Truly Madly Yours Read online

  “Oh?” Helen reached for a mushroom and scooted down the line. “I must not have heard her right.”

  Delaney doubted there was anything wrong with Helen’s hearing. Her hair was another matter, however, and if Delaney hadn’t already planned to leave in a few days, and if she were a nicer person, she might have offered to snip some of the damage. She might have even slapped a protein pack on Helen’s frizzy hair and wrapped her whole head in cellophane. But she wasn’t that nice.

  Her gaze scanned the dining room filled with people until she located her mother. Surrounded by friends, every blond hair in perfect order, her makeup flawless, Gwen Shaw looked like a queen holding court. Gwen had always been the Grace Kelly of Truly, Idaho. She even resembled her somewhat. At forty-four, she could pass for thirty-nine and, as she was fond of saying, looked much too young to have a daughter who was twenty-nine.

  Anywhere else, a fifteen-year age difference between mother and daughter might have raised more than a few brows, but in small-town Idaho, it wasn’t uncommon for high school sweethearts to marry the day after graduation, sometimes because the bride was about to go into labor. No one thought anything of teenage pregnancy, unless of course the teen wasn’t married. That sort of scandal fueled the gossip fires for years.

  Everyone in Truly believed the mayor’s young wife had been widowed shortly after she’d married Delaney’s biological father, but it was all a lie. At fifteen, Gwen had been involved with a married man, and when he’d found out she was pregnant, he dumped her and she left town.

  “I see you came back. I thought you might be dead.”

  Delaney’s attention was drawn to Old Mrs. Van Damme hunched over an aluminum walker and teetering toward a deviled egg, her white hair plastered with finger waves just as Delaney remembered. She couldn’t recall the woman’s first name. She didn’t know if she’d ever heard it used. Everyone had always referred to her as Old Mrs. Van Damme. The woman was so ancient now, her back bowed with age and osteoporosis, she was turning into a human fossil.

  “Can I help you get something to eat?” Delaney offered, standing a little straighter while counting back to the last time she’d had a glass of milk, or at the very least a calcium-enriched Tums.

  Mrs. Van Damme snagged an egg, then handed Delaney her plate. “Some of that and that,” she directed, pointing to several different dishes.

  “Would you like salad?”

  “Makes me gassy,” Mrs. Van Damme whispered, then pointed at a bowl of ambrosia. “That looks good, and some of those chicken wings, too. They’re hot, but I brought my Pepto.”

  For such a frail little thing, Old Mrs. Van Damme ate like a lumberjack. “Are you related to Jean-Claude?” Delaney joked, attempting to interject a little levity in the otherwise somber occasion.

  “Who?”

  “Jean-Claude Van Damme, the kickboxer.”

  “No, I don’t know any Jean-Claude, but maybe they got one living in Emmett. Those Emmett Van Dammes are always in trouble, always kicking up about something or another. Last year Teddy-my late brother’s middle grandchild-got arrested for stealing that big Smokey the Bear they had standing in front of the forest service building. Why’d he want something like that, anyway?”

  “Maybe because his name is Teddy.”

  “Huh?”

  Delaney frowned. “Never mind.” She shouldn’t have tried. She’d forgotten that her sense of humor wasn’t appreciated in redneck towns where men tended to use their shirt pockets for ashtrays. She sat Mrs. Van Damme at a table near the buffet, then she headed for the bar.

  She’d often thought the whole after-the-funeral ritual of gathering to eat like hogs and get drunk was a bit odd, but she supposed it existed to give the family comfort. Delaney didn’t feel comforted in the least. She felt on display, but she’d always felt that way living in Truly. She’d grown up as the daughter of the mayor and his very beautiful wife. Delaney had always fallen a little short somehow. She’d never been outgoing or boisterous like Henry, and she’d never been beautiful like Gwen.

  She walked into the parlor where Henry’s cronies from the Moose Lodge were holding down the bar and reeking of Johnnie Walker. They paid her little attention as she poured herself a glass of wine and stepped out of the low heels her mother had insisted she borrow.

  Even though Delaney knew that she was sometimes compulsive, she really had only one addiction. She was a shoe-aholic. She thought Imelda Marcos got a bad rap. Delaney loved shoes. All shoes. Except little pumps with stubby heels. Too boring. Her tastes leaned toward stilettoes, funky boots, or Hercules sandals. Her clothes weren’t exactly conventional, either. For the last few years she’d worked at Valentina, an upscale salon where customers paid a hundred dollars to get their hair cut and expected to see their stylist in trendsetting clothes. For their money, Delaney’s customers wanted to see short vinyl skirts, leather pants, or sheer blouses with black bras. Not exactly proper funeral attire for the stepdaughter of a man who’d ruled the small town for many years.

  Delaney was just about to exit the room when the conversation stopped her.

  “Don says he looked like a charcoal briquette by the time they got him out.”

  “Hellva way to die.”

  The men shook their collective heads and drank their scotch. Delaney knew the fire had occurred in a shed Henry had built across town. According to Gwen, he’d taken a recent interest in breeding Appaloosas, but he hadn’t cared for the smell of manure near his house.

  “Henry loved those horses,” said a Moose in a cowboy-cut leisure suit. “I heard tell a spark caught the barn on fire, too. There wasn’t much left of those Appaloosas, just some femur bones and a hoof or two.”

  “Do you think it was arson?”

  Delaney rolled her eyes. Arson. In a town that had yet to plug into cable television, Truly loved nothing more than listening to gossip and spreading intrigue. They lived for it. Ate it up like a fifth food group.

  “The investigators from Boise don’t really think so, but it hasn’t been ruled out.”

  There was a pause in the conversation before someone said, “I doubt the fire was intentional. Who would do that to Henry?”

  “Maybe Allegrezza.”

  “Nick?”

  “He hated Henry.”

  “So did a lotta people, if the truth be told. Burning a man and his horses is a helluva lotta hate. I don’t know if Allegrezza hated Henry that much.”

  “Henry was plenty ticked about those condos Nick is buildin‘ out on Crescent Bay, and the two of them almost got into a fistfight about it down at the Chevron a month or two ago. I don’t know how he got that piece of property from Henry, but he sure as hell did. Then he went and built condos all over the damn place.”

  Again they shook their heads and tipped their glasses. Delaney had spent a lot of hours lying on the white sands and swimming in the clear blue water of Crescent Bay. Coveted by most everyone in town, the Bay was a prime piece of real estate located on a large expanse of undeveloped beach. The property had been in Henry’s family for generations, and Delaney wondered how Nick had gotten his hands on it.

  “Last I heard, those condos are making Allegrezza a fortune.”

  “Yep. They’re being snapped up by Californians. Next thing you know, we’ll be overrun by latte-sippin,‘ dope-smokin’ pantywaists.”

  “Or worse-actors.”

  “Nothin‘ worse then a do-gooder like Bruce Willis moving in and trying to change everything. He’s the worse thing that ever happened to Hailey. Hell, he moves up there, renovates a few buildings, then thinks he can tell everyone in the whole damn state how to vote.”

  The men concurred with a mutual nod and disgruntled scoff. When the conversation turned to movie stars and action films, Delaney walked unnoticed from the room. She moved down the hall to Henry’s study and closed the pocket doors behind her. On the wall behind his massive mahogany desk, Henry’s face stared down at her. Delaney remembered when he’d had the portrait painted. She�
��d been thirteen, about the time she’d first attempted to exert a little independence. She’d wanted to pierce her ears. Henry had said no. It was neither the first nor certainly the last time he’d exercised his control over her. Henry had always had to have control.

  Delaney sat in the huge leather chair and was surprised to see a picture of herself sitting on the desk. She recalled the day Henry had taken the photograph. It was the day her whole life had changed. She’d been seven and her mother had just married Henry. It was the day she’d walked out of a single wide on the outskirts of Las Vegas and, after a short flight, into a three-story Victorian in Truly.

  The first time she’d seen the house, with its twin turrets and gabled roof, she’d thought she was moving into a palace, which meant Henry was obviously a king. The mansion was surrounded by forest on three sides, cut back to allow beautifully landscaped lawn while the backyard gently sloped toward the cool waters of Lake Mary.

  Within hours, Delaney had departed poverty and landed in a storybook. Her mother was happy and Delaney felt like a princess. And on that day, sitting on the steps in a frilly white dress her mother had forced her to wear, she’d fallen in love with Henry Shaw. He was older than the other men in her mother’s life had been-nicer, too. He didn’t yell at Delaney, and he didn’t make her mother cry. He made her feel safe and secure, something she’d felt all too infrequently in her young life. He’d adopted her and he was the only father she’d ever known. For those reasons, she loved Henry and she always would.

  It was also the first time she’d laid eyes on Nick Allegrezza. He’d popped out of the bushes in Henry’s yard, his gray eyes blazing hatred, his cheeks mottled with anger. He’d scared her, yet she’d been fascinated by him at the same time. Nick had been a beautiful boy, black hair, smooth tan skin, and eyes like smoke.

  He’d stood in the buckbrush, his arms at his sides, stiff with rage and defiance. All that rebellious Basque and Irish blood raging within his veins. He’d looked at the two of them, then he’d spoken to Henry. Years later Delaney couldn’t remember the exact words, but she would never forget the angry sentiment.

  “You make sure you steer clear of him,” Henry had said as they’d watched him turn and leave, his chin up, back straight.

  It wouldn’t be the last time he would warn her to stay away from Nick, but years later, it was one warning she wished she’d listened to.

  Nick shoved his legs into his Levi’s, then stood to button the fly. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman tangled in motel sheets. Her blond hair fanned about her head. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and easy. Gail Oliver was the daughter of a judge and the recently divorced mother of a young son. To celebrate the end of her marriage, she’d had her tummy tucked and her breasts implanted with saline. At Henry’s funeral she’d walked up to him as bold as brass and announced she wanted him to be the first to see her new body. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she’d thought he should feel flattered. He wasn’t. He’d wanted a distraction, and she’d offered it. She’d acted offended when he’d pulled the Harley to a stop in front of the Starlight Motel, but she hadn’t asked him to take her back home.

  Nick turned from the woman in bed and moved across green carpet to a sliding glass door that led onto a small deck overlooking Highway 55. He hadn’t planned on attending the old man’s funeral. He still didn’t know exactly how it had happened. One minute he’d been standing on Crescent Beach going over some specs with a subcontractor, then the next thing he knew, he was on his Harley heading for the cemetery. He hadn’t meant to go. He’d known he was persona non grata, but he’d gone anyway. For some reason he didn’t want to examine too closely, he’d had to say good-bye.

  He moved to a corner of the deck, away from the light spilling onto the wooden planks, and was quickly enveloped in darkness. Reverend Tippet had hardly uttered the word “amen” before Gail, wearing that filmy little dress with the tiny straps, had propositioned Nick.

  “My body is better at thirty-three than it was at sixteen,” she’d whispered in his ear. Nick couldn’t remember clearly what she’d looked like at sixteen, but he did remember she’d liked sex. She’d been one of those girls who loved to get laid but wanted to act like a virgin afterward. She used to sneak out of her house and scratch on the back door of the Lomax Grocery where he’d worked after hours sweeping the floor. If he’d been in the mood, he’d let her in and bang her on a box of freight or on the checkout counter. Afterward she’d behave as if she were doing him a favor. They’d both known different.

  The cool night air tossed his hair about his shoulders and brushed across his bare skin. He hardly noticed the chill. Delaney was back. When he’d heard about Henry, he’d figured she’d come home for his funeral. Still, seeing her on the other side of the old man’s casket, with her hair dyed about five shades of red, had been a shock. After ten years she still reminded him of a porcelain doll, smooth as silk and delicate. Seeing her brought it all back, and he remembered the first time he’d laid eyes on her. Her hair had been blond then, and she’d been seven years old.

  On that day over two decades ago, he’d been standing in line at the Tasty Freeze when he’d first heard about Henry Shaw’s new wife. He couldn’t believe the news. Henry had married again, and since everything Henry did interested Nick, he and his older brother Louie had hopped on their old stingrays and peddled around the lake to Henry’s huge Victorian house. With the spinning of his bicycle tires, Nick’s head spun, too. He knew Henry would never marry his mother. They’d hated each other for as long as Nick could remember. They didn’t even speak. Mostly Henry just ignored Nick, but maybe that would change now. Maybe Henry’s new wife would like kids. Maybe she’d like him.

  Nick and Louie hid their bikes behind pine trees and crawled on their bellies beneath the thick buck-brush edging the terraced lawn. It was a spot they knew well. Louie was twelve, older than Nick by two years, but Nick was better at waiting than his brother. Maybe it was because he was used to waiting, or because his interest in Henry Shaw was more personal than his brother’s. The two boys made themselves comfortable and prepared to wait.

  “He ain’t comin‘ out,” Louie complained after an hour of surveillance. “We’ve been here for a long time, and he ain’t comin’ out.”

  “He will sooner or later.” Nick looked at his brother, then returned his attention to the front of the big gray house. “Has too.”

  “Let’s go catch some fish in Mr. Bender’s pond.”

  Every summer Clark Bender stocked the pond in his backyard with brown trout. And every summer the Allegrezza boys relieved him of several twelve-inch beauties. “Mom will get mad,” Nick reminded his brother, last week’s experience with the wooden spoon across his palms still fresh in his mind. Usually Benita Allegrezza defended her boys with blind ferocity. But even she couldn’t deny Mr. Bender’s accusation when the two had been escorted home stinking of fish guts, several choice trout dangling from their stringer.

  “She won’t find out ‘cause Bender’s out of town.”

  Nick looked at Louie again, and thinking of all those hungry trout made his hands itch for his fishing rod. “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  He thought of the pond and all those fish just waiting for a Pautzke’s and a sharp hook. Then he whipped his head back and forth and clenched his jaws. If Henry got married again, then Nick was going to stick around to see his wife.

  “You’re crazy,” Louie said with disgust and scooted backward, out of the buckbrush.

  “Are you goin‘ fishing?”

  “No, I’m goin‘ home, but first I gotta drain the lizard.”

  Nick smiled. He liked it when his older brother said cool stuff like that. “Don’t tell Mom where I am.”

  Louie unzipped his pants and sighed as he relieved himself on a Ponderosa. “Just don’t be gone so long she figures it out.”

  “I won’t.” When Louie jumped on his bike and peddled away, Nick returned his gaze to the front of th
e house. He propped his chin in his hand and watched the front door. While he waited, he thought about Louie and about how lucky he was to have a brother who was going into the seventh grade. He could talk to him about anything and Louie never laughed. Louie had already seen the puberty film in school, and so Nick could ask him important questions, like when he was likely to get hair on his balls, stuff a guy just couldn’t come right out and ask his Catholic mother.

  A wood ant crawled up Nick’s arm, and he was just about to smash it between his fingers when the front door opened and he froze. Henry walked out of the house and paused on the veranda to look over his shoulder. He motioned with his hand, and a little girl stepped through the doorway. A mass of blond curls framed her face and cascaded down her back. She placed her hand in Henry’s and the two of them walked across the porch and down the front steps. She wore a frilly white dress with lacy socks like girls wore to their First Communion, but it wasn’t even Sunday. Henry pointed in Nick’s general direction, and Nick held his breath, fearing he’d been detected.

  “Right back there,” Henry said to the little girl as they moved across the lawn toward Nick’s hiding place. “There’s a great big tree that I’ve thought could use a treehouse in it.”

  The little girl looked up at the towering man by her side and nodded. Her golden curls bounced like springs. The girl’s skin was a lot paler than Nick’s, and her big eyes were brown. Nick thought she looked like those little dolls his Tia Narcisa kept locked in a glass cabinet, away from clumsy boys with dirty hands. Nick had never been allowed to touch the pretty little dolls, but he’d never really wanted to anyway.

  “Like Winnie the Pooh?” she asked.

  “Would you like that?”

  “Yes, Henry.”

  Henry lowered to one knee and looked into the girl’s eyes. “I’m your father now. You can call me Daddy.”

  Nick’s chest caved in and his heart pounded so hard he couldn’t breathe. He’d waited his whole life to hear those words, but Henry had said them to a pale-faced stupid girl who liked Winnie the Pooh. He must have made a sound because Henry and the girl looked right at his hiding spot.