Riggs (Arizona Vengeance 11)

Mrs. Blair does her job well. She ensures Janelle gets home from school, has a snack, and does her homework. She cooks healthy meals. She sees that Janelle makes it to school on time. She’s punctual and organized, if not slightly militant.

But that is all she is. This is a job for her, a way to collect a paycheck. She doesn’t care about Janelle, and they lock horns all the time. Granted, Janelle can be a shit when she wants to be, but I’ve heard Janelle’s laments often enough to know that if Mrs. Blair would show a little kindness, warmth, and interest in my sister, it would go a long way toward calming the tensions between them.

I resolve for about the hundredth time to sit down and talk with Mrs. Blair. I also make a mental note to talk to Reagan, who might have some good ideas on what to do with Janelle while I’m gone rather than have her watched by someone like Mrs. Blair.

“Want to stop for a burger on the way home?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says softly, and I don’t detect an ounce of anger in her tone. I think it means that the prospect of working at Clarke’s bookstore might be of legitimate interest to her. For the time being, she’s not directing her bitterness over all the shitty things that have happened this last year my way.

Although if she chose to do it, I would continue to bear the burden. Janelle has suffered so much, and part of me feels guilty that I was off living my fantasy career while she bore the burden of a parent who can’t parent.

Until the end of time, I will bear every bit of animosity she holds for our mother, animosity she can’t direct anywhere but at me, if that’s what she needs me to do.

CHAPTER 3

Veronica

The old gentleman standing before me smiles wistfully as he gazes off to my left. He’s wearing a pair of khakis a tad too big for his slight size but held up by a tightly cinched brown leather belt, as well as a white dress shirt and a bow tie of blue-and-green paisley. As I listen to him talk, I smile to myself that the days of finding and keeping true love are over. He may have had the last great love affair of our time.

“And she would make the most marvelous cakes for my birthday, all done from scratch. They don’t do that these days. Everything comes from a box.”

I lean forward and pat Mr. Beasley on the hand. “Those boxed cake mixes are for people like me who can’t bake worth a damn.”

Mr. Beasley chuckles, blue eyes twinkling at me. His hand, dry and papery, worn with age and dotted with brown spots, lays across the top of mine. “Learn how to bake a cake from scratch, young Veronica, and the men will line up for you.”

I laugh and rest my free hand on top of his and give it a squeeze. “You are sweet for suggesting that, but my days of looking for a man are no longer.”

Mr. Beasley scoffs. “Nonsense. Everyone needs someone to love and depend on.”

I pull my hands away and nab the receipt off the cash register, having just rung up his purchases. I toss it in with the three books he bought, pushing the paper bag with twine handles across the counter to him.

Mr. Beasley is one of our best customers, and I love his visits. But I speak frankly as I cross my arms on the counter, leaning forward. “I depend on myself. That way no one lets me down.”

The old man looks at me, eyes no longer twinkling with amusement but somber with an understanding born of great wisdom. He lost his wife about ten years ago, and I know how empty he must feel without her. It’s why he lives so much in his past.

I’m the opposite.

I was happy to leave my love life far behind, and I don’t ever look back.

“Don’t you give up hope, Ronnie,” Mr. Beasley says, the only person in my life who has ever used that nickname. It’s touching that he has a name for me, which I believe indicates we’ve become good friends over the course of his time coming into the bookstore. He wags a finger at me. “I have a sneaking suspicion happiness is right around the corner for you.”

I shake my head in denial, wagging my own finger right back at him. “I’ve got no room for your romantic notions, Mr. Beasley. Now, off with you. I have other things I need to attend to.”

He guffaws and picks up his bag, waving a hand over his shoulder and promising to come back next week. When he leaves, the tiny bells at the top of the door to announce someone coming or going chime merrily. I’m going to miss that sound when I move on from this place.