Widow's Row Read online

  The grandeur of the room stood in stark contrast to the man sitting in the center of its throne. I wondered what his wife must have been like, and why, for god’s sake, she left such a magnificent estate to him.

  I swallowed the last of the drink. “Thanks, Ari. If something comes to mind, let me know. About this woman, I mean.”

  Climbing the staircase and entering my new world, I was careful to turn the lock when I closed the door behind me. Me, the one who trusts everyone.

  Chapter Twelve

  Semen For Sale

  Ari thrust his ‘72 Dodge truck into four-wheel drive, maneuvering past the hidden airstrip. At exactly 1.4 miles, he veered off, taking an even more obscure dirt road leading to the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. To the informed eye, a thick wall of foliage indicated where the old cabin could be found hidden behind.

  He took another toke on the rolled marijuana cigarette and chased it with whatever he had left in an old flask from inside the glove compartment, then slid out from the filthy truck. “Bastard”, he muttered.

  “You’re late, buddy,” George Baird said, gliding his finger around the diamond bevel of his Rolex watch.

  “You got mud holes in your so-called road the size of Phoenix,” Ari said. “It’s not like I can take it like the Autobahn.”

  The small cabin offered little in creature comforts. Baird shifted his burly body into position behind the oak desk, indicating the small kitchen stool he expected Ari to take.

  “How are my new little chinchillas doing?” Baird asked.

  “‘Scuze me, you mean our chinchillas.”

  “No, Mr. Christenson. My money. My contacts. My chinchillas.”

  “And my ranch,” Ari fired back.

  Baird always allowed Ari Christenson his little outbursts, brokering for power he would never get. He pegged Ari as a loser desperate for greenbacks, and a great pawn, should things ever get sticky.

  The chinchilla business was legit and made for a nice cover. Before Baird learned the United Kingdom was banning fur farms in January of 2003, he didn’t know the difference between a chinchilla and an armadillo. But it all began to make perfect sense and he was quick to jockey into position. A small, laid-back town might create some hullabaloo over his fur trade and the ethical treatment of animals. Hell, that was good. They’d be too busy fussing over fur to see the real kind of trouble he was hosting.

  Beyond his wildest dreams, Baird’s men turned up the ranch in Southern Colorado and the idiot owner claiming to be in the cattle business. The Santa Gertrudis cattle were the missing ingredient. They were the ticket to the big money, and Baird’s contacts in Russia and Mexico made handsome investments to see it through to fruition.

  Storage capacity at the ranch fulfilled the final need. Baird had Christenson reinforce the walls of two long-abandoned poultry houses. Christenson didn’t give a damn what was stored in the coops, as long as he got paid for it. He didn’t ask any questions. That was good, because Christenson was a pot-smoking drunkard who might go out and get three sheets in the wind, then start crowing where no crow ought to fly.

  “I don’t get this scene,” Ari said. “My bulls are good old boys but they ain’t no champions. Even I know that.”

  “I don’t need champions, Ari, and I don’t need to explain this to you. All you need to know is you’re running a losing operation here, trying to sell off the scrawniest lot of Santa Gertrudis the world’s ever seen. Now, I’m offering you a way to keep your good old boys alive, and pay you for their services.”

  “You think I’m some fuckhead, but I know their semen ain’t worth nothin’.”

  “I’m telling you it’s worth something to me,” Baird said, rubbing his hand across his bald scalp. “That’s gonna be good enough for you, or we have no more to discuss.” When Baird’s Lucchese boots, crafted from African Elephant leather, started tapping on the wood floor Ari knew he had pushed his luck to the limit.

  “So, now I’m in the semen business,” Ari roared and raised his hands in the air above his head. “What the hell. Chinchillas seem a little pansy-ass, anyway.” He rose from the stool. “You got all my bad boys’ bullets you can manage. Mine too, if you like.”

  Baird’s raging face turned crimson but he said nothing, watching as Christenson strode out to the front porch to take a leak. “I do have indoor plumbing,” he said when Christenson returned.

  “Good thing, Mr. Baird,” Ari said, sitting back on the stool and plopping his Tevas on top of the desk, “cuz I’m ready for a twenty year old scotch. Neat.”

  Widow’s Row began appealing to me more and more. Most of the guys knew the rules. I was there to dance like all the other women occupying the line of barstools. Except Kate, of course, who was there to break the rules. It became clear Kate didn’t like going to bed alone.

  Besides Kate, two other regulars really were widows. I suspected another two were GRS patients making their debuts as femme fatales. They took to testing the waters to make sure they were ready to return to their hometowns, sans the male equipment and all female. I was amazed what natural beauties they were. Inside and out.

  After finishing a two-step with a homely looking kid with acne and bad tobacco breath, I slipped back on my barstool and into the conversation.

  “There’s gotta be some fresh male blood somewhere in this town,” Kate groaned, already in her sauces.

  “Unfortunately, your town has an unusual way with that male blood,” a GRS laughed. The deep voice was all that remained male. She’d scheduled vocal cord surgery over the upcoming Christmas holiday.

  “What about your mystery man out at the ranch?” Kate asked.

  “What mystery man?” I responded.

  “The mystery man in the basement,” Kate said.

  “Doesn’t seem your type,” I said.

  “If he’s breathing he’s my type, as long as his unit is still attached.” She flashed a knowing grin to all the ‘ladies’ on the row.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Speak No Evil

  Dad’s release from the hospital appeared imminent. While I busied myself trying to dig up information on Erin McGinnis, Kate found a retired nurse willing to exchange full-time nursing care for room, board and a nominal salary. I’d already given her the key to Dad’s house and instructed her to move into the guest room.

  Kate was right about one thing. Jonathan Marasco was a mystery man. I’d often watch him walk the ranchland or venture out to hike along one of the many trails, always alone. Every Tuesday morning he’d drive off, I guessed to do errands. Like clockwork, he would return to his garden level apartment shortly after noon. If I was going to introduce him to Kate, it would have to be on his Ritual Tuesday, and we’d have to be hanging around outside the main house around noontime.

  During the holidays the hospital tried to bring out the cheer. Hot-spiced cider, volunteers dressed as Santas and elves, and a field of plastic poinsettias provided an extra veil of bleakness.

  Dad was borderline-ready to be discharged, but when the doctor learned I was flying home to be with Adam for Christmas, he suggested it would be better if he took the blame and not sign the release papers. I guess he had my relationship with my father figured out by then.

  “I’ll be back January third, Dad. Then we’ll get you out of here.”

  He sat slumped in the chair, looking down, wringing his hands in his lap, and shaking his head. A speech therapist told me he was doing well considering the damage, but I had yet to hear him even try to speak to me.

  “When I get back we’ll have our own little Christmas,” I said. It couldn’t have been that big a deal to him. The last holiday we had spent together was when my mother was alive.

  I played a little Christmas music for him, some Nat King Cole and Bing Crosby collections I found in town. Seemed he almost wanted to reach out to me, but he didn’t. He shuffled his feet around a little, but not to the beat of the yuletide melodies.

  “I have a Christmas card for you, Dad. Though
t you might like to see it.” I placed the card in his hands. He placed a shaky but fierce grip on the envelope. Previously opened, all he needed to do was slide the card out. “I have a plane to catch. If you need anything, you have my cell number.”

  I kissed my father on his cheek, and left for the hallway. Collapsing against the wall outside his room, I took a deep breath—and listened.

  His voice was garbled and weak. The words came out slowly, but they came. “Mother of god,” my dad said.

  The card was old. I’d found it in the box marked Erin McGinnis.

  Adam wasn’t happy when he found out I signed a lease but lucky for both of us, he had just taken on the largest case in his firm’s history and would have little free time for me. Even when I was due to arrive for our Christmas holiday he explained he had an emergency hearing with the judge, so he sent a limo to pick me up at the airport. I climbed inside and started laughing.

  “I thought you couldn’t meet me. You’re the most unpredictable man I have ever met,” I said, after the driver closed the door.

  “You mean unpredictable Santa,” Adam grinned from behind the wispy curls of a flowing white beard and red hat. “Now, come here, little girl. Come sit on Santa’s lap.” He was pouring from the bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame before the driver even pulled away from the curb.

  “Santa doesn’t wear Armani suits, darling.” Hiking up my white skirt, I straddled my legs across his lap, accepting the flute of bubbly champagne. I pulled off his furry hat and yanked down the fluffy beard, smothering his face with kisses and nibbles.

  “I’ll give this little girl anything she wants for Christmas,” Adam said, scooting me aside to reach into his suit pants and pull out a black velvet box. “Merry Christmas, Breeze.”

  The diamond ring dazzled with elements of white light bouncing off layers of fine beveled cuts. I’d been wearing my mother’s engagement ring only because we’d never gotten around to picking out our own, blaming each other’s busy schedule.

  Adam lifted the ring from the box and slid it on my finger next to Mom’s. “It’s exchangeable if you don’t like it.”

  I couldn’t have imagined a more spectacular, or larger, stone.

  “It’s time we make it official,” Adam said.

  “Adam, we were never unofficial, but now that I see this rock I do like official very much.”

  “The election is in eleven months. It’s time to announce our engagement to the world.” He patted down the rich fabric of his black suit. “The press will be waiting when we arrive at the restaurant. Now I can start ripping your clothes off, ravage you, and present you to the world as a spent woman, or you can use the lighted make-up mirror and preen for the cameras,” he teased.

  “No time for both?”

  “All in good time.”

  My new life began as the limousine glided to a stop in front of The Mayflower Hotel. It was the life I had always imagined with Adam. He adjusted his Brioni tie, kissed me on the cheek, and told me to take a deep breath.

  The camera flashes started going off before the door opened. Obnoxious reporters shoved microphones in my face. Adam leaped out of the limo and put a protective arm around me, shielding me from their presence. He flattened his finger to his pursed lips and in response, the reporters quieted down.

  “As you know, I’m seeking election to become your next senator. But tonight is different. Tonight I’m introducing you to my fiancé.” He held up my newly adorned and sparkling left hand for the cameras. “It’s my pleasure to introduce Ms. Breecie Lemay as the future Mrs. Adam Chancellor.”

  Adam was a pro at handling the press. I had absolutely no idea what to say that wouldn’t come out gobbledygook. The reporters followed as we made our way into the Mayflower lobby, where pre-assembled press packages began flowing around the room. Adam allowed for a few posed photographs and briefly answered questions.

  “All the information you need is in the press release,” Adam said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need time with my bride-to-be.”

  “Wait a minute,” a reporter from The Washington Post yelled. “When’s the big day?”

  I squeezed Adam’s hand, rolling my eyes up toward the hotel’s famous gilded ceiling, muffling a giggle and wondering how he was going to get out of this one.

  “October third,” he said, squeezing my hand right back.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Surrender to Seduction

  I couldn’t believe Adam was so fast to think on his feet. We sat down at the table in the restaurant, watching as the last reporter hurried out of the hotel to meet press time.

  “That’s a relief,” Adam said, grabbing my hand and pulling me off my chair. “I was afraid we were going to have to order dinner here.”

  “I thought we were eating. Here. Where are we going?” A nice dinner didn’t sound like anything to fear. I was famished.

  He removed the keycard from his outer pocket and waved it in front of my eyes.

  “Ahhh. Not yet a senator,” I laughed, “and already an expert in indiscretions.”

  Adam had almost secured the hotel door bolt when the knock announced the arrival of room service. Silver trays with fruits, cheeses, and jumbo crab claws made a grand appearance. And oysters—real oysters without that Rocky Mountain surprise.

  After the waiter decanted the wine Adam discharged him, and this time he threw the lock on the door.

  “Man can’t live on mere food alone, babe, because this long distance relationship is hard on a man, and that’s no pun intended,” he said, rolling me onto the bed and biting at the side zipper of my skirt. “I can’t wait any longer.”

  Instinctively, my inner thighs began to tremble in anticipation. Even before I’d removed all my clothes, he was deep within the walls of my very being, kneading me with his familiar alchemy. The huskiness of his voice grew more urgent, but no matter how long it had been since the two of us made love, he would please me first. Adam was a master of control, bringing me deeper and deeper into my own fulfillment. He knew the pulse of my body, and at the moment of my consummation he plunged deeper and deeper, kissing and caressing my breasts, and then grabbing my hips, wanting even more, and taking all of me. He was strong and gentle, and voracious and sated. And all at the same delicious time.

  “I have something for you,” he panted into my ears.

  “I think you just gave it to me,” I whispered.

  He rolled across to retrieve his pants from the floor, pulling out another black velvet box.

  “Adam. I can’t accept any more gifts.”

  “You can, and you will. Indulge me,” he said, opening the case to reveal the Mikimoto necklace with perfect graduated pearls. I reached for them, and he snatched them away. “It’s bad luck. Let me put them on you,” he said.

  I sat up and lifted the thick strands of my long black hair to one side, offering the nape of my neck, but he pushed me back against the mound of pillows. “Not so fast,” he said.

  The pearls traced their way around my body with Adam’s skillful hands guiding them across my forehead, my cheeks, then falling across my open mouth so I could feel the grain of their rich texture against my teeth. He moved the strand between my breasts, across my abdomen, between my toes, and between my legs.

  “Adam, if you keep that up you know what will happen, don’t you?”

  He did. And it did.

  We savored nine days together filled with gastronomical dinners under twinkling white Christmas lights, dancing until closing under the spinning disco lights at private clubs, and candlelight then dancing across our naked bodies during rocket sex.

  We managed it all, even though Adam’s heavy workload didn’t let up over the holidays. He would run to meetings across town as I tried to catch up on pieces of my old life.

  Consumed by guilt, I stopped by my old law firm. I arrived to find my office crammed with file boxes and wilting plants. One of my partners stuck his head through the doorway and assured me they’d clear them out once I
was ready to go back to work. One of our paralegals followed me out the door, pulling me aside when we reached the elevator.

  “We really do miss you around here,” she said. “You’ve just caught us on a hectic day. Tom’s preparing for a pretrial conference, and...”

  “...I didn’t expect them to stop what they were doing just to entertain my visit,” I said.

  “I know you, Breecie. We all do. You’re still upset about winning the Anderson trial.”