Chapter 5 – Laffy Taffy

Crew –

Standing in my kitchen, I toss her background—her real and complete background—to the counter. It’s just Asa and me—Grady’s still in California. Looking across the room at him, I cross my arms and sigh.

“Sorry. They said they thought they were giving you enough. They had no idea there’d be ties this old and deep—they know they fucked up. I know you’re angry and I know this would’ve made you move on,” he tries to calm me.

Would I have moved on?

That’s a good question. I shake my head and look out at the dark of night. I don’t answer because what I’m more concerned about right now is what’s churning in my gut. I wonder how well I know myself, because for some fucking reason, I’m not angry. I’m relieved I didn’t get the chance to make that decision.

I shouldn’t be relieved. I should be pissed this has been laid at my feet and I wasn’t given the truth from the beginning. I should not be feeling what I’m feeling, wanting to be nowhere but right here. I shouldn’t be fucking grateful for half-truths and decisions that were ripped out from under me.

This complicates things, making what was supposed to be a private and safe compound, neither. When I settled on this place, her bio was her bio, even if I was given everything. At the time she didn’t have a ghost from the past interested in her wine as a cover for what he’s really interested in.

“She was five,” Asa adds. “She must not have known him, surely she’d remember.”

“They just flushed him out after all these years? Carson said they suspect this has been a career-long thing for him. He must be good.”

“Must be. The guy’s older than me. They’re finding more as they build their case. He’s been at it a long-ass time.”

My mind goes back to this afternoon—him looking at her, casually touching her, studying her. Why in the fuck after all these years does he have an interest? Not only that, he must have his own level of clearance to even be able to find her.

What the hell? He doesn’t need clearance. With what he’s been doing the past twenty-five years, he’ll find a way if he wants something bad enough.

Then, all of a sudden I think about him creating access to her in one of the safest buildings in the world. My head snaps up and I ask through a frown, “You get me into the dinner Thursday?”

Asa ignores my question and huffs, “You’re a crazy motherfucker. I told Grady you had your head on straight—there was no need to worry about you chasin’ tail.”

I say nothing but glare at him. It’s none of their fucking business and Addison Wentworth isn’t a piece of tail. I’m running this show and don’t owe anyone an explanation for anything I do.

“You have no business walkin’ into your old place of employment ten years after disappearing off the face of the Earth—not when everyone there all but adopted you after what happened. You show your face, you’re invitin’ a mess of people back into your life.”

He’s right.

My gut told me this afternoon O’Rourke being there wasn’t a fluke, even before I knew about Addison’s past. Now that I know the truth, there’s no way in hell Addison Wentworth is going to be in Sheldon O’Rourke’s company without me by her side. Until the big guys get their shit together and take him out, I’m the only one who knows the connection that gives a shit.

“You get me in or not?”

Asa narrows his eyes at me and shakes his head. “I thought Carson was going to have a shit hemorrhage, but yeah, you’re in.”

I give him nothing else on that subject before demanding, “I want the cameras and sensors extended to her property and I want it started tonight. I don’t care how many bodies it takes to get that done. By tomorrow morning I want eyes on her house, work your way out from there. It should be easy since they can maneuver their way over from here and it’s only ninety acres. Between that and Carson’s wiretaps, she’ll be covered, even with the public coming and going from her business. I’ll be there tomorrow night, there’ll be some activity around her house, but you should be able to get it done. No one’ll be the wiser.”

“What’s gonna be your excuse to be there tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow’s Monday, Asa,” I say before starting my way out of the kitchen. Without looking back, I add, “It’s poker night in the Ordinary.”

*****

Addy -

I shouldn’t have spent the entire day shopping. I have bids to get out for upcoming events and marketing material from my advertising agency to approve. I plan on using this White House dinner to pimp my little winery through the next century. I don’t care what side of the political spectrum you’re on, if my wine is good enough for the White House, everyone under the sun is going to know about it. It’s going to be a marketing extravaganza.

But I didn’t do any of that. Instead, I spent the entire day at the mall, driving all the way to Tyson’s Corner. I only got lost twice when I missed my exits. All in all, that’s a good day for me. I had to buy a dress, shoes, jewelry, and just because, I splurged on all kinds of new makeup when I didn’t need any. Since I was there and it is Tyson’s Corner—and everyone knows Tyson’s has anything you could ever want in a mall—I did a tad more shopping than my White House dinner required. This included casual and dressy clothes for work, clothes for lounging, panties, bras, more shoes, and I even made a haul at Pottery Barn. Even though I have everything from my condo and my mom’s house in California, it doesn’t come close to filling up my huge farmhouse. But since I’m always busy with the winery and working most days, decorating hasn’t been a priority. To say I took advantage of a day at the mall was an understatement.

And I missed my mom every single moment.

We shopped like queens my entire life, even when I was young when we did not live like queens since we had nothing and my mom was starting from scratch. It didn’t matter how little we had, even during the many trips where we bought nothing, there was always fun to be had with my mom at the mall.

But then again, she was simply fun in everything she did. Until she got sick, and as much as she tried for me, nothing was fun anymore.

Running up the two flights of stairs, I hurry to dump my bags on the bed and hang my dress. Just like always, by the time I get to the second staircase, I wonder what in the world I was thinking choosing the top floor bedroom when I moved in. However, between all the many staircases in this house and hiking around with the cows most days, there’s no need for a gym membership. Not that there’s a decent gym out here in the country, nor do I have the time to go to one, so it’s good I have my own built-in Stairmaster. Not to mention, this is the best room in the whole house. I don’t know this for a fact, but the way my house is situated on top of my mountain, one might be able to see way to West Virginia on a clear day. The windows were replaced during one of the more recent renovations. They’re huge and I have a perfect northwest view. Even if this room wasn’t the best in the house, which it is, the closet is a shrine to closets everywhere. There was no other option—this had to be my room.

I look at the clock and realize I’m late. Traffic was a bitch coming out of the city and everyone will be here in fifteen minutes for poker. Well, everyone but Clara and Maggie. Clara has a hard time finding a sitter given her boys’ behavior and Maggie just plain hates card games.

I quickly move around the room, changing clothes into something comfortable to sit in all night. After throwing on a pair of lightweight yoga pants with a cami and loose tank, I hightail it back down to the kitchen. I knew I wouldn’t have time to whip up any snacks, so I stopped at Maggiano’s for pasta and dessert. I’m sure I walked miles at the mall and skipped lunch. I’m famished.

“Yoo-hoo, we’re here,” Bev sings from the back door where she lets herself in like normal.

Making it down the last few stairs, I turn the corner around the last bend into the kitchen where I find Bev and Morris making themselves at home. Morris has already cracked open a beer and Bev is plugging in a tiny crockpot.

“You two have a good day?” I ask.

“Great day, although I had to go back to the grocery store. Morrie decided he wanted lil’ smokies late this afternoon. I’d only planned on bringing cookies,” Bev says, stirring the contents of the crock.

“I should’ve called.” I move to the oven where I put the pasta to keep warm. “I stopped to get dinner and dessert. You didn’t need to bake cookies.”

“Good,” Morris gruffs. “We’ll take ‘em home. More cookies for us. She never makes cookies anymore.”

“We’re not taking them home, Morrie. Someone will want a cookie,” she says, slapping him with her hot pad.

Morris grumbles, stalking out of the room at the same time the back door bangs open. Evan strides in with a soft-sided wine cooler thrown over his shoulder while carrying his poker table top and suitcase of clay chips.

Van’s on his heels and announces, “Don’t be a hater, but I’ve gotta cash out early. I’m telling you now so no one bitches when I do. I’ve got a date and there’s no way I’m playing quarter poker with you all when I’ve got a woman waiting.”

Evan doesn’t stop, heading straight through the kitchen and down the hall to the Ordinary when he yells over his shoulder, “Why did you even come? It’s bullshit to cash out early.”

“This isn’t a private table in Vegas. Get over it,” Van yells back and drops his cooler looking at me. “Slice some limes, sweetheart. I’m mixing up Moscow mules. That smells good, what’d you make?”

“I’ve been out all day but had time to stop at Maggiano’s. Pasta and dessert, I didn’t think anyone would eat a salad.” I pull the foil off the pasta and grab plates.

Van moves to my fridge and kisses the top of my head on his way. I’m used to this by now. At first it was strange, his demonstrative behavior, seeing as I’m his employer. But it’s who he is and after a year and a half, I love him for it. He goes on as he pulls bottles and copper mugs out of his cooler. “You can’t go wrong with Maggiano’s. Good call on the salad, it’d go to waste.”

“Who’s the lucky young lady tonight?” Bev asks, as everyone is used to Van’s parade of women. He’s been at Whitetail for over ten years and it surprises me Bev is as accepting of his social life as she is, but even she isn’t immune to his charms.

“Just another in a long line of lucky ladies. If it works out, maybe I’ll bring her by soon. We’ll see how tonight goes.” He grins.

Before I get a word in, the door bursts open yet again. Mary blows in with her arms full, balancing two dishes covered in plastic wrap and bags hanging from her shoulders. “Hello, peeps. Make way, I’m about to drop this shit.”

She pushes her way through Bev and Van to set her stuff on the kitchen table. My kitchen is big, square, and outdated. When I read through the records kept on the property, the last kitchen remodel was done almost three decades ago. It’s not terrible, but it won’t win any pretty kitchen awards, either. What it’s not, is a priority. I put a table in the center which is hardly used to eat at, but it does serve as a makeshift island on poker night.

“Hey, Mary,” Evan smiles as he returns to the kitchen with eyes only for her.

“Bite me, fancy boy,” she mumbles without looking away from her task, unwrapping a dip and dumping crackers in a bowl.

Mary and I have been friends since the first moment I sat my bottom in her chair at the salon a year ago. I’m not spontaneous, even though I did purchase a winery out of the blue when I was here to spread my mother’s ashes. I did this not liking wine or having romantic notions of owning a winery, but recognized it was a good business decision. My mom always taught me the best business is a struggling one run by imbeciles who don’t know what they’re doing. She’d say to me, “If you come in with fresh ideas and energy, you’ll win most every time.”

Last year during my first summer living in the Virginia humidity, I lost it and decided to chop off my long hair. I couldn’t deal with the frizz. I figured if it were shoulder length, it’d be easier to manage. My spontaneity took over and I drove to the closest salon I could find, walked in, and demanded a haircut with the first stylist available who could manage a pair of scissors. When I sat in Mary’s chair a year ago, her hair was blonde with pink and purple tucked in, here and there. It was long, lush, and hung in soft, colorful curls down her back. How she pulled that off in the humidity, I’ll never know.

Mary is everything I’m not, and I adore that about her. She’s eight years younger than me, but even at the young age of twenty-three, she doesn’t act it. She went to college for a couple years before deciding it wasn’t for her, jumped right into cosmetology school and has been doing hair for two years. Mary’s petite, but other than that, there’s nothing small about her. From her ever changing hair color to her kick ass ink and piercings, she’s full of life.

This is opposite of me. I’m boring. I’ve never highlighted my hair, I have no tattoos, and my ears are pierced. Once. Each. I’ve always tried to blend in, so I’m okay with boring.

When I told her that day I was sick of fighting the frizz and wanted it all lopped off, she looked at me like I was crazy. She started working her fingers through my hair and without looking away from my frizzies, asked, “Is this your natural color?”

I told her it was and to start chopping. Pronto.

She ignored me and kept fingering through my hair. Finally, she shook her head and questioned me through the mirror. “What’s your budget?”

“Why, how much is a haircut?” I was shocked she’d even asked. I know some places can be pricey, but so far no one was giving me a foot-massage or handing me a martini. A haircut normally doesn’t require a budget.

“Pay attention,” she started and put her hands on my shoulders to lean in, looking at me in the mirror with grave seriousness. “A sister doesn’t let another sister make a ginormous mistake. Now, hear me when I say, if I cut these luscious locks of hair, I’d go to Sister Prison for Stylists. This is your God-given color. I have clients who pay hundreds to try to achieve this look. With your dark eyes and the way it falls around your face, I refuse to go to Sister Prison for committing such a crime. I’ve lived in this humidity all my life—I know what you need. But it’ll take a budget that’s more than a haircut. Can you afford a couple hundred bucks? Three, tops?”

I could afford that, but what made me pause was what she said about my hair. I’ve always liked my hair—it’s the same as my mom’s was when she was younger. As I sat in her chair, the impulse was starting to wear off and I wondered what I was doing.

“I can do three hundred.”

“Cool.” She smiled before becoming a bundle of energy. “It’s gonna take some time, I’ll have to work you in around my other appointments. This is what we’re gonna do. First up, a Keratin treatment. Then we’ll deep condition you. Really, the Keratin is usually conditioner enough, but I’m dying to see how your hair responds to the special treatment we have. It’ll shine you right up. And just because you’ll be waiting in between my clients and trusting me with this beautiful head of hair without knowing me from boo, I’ll throw in a trim for free. Sound fair?”

“Um…sure. I mean, thank you,” I said, thinking I was going to lose an afternoon of work, but if I didn’t frizz, I’d take it.

“We’ll even have lunch together. Fun day,” she announced as she pushed a tray on wheels across the room, disappearing into a doorway.

That day we got to know each other over four and a half hours of hair and had lunch from the pizza place next to her salon. I told her all about my mom and moving to Virginia to purchase a winery. Outside of my winery people, she’s my only friend. She’s become a part of my life and that means she’s been adopted into our winery clan.

For some reason she doesn’t find Evan cute or charming. For a twenty-four-year-old, I think he’s a lot of both. Over the past couple months, we can all tell he’s got the hots for her. From the way she treats him, I know for a fact she does not reciprocate his hots. This has made for some interesting poker nights recently, and I think Evan enjoys her attitude because he smiles as he moves to the table where she’s standing.

He reaches around and scoops her dip with a chip when he leans in to the side of her face. There, he says softly, talking about her new hair color, “I like the turquoise.” She turns to him, narrowing her eyes. He stands over her by a good bit, as he’s probably just under six feet tall, making her look up as she glares. His smile turns into a wide grin, and I can see from here, that pisses her off. He holds his ground, saying, “I’ll get you a glass. I picked out something new for you to try.”

“Be fast about it,” she accepts with attitude. “I’m thirsty and I’ll need something to get through poker with you.”

“All-righty then.” My voice comes out chipper-like, breaking up the tense young-love moment. “Time to dish up some dinner so we can get started.”

Everyone begins piling their plates full when the doorbell chimes. I set my plate down and walk out of the kitchen wondering who that could be since everyone’s here.

I move toward the front door through the long center hall that separates the main floor rooms, running through the middle of the house. When I get there and open my antique door, I freeze.

Crew Vega is standing on my steps. He’s holding a six pack of beer in one hand and a grocery sack in the other.

When I look up, his sharp eyes are on me. I’m not sure where else he’d be looking, as I’m the only one standing here, but they seem sharper than before, if that’s possible. He’s wearing a newer t-shirt and another pair of jeans that are just as old as the ones he had on yesterday. His dark hair looks a little damp like he just got out of the shower, and this makes me wonder what he smells like. Soap, shampoo, cologne, aftershave? No, he wouldn’t smell like aftershave since he’s still unshaven. I’m not surprised to see the scruff is thicker, and for some reason I’m fascinated by it.

“Addison,” he greets me with a tip of his head.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, realizing I asked him that yesterday, too. I know this isn’t polite or neighborly, but my goal was to keep my cows away from him so I wouldn’t have to see him. And I don’t see a stray cow, so I don’t understand why he’s here.

“Poker.”

“Poker?”

“Yeah, poker.”

“But…” I pause, not knowing what to say. “How do you know about poker?”

“Bev invited me. I hear it’s in your haunted Ordinary.” He tips his head the other way and one side of his mouth curves up. “Want to see it for myself. I’m hoping your ghosts don’t wander as far as your cows, seein’ as we’re neighbors.”

I stand up straighter and frown. “The Ordinary is not haunted.”

“We’ll see.” He moves and I’m forced to step aside, allowing room for him to clear the doorway since he’s entered without an invitation.

“Crew—”

He interrupts, holding up the beer in his hand. “Where’s the fridge?”

When I don’t answer, he gives up and turns, starting down the main hall. Quickly, he saunters straight toward the kitchen and Ordinary, eerily knowing exactly where to go. I sigh and bite my lip. I want to curse Bev for inviting him to poker, but I don’t. Instead, I thank her in my head, because I secretly like Crew in my old farmhouse.

Everyone must be settled because when I catch up with him, he’s alone in the kitchen, helping himself to pasta and lil’ smokies. Then he sets his plate down and reaches into his plastic grocery sack, pulling out a bag of barbecue potato chips. After ripping it open, I watch him dump a huge pile on top of his pasta and smokies.

I try not to make a face, but yuck. That’s disgusting.

Reaching in the sack one more time, he utters, “Brought dessert.”

My breath catches with what he tosses on my kitchen table.

“Ghost town this way? I’ve never met George Washington.”

I don’t look up from the kitchen table as he leaves, finding his way to the Ordinary without direction. I hear him clomp down the four wooden stairs into my large brick room that’s listed on the Historical Register. Everyone greets Crew as I slowly move to the table.

When I get there, I pick up the bag he so casually tossed. More so, I wonder why he chose these. Further, I wonder how he could have known. I’ve eaten them my whole life and I still do. There’s always a bowl on my desk at the winery and I keep a stash here at home, too. He’s never been in my office or my home. And everyone, everyone, around me knows not to touch the green apples. They’re the only ones I like.

I wish I had it in me to smile. To be giddy. To get all warm and fuzzy the way a woman should when a coincidence occurs with a beautiful but rugged man. I long to be normal, pondering the coincidence of him and my favorite candy, turning it into everything, when really, it’s probably nothing.

But I’ve never been able to be that woman, and I never will be.

“Addy! I’ve got a date, you coming?” Van yells.

I quickly collect myself and rip open the bag, fishing out four green apples. Quickly, like I’ve done since I’ve moved here, I read the jokes and make sure they’re not about cows. Ever since I purchased Whitetail, I save the cow jokes because they’re funnier now that I own cows. No cow jokes, so I grab my plate and Moscow mule. Taking a deep breath, I head to my Ordinary—that is not haunted—and do my best to prepare myself for a night of poker with Crew.

I’ll think about the Laffy Taffy later. I’m sure it’s a happenstance, at best. Everyone likes Laffy Taffy, right? Especially the jokes.

Yes. It’s a pure oddity. Nothing more.