water...” She glanced to the menu board on the wall to her right. “How about a BLT and a diet coke.”

“Coming up.” The girl finally moved, albeit slowly.

When the ice water arrived, Priss drank half of it at once, then winced as the brain freeze hit. Her stomach growled at the smell of grilling bacon. She tried to relax and let the AC and lunch-crowd conversation wash over her. Sipping more slowly, she noticed a bulletin board below the menu, with a sign at the top, The Grove Groove. She stood and walked over to read. Among the local real estate agents’ business cards were flyers for a lost llama, babysitting services, and a “gently used” Western saddle. She flipped up and read a thank-you card from a local little-league team to the drugstore’s owner, for his sponsorship. An index card at the very bottom caught her eye.

Furnished Apartment for Rent.

See Adam Preston for details.

You know you’re in a small town when they don’t include a phone number. She walked back and sat, just as the girl set down Priss’s BLT.

“You want mustard?”

“Sure. But, can you tell me who Adam Preston is, and how I contact him about that apartment?”

The girl walked a few steps and drew a soda from a tall, old-fashioned dispenser. “He’s the boss I told you about. The pharmacist.” Snap, snap.

Priss craned her neck to the pharmacy counter in the back.

“He’ll be back after lunch.” The girl set the curvy glass in front of Priss and plunked a bottle of mustard next to it. “The apartment is upstairs.” She looked at the ceiling. “He’s up there now actually.”

“Oh, cool.” It wouldn’t hurt to get some insider information. “My name is Priss, by the way. I’m moving to Widow’s Grove for a while.”

The girl’s attention sharpened, as if Priss had just moved out of the generic customer category. “I’m Sin, as in S-I-N.” Snap, snap. “Actually, it’s Hyacinth. I shorten it to irritate my mother. That’ll teach her for naming me after a stupid flower.”

Her smile displayed further rebellion—a huge cubic zirconia was set in her front tooth.

“I can relate. My name came from my mother’s massive crush on Elvis.”

“That old fat guy?” Snap. Snap. Snap. “That blows.”

“Tell me about it. What can you tell me about the apartment, or the pharmacist? I really need a place near town.”

The girl named a modest rent amount, then considered her next words as she scooped ice cream into a banana-split boat. “Adam is okay. He’s kinda hot, for an old guy.”

That wasn’t the kind of information she was looking for. “I mean—”

“Except he’s got a major stick up his butt.”

“How so?”

“He’s anal. Seriously, terminally, anal. The guy needs to dispense himself a chill pill.” She walked to the other end of the counter to deliver the split to a guy in a business suit, leaving Priss to try to reconcile those two facts and how to use them for leverage. If that apartment was presentable, she really needed to rent it.

* * *

ADAM TOOK THE last dish from the dishwasher and put it in the cabinet. “Mom, I’ve got to get back to work.” He grabbed a sponge and wiped the sandwich crumbs from the counter. “You’ve got your phone with you in case you need anything, right?”

“Yes, dear.” His mother rose from the kitchen chair, clutched her walker and squeaked her way to her favorite antique wing-back chair in the living room.

When the microwave dinged, he took out the cup of tea and carried it to her. He’d wanted to move her into the apartment that had the view of Hollister, but she insisted on saving the nicer view for a “paying customer.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine, don’t worry about me.” She pulled a soft throw onto her lap. “When I’m off this walker and back on my own pins you won’t need to coddle me anymore.”

“No worries, Mom. I’m just downstairs.” He walked to the door, wondering how many prescriptions had piled up and how Sin was coping with the lunch crowd.

“Adam.”

He pulled the door open and turned back to her. “Yeah, Mom?”

“Don’t forget, if someone wants to rent the other apartment, I get final say, right?”

“Of course. But I call screening privileges. They’ll be living right across the hall and you’re too trusting.” He closed the door and walked down the stairs that ended in a vestibule; one door led into the store, one led to the alley behind it. He unlocked the door to the store and walked in.

He glanced up front, to the soda fountain. Sin lifted a thumb to let him know all was well then waved him over. Walking up the nearest aisle, he stopped to help old Mrs. Baylor with a suppository recommendation before moving on.

I’ve got to do something about Sin. She didn’t look like a ’60s soda jerk—she looked more like Cyndi Lauper at a Halloween party. But how could he approach the situation without hurting her feelings? He’d been through a string of failed hires before Sin, and in spite of her looks he’d come to rely on her. She ran the soda fountain well and he could trust her. The locals were used to her looks. Maybe just a different color uniform would help—one that complemented her hair.

Snap, snap. “Boss, this lady wants to talk to you.”

He was going to have to talk to her about chewing that gum. Again. He turned to the lady on the last stool.

Scratch that. A girl.

She had a slim build and wore a knee-length skirt that showed off long, muscled dancer’s calves, crossed at the ankle. But it was her face that caught and held him—huge green eyes set in a pretty heart-shaped face. Her brown hair was short and spiked with a widow’s peak. She sat looking at him with a small nervous smile.

Time slowed and sound faded.

God, she’s enchanting. Even though he was sure he’d never used that word before, it fit. He felt enchanted.

He extended a hand. “Adam Preston.”

She gave him a firm, no-nonsense shake. “Priscilla Hart. I’m interested in the apartment you have for rent.”

She must have read the skepticism in his expression, because she sighed. “I’m twenty-nine—plenty old enough.”

Not for what I was imagining.

“Well, all right. Why don’t you follow me? I have an application and background authorization for you to fill out.”

There was a line at the prescription counter so he sat her at the consulting window with the forms and got to work.

Fifteen minutes later he’d dealt with the line. The dropped-off scripts could wait. His prospective tenant sat tapping her fingers on the counter. He walked over and picked up the forms. “An interim office manager. Colorado, huh? I don’t see a phone number for your previous landlord. I’ll need that.”

“I need to tell him I’m leaving first.” She fussed with the strap of her purse.

She was businesslike and put-together. But after the epic fail of his last tenant, he knew that appearances were deceiving. He frowned.

“You can check. I pay my taxes, am a registered voter and don’t have so much as a moving violation.”

“But according to this, you don’t have a job in Widow’s Grove.”

“Yet. You’ll see from my credit check that I have enough money in the bank to cover a deposit, first and last month’s rent.”

“But if you can’t pay down the road, eviction is a real hassle.”

“Look.” She stood and slung the oversize purse on her shoulder. “I’m trying to rent an apartment. I am not signing up to guard the president or run the Federal Reserve. Check out my references, then let me know. My cell number is on the fifth form from the bottom.” She looked at him as if he were a juicy wad of gum on her shoe. “Do you think you could trust me enough to at least show me this apartment? I’ll give you time to hide the silver first, if you want.”

He had to smile at her, all puffed up and huffy. “Actually, you kind of would be guarding the president. Follow me.” He locked the metal door to the drug area then led the way through the door to the stairs. But instead of taking them, he inserted the key to call the elevator.

At the top, he walked to the door to the right and searched his ring for the correct key. “I used to live in the other apartment.” He nodded to the door on his left. “But my mother recently broke her hip. Her house is a two-story with a walk-up porch so it wasn’t working for her. I was going to move her in here and sell her house but she insisted I move into the house instead.”

He found the correct key, opened the door, then stepped back so she could enter. She walked across the oak floor to look through the windows to Hollister. “Great view.” Her voice echoed off the high ceilings.

He stayed by the door as she wandered into the kitchen, the bathroom and lastly, the large bedroom, her heels tap-tap-tapping across the wood floor. Generations of Preston-used furniture made the apartment feel cozy.

This apartment was the mirror image of the one across the hall. Growing up, his father had always rented them. It was a good source of additional revenue for the drugstore’s start-up, and later the rents had paid Adam’s tuition to UCSD.

“I think it’s great. I’d like to rent it. Providing, of course, I meet your requirements.”

“Okay, well, let me take you across the hall to meet my mother. My requirements take a backseat to hers.”

“What does your mother have to do with this?”

“You’d be living right across the hall from her. That means she gets first right of refusal.”

He watched her throat move as she swallowed. She squared her shoulders and walked out ahead of him. He crossed the hall and knocked on his mom’s door.

“Come in.”

He opened the door. “Mom? Do you have a minute to meet a possible tenant?”

“Certainly, bring them in.”

“This is Priscilla Hart, an office manager, most recently from Colorado.”

The girl—woman—walked past him to where his mother sat, reading a thick book. “Ms. Preston. It’s nice to meet you. Your son told me about your recent accident. I’m sorry.”

His mom put aside the book. “To hear him talk, I’m a fragile invalid. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“You’re reading Atlas Shrugged!”

The delight in her voice brought his head up.

“That’s one of my favorite books of all time.”

His mother’s eyes lit up. “Oh? What is it you like about it?”

Priss may not have recognized his mom’s “professor voice,” but Adam did.

“Her theory of rational self-interest and belief in the power of an individual.” At his mother’s wave, the girl sank onto the sofa. “I’ve learned a lot from that book.”

His mother had tried for years to get him interested in philosophy, but he’d fallen asleep ten pages into that doorstop of a book. Sports Illustrated was more his style. “You read that stuff?”

Priss looked up, yet somehow managed to look down her nose at him. “Are you one of those men who think you have to have a college degree to be intelligent?”

“I never said that. Did I say that?”

With a smug smile, his mother watched him twist on the hook.

“Priscilla, if you have some time, I’d love to discuss this book with you.”

Priss nodded.

“Would you mind making us some tea, Priscilla?” His mother gave a small head shake when he started to move.

Priss popped up. His mother explained where to find things in the kitchen.

Once she was in the other room, his mother said, “She’s the one.”

“I haven’t run her background check. She could be a convicted felon for all I know. She might steal the silver—”

“My silver is all at the house.”

“Or murder you in your sleep. You just like her because she likes that Rand woman.”

“You’re wrong. I like her because she ruffles your oh-so-neat feathers.” Her smile held secrets. “And frankly, son, your feathers could use a good ruffling.”

* * *

PRISS PUSHED THROUGH the door from the stairwell into Hollister Drugs, heading out for another day of job hunting. She loved her new digs. She enjoyed sitting in the overstuffed chair by the window, watching the town wake up, pedestrians shifting from a trickle to a stream as the shops opened. She liked the evenings, too. The lights winked out as the town settled in for sleep. Now if she could only get as lucky in the job market.

At least she could show that do-gooder, Ms. Barnes, that she had a decent place for Nacho to live in. Her credit check and references had come back sterling, so the uptight druggist couldn’t find an excuse not to rent to her. But she had no doubt that he’d tried.

She glanced to the prescription counter. Head down, Adam focused on something he was writing while speaking in an undertone to an ancient lady in a Sunday dress and orthopedic shoes. That first day, all Priss had seen was a double-breasted white coat and a wall of upper middle-class attitude. But the past few days she’d caught glimpses of more.