Chapter 4
Abigail
Three weeks later . . .
I WIPE THE TABLES DOWN in the small country cafe where I sat my first day here looking for a job. I slap the dishrag over my shoulder and breathe a sigh of contentment feeling almost . . . happy in my new surroundings. That’s a feeling I’m not overly familiar with. At least not since I was eight-years-old.
Shortly after the incredibly sexy, but even more frightening ranger told me he knew I was trouble—and real talk, I am—I slowed my breathing and calmed down my racing heart. He couldn’t possibly know who I am or what I had done. At least not yet. And I’m assuming he doesn’t by now either because I imagine he would be the first person knocking on my door to hang me for Brandon. Do they still hang murderers in Texas? That’s probably something I should look into or move to a non extradition nation in South America but my Spanish is rusty at best.
I was sitting there in the booth, tapping my pen against the want ads, and hoping against hope I would find a job that wouldn’t require some kind of documentation until I could find someone to make them for me of course, when a big man with a dirty white apron over his even bigger belly stopped before my table.
“Can I speak to you for a minute?” he had asked me.
I just hesitantly nodded because I was pretty sure I was about to get the boot from this fine establishment. And he should, it’s just like the handsome lawman said, I’m trouble and it’s obvious. I should have known in a small town rumors would travel faster than the speed of light.
I stand quickly and scoop up my tablet and crumpled paper. I have money, but not a lot. I wasn’t able to take a lot of money from Brandon. He ran the cash flow with an iron fist and the last thing I wanted to do was make him angry or worse—suspicious. I assumed it’s hard to go on the lamb when you’ve just had a bad beating. Also, it would make me stand out even more when I desperately don’t want to. So, while I have money, I don’t have a ton. I need to save this want ad and get the most out of it.
I follow the gruff man down a narrow hallway that leads to an even smaller back office like I’m being led to the gallows. Then again, who knows, maybe I am. He pushes open the door and motions for me to go in first. He’s being a gentleman, maybe, but it’s still hard for me to turn my back on him.
“Have a seat,” he says as he waves to the chairs in front of the desk. I choose one farthest away from him at the moment.
He sighs and then circles the desk to sit down behind it, putting one more thing between us. I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders but I’m still wary of this man I do not know. I should have been warier of the man I thought I did know. I guess some lessons are just learned the hard way.
“I need a waitress,” he says as he nods to the crumpled paper in my hands. “Experience is good but it’s not overly necessary.”
I sit there staring at him for a moment, unsure how to answer him.
“Do you have any experience?” he asks.
“N-no,” I whisper.
“That’s okay too. I had figured as much,” he says with kindness in his eyes and his voice soft.
“I d-don’t have—” I start.
“I know, doll,” he says. “I’ll pay you ten dollars an hour under the table. No paper trails.”
“Why?” I ask, unsure why anyone would help a stranger.
“My mom was the same,” he says as if that answers everything. I feel my lip twitch. I want to laugh at the thought that we’re all just ex-strippers on the run from a murder rap. I haven’t laughed in the longest time.
“I highly doubt that,” I say.
He points to the yellowed bruises between my right eye and my temple. I had almost forgotten they were there. “My father was a right bastard. No one cried when he died.”
I freeze. I hope he doesn’t know. That no one knows. If they do, I’ll have to move on again. But Texas isn’t that close to West Virginia.
“Do you want the job or not?” he asks. When I still haven’t answer he presses on, telling me exactly what I wish were true. “You’ll be safe here, I swear it.”
“Yes,” I said. “I want the job.”
Russell had handed me a uniform and I started the next day. It’s hard work, waiting tables, but I love it. I love that I’m making my own money and I love that Russell does make me feel safe here. He walks me to and from my car every day and asks me constantly if I’m alright. Even when the sexy ranger comes in twice a week for lunch or dinner. He never sits in my section and he always leaves me alone.
Three weeks later, I have a nice little nest egg. It’s not much, but it’ll be enough to get me an apartment of my own in another month or so. I wish it could be more but I didn’t want to raise Brandon’s suspicions and I was desperate to leave. Disappearing took just about all the cash I had managed to sneak out under his nose.
I was so thankful for this job, I asked Russell if I could use the kitchen after my shift. He was wary about anyone in his kitchen, Russell rules his domain with an iron fist and guards his kitchen like a mama bear would her cubs. That day, he watched me while he cooked but I didn’t pay him any mind. It was for him that I was baking my Gram’s strawberry pie.
I carefully constructed my crust in the pie tin, a cheap one from the grocery store. My only regret was not being able to bring Gram’s old pie pan with me. I cleaned up my mess while the crust baked and then mixed the bowl of fresh strawberries I had washed and chopped the day before with the sugary mix of the pie filling.
I pull the crust from the oven and spoon in my strawberry mix before popping it back in the oven. While it bakes I wash all the dishes I had used and scrubbed the prep counter I had made my temporary workspace. It’s like Gram always said, “Clean as you go and the dirty work is over twice as fast.”
When the timer dings, I pull my pie out of the hot oven and place it on the counter to cool. Hidden deep in my pocket is a note written on ugly motel stationary. I place it next to the pie on the counter before making my way over to Russell, who up until now, has been doing a crap job of pretending that he is not watching me move around his kitchen.
Dear Russell,
I don’t know what it is that you saw in me that day, but thank you. Whatever it was that made you stop me in your diner that day and offer me a job, I’m glad for it. You will never know how much you changed my life. I wish I could pay you back for everything that you have done for me, the job, and the protections and freedoms that it gives me, but I can’t. At least not yet so this pie is a down payment. It’s my Gram’s secret recipe. I used to find safety and security in her kitchen with her and now I find those same things here with you. Such silly things I took for granted until I didn’t have them anymore. So thank you.
-Abby
“What was that for, doll?” he’d asked.
“Just thank you . . . for everything. Enjoy the pie,” I said as I kiss his cheek. Russell blushes bright red under his beard.
“It was nothing,” he said shyly.
“It was everything,” I said and then I walked out of the kitchen and went back to my motel home. The very next day, Russell asked me to make a pie for the diner. Now I make pies every morning. It’s part of my routine. My new life.
I hear a sweet laugh and look to the front of the cafe. Ellie and Gunner Mathews sit on one side of the booth, while Ari and Jeff Johnson sit across from them, laughing about something Gunner said. I didn’t hear what, but I stop wiping the table down and look over at them across the cafe.
I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to love and be loved like that—a timeless love that lasts the ages—one with the freedom to be yourself, exactly who you are meant to be, but also the comfort and knowledge that you are safe and protected, cherished even. I wonder what that feels like because one thing I’m sure of, I have never felt like that before.
I’m not sure that I ever loved Brandon. I know that I loved the idea of him. I loved that he promised me a way out of the trailer park and the ability to stop dancing in my underpants for shady men with quick hands. But the dreams of babies and country club dinners and white picket fences turned to dust years ago. Any love I had for Brandon died with those dreams.
Ellie laughs again and smiles a knowing smile at Ari. If only I knew then what I know now, but at nineteen, I thought I knew everything. I never knew what it felt like to have your dreams crushed or your ribs broken. Daddy might have gambled, but at least he never knocked us around.
That thought makes me incredibly sad. I wish I had grownup with the kind of childhood that teaches you to raise your standards not just except shit because it’s all you know. Well that ends here and now. It ends today.
I look back one more time just before the bell sounds over the front door. It’s nice to see couples that seem so happy and in love, so confident in each other and their marriages that they carry themselves as if they have no fears. And just as sure as they are in their marriages, I’m sure that that life is not for me. If there is one thing I have learned over the years, it’s that my taste in men is shit. I obviously can’t be trusted to find a good man. No, I will never get married again.