“Pink,” he said patiently, “I believe Taylor is up to the task, and I’m certain she’ll leave no stone unturned to find out who’s behind this. In the meantime, let’s carry on as usual and keep this between the three of us. If the media get wind of this, CERF will be a distant memory. No one will send any more contributions, and even though we’ve got a lot to work with, we need a lot more.”
I didn’t have much of a choice but to accept his decision. The only alternative was to call the cops, and that was definitely not in my best interest.
With conflicting emotions that ranged from fear to fury, I made my way back to my office and did my best to concentrate on work. Thirty minutes later, Mom called from DFW airport and demanded to know what was going on. I told her.
And she wigged out. Mom is something of a pessimist, although she claims only to be a realist. She went off on me about prison, that Taylor would sell me down the river, that whoever was behind it had clearly set it up for me to be the scapegoat. “You have to look into this yourself, Pink. I’ll help.”
“It’s out of my hands, Mom.”
“That’s a load of BS. Somebody framed you. For all we know, it could be Taylor, and there’s no way we’re leaving this up to her. If Parker Davis wants to argue about it, we’ll sic Ed on him. And speaking of Ed, have you called him?”
“Ed can’t do anything, Mom. Why freak him out?”
“He’s your attorney, Pink. And you like him.” She was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Have you talked to Ed since you’ve been in Washington?”
“Once.”
“You’ve been gone over two weeks. What’s up? Is this about that stupid billboard thing?”
No use lying. It would only prolong the misery. “I was so certain it was Ed who bought the billboard. After Steve Santorelli gave me a Mercedes, Ed made it sound like a contest, like he had to one-up Steve. A few days later, I see a Midland billboard that says Marry Me, Pink. Who wouldn’t think it was Ed?”
“You should have found out for sure before you went over to Ed’s and said no.”
“Gee, thanks, Mom.”
“No need to be sarcastic.”
I sighed and broke a pencil in half. “I’m sorry. Just thinking about that day makes me queasy.” It didn’t help that my first reaction was elation. Ed wanted me to marry him, and how awesomely romantic to ask on a billboard. I remembered feeling euphoric, my mind skipping ahead to what life as Mrs. Ed Ravenaldt would be like. We’d live in Ed’s quaint fixer-upper on the east side of old Midland. We’d get a cat. We’d meet at home during lunch and make crazy, passionate love to each other.
Then, less than twenty-four hours after seeing the billboard, reality set in. Bad memories from my disastrous first marriage moved in on all those squishy, happy thoughts and ruined everything. My ex-husband was a flaming philanderer. Ask any woman who’s been involved with a cheater and she’ll verify, it’s next to impossible to trust another man. I knew I couldn’t take it, the wondering every time Ed was out of pocket. I could hang out with Ed, sleep with him, spend entire weekends with him. But I couldn’t marry him. So I went over there and told him. When he said he wasn’t the one who bought the billboard, it was way beyond awkward.
Ed was pretty pissed, and who could blame him? I mean, what a bummer to get turned down before the question is asked. He was also pretty unhappy that Steve Santorelli was wowing me with romantic billboards. I had only myself to blame for that. Before I said no to Ed, I went on and on about how the billboard was awesome, how much it meant, and how clever. Blah, blah, blah. After that, Ed said he needed some space, that maybe it would be better if we didn’t see each other for a while.
It wasn’t just the billboard, and I knew that. As much as Ed and I are a perfect fit, our relationship from day one, when I hired him as my attorney during the whistle-blower thing, has been one of extremes. We’re either completely in tune with each other, or metaphorically facing each other over pistols at dawn.
Three days after the billboard fiasco, a catastrophic earthquake hit China, killing over two hundred thousand people, with thousands more injured or missing. Mom’s sister, Frederica, had spent nine years in China and still has a lot of friends there. Within twenty-four hours of the quake, she’d talked me into going with her to China, to help the survivors. After two weeks of horrors I’d never believe if I hadn’t seen them with my own eyes, I came back to the States. I’d scarcely unpacked before I got a call from Parker, asking me to come to Washington and help out at CERF.
Within the week, I was living in a small furnished loft in Washington, D.C., working for CERF, feeling like I was following my destiny. After what I saw in China, I was as passionate as Parker. Maybe more so.
“Call Ed,” Mom said now. “You’re in a bad spot, Pink, and he can help you. Whatever personal problems you have with Ed are irrelevant.”
She had a point. “He may tell me to go to hell.”
“No, he won’t.” She cleared her throat. “I need to go. I still don’t know why I let you talk me into this. The whole thing is making me antsy.”
Cripes. For at least the fortieth time, I wished I hadn’t convinced Mom to accept the invitation to the birthday dinner Steve’s dad was hosting. She was driving me nuts about it.
Mom grew up on a dirt farm in a family of ten kids, poor as Job’s turkey. She married right out of high school, had me, and became the ultimate hausfrau. When I was in college, she got up from her doormat position and told my dad to stick his autocratic belligerence where the sun don’t shine. She divorced him, went to college, and became a CPA. She’s a pretty woman. She’s a barracuda in business. But deep inside, she’s still a poor kid from the sticks, only one step away from her white-trash roots. Or so she thinks. On top of that, she has real issues with men. Now the thought of a romantic relationship flips her out, I guess because she’s afraid she’ll go back into doormat position. She avoids serious romance as diligently as she avoids IRS audits for her clients.
The birthday dinner posed a double threat. There would be senators, diplomats and Washington bigwigs there, and even though Mom can be as polished as the best of them, that kind of company scares her to death.
The other threat came from Steve’s dad. Despite my assurances that she was invited to the party as a courtesy, her romance antennae had gone haywire because Lou Santorelli called her to offer the invitation long before the invitations were mailed.
Okay, the truth is, Lou did ask Mom because he’s got a thing for her. But Mom couldn’t possibly know that. As far as she knew, she’d never met the man.
A few weeks earlier, Lou was in Midland, working undercover for an antiterrorist group, looking for terrorist financiers. He happened to meet Mom, who had no clue who he was, or even that he was male, because he was disguised as a very large woman. Lou’s pretty wacky. He was a POW in Vietnam, and like so many of those guys, it did something to him. Rules? Who needs ’em? He got it bad for Mom and asked her to the dinner via telephone, I think so he could talk to her as himself. It’s kinda cute, in a weird way. And I was dying to see how they hit it off.
“Mom, you’re a kick-ass CPA, and you can hold your own with überconservative businessmen. This is no different. Just be yourself.”
“Don’t you get it? Being myself is the bad part. I cuss like a sailor, have a tendency to bite heads off, and I’m way too opinionated. Besides, when I get flustered, this damn hick accent comes out so strong, people think I just fell off the cotton truck.”
“You just don’t get it, do you, Mom? All of that is what makes you so remarkable. You’re unique, interesting and funny.”
“And neurotic. Don’t forget neurotic.”
“So?