Kiss Me If You Dare (26 page)

“Who would think to look for me in a place like Churchill Falls? Come on, it’s the perfect hideout.”

He shook his head, doubtful. “Too small. Too remote. Too far away.”

“Like I said, it’s perfect.” I didn’t tell him I’d be returning in a little over a week. He might not be as open to driving me if he thought I’d deceived him.

On our way out, I waved to my horse. Poor Goldie. Would I ever get a chance to spend time with her? My life felt like one of those rides I used to love at the fair when I was young. Life spun so fast, I spent most of my time plastered to the wall. And when things slowed down, I was too motion sick to feel like doing much of anything. It seemed any attempt to slam on the brakes backfired, only adding to the chaos. Still, I couldn’t help but feel there were just a few more loose ends flying in the breeze. Once those were tied up, I’d have that peaceful, serene life I wished for.

We drove through town, passing the bank, Sinclair’s

Grocery, and the Silvan Bay Grille. I pointed to the post office.

“Can you stop a minute? I’ve got a letter to mail.”

Puppa pulled up to the drop box and posted it for me. Then we were headed to Sawyer International, a fancy name for the airport south of Marquette. Past the sign for the cider mill, where I turned to get to Candice’s house for tea every Thursday. Past the sign for Valentine’s Bay Lodge, the house Sam and Cousin Joel stole from me. Past Silvan Corners and onto US-2, headed west, the same direction I’d taken that day I’d run away from everything . . . and everyone. A quick stop at the convenience store in Rapid River, then north on 41.

“You sure about this?” Puppa asked as we neared our destination.

“Very.”

“You don’t know anyone there. How are you going to get along? How will you get a job? Where will you live?” Puppa asked.

“Come on,” I said, swatting his arm. “You’re taking all the adventure out of it. It’s not fun if you’ve got everything planned ahead.” I stole a glance his way. “Have you even heard of Churchill Falls before now?”

To my surprise, he nodded. “Once. A long time ago.” I gave him a questioning look.

“Jake, your dad, was looking into it when he was young,” Puppa said. “Thought he’d like working at a power plant. A lot like the paper mill, he figured. But, I never heard of it again.”

My brain churned. “Do you think . . .”

“No,” Puppa cut me off. “I already looked into it. No Jacob Russo in Churchill Falls.”

The snap in his voice shut down the topic.

I stared at the snow-covered pines flying past and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Why did I even get my hopes up when it came to my father? Couldn’t I just accept the fact the guy had dropped off the face of the planet, or more likely was dead? But it seemed the fairy-tale princess inside me wanted to believe in magic. Wanted to believe she had a father out there somewhere who wasn’t a penniless frog, but a king in disguise, ready to throw a banquet for his long-lost daughter the moment of their reunion.

My knuckle caught an escaping tear. I slouched in my seat, afraid to say anything more in case my voice came out a pathetic
croak
.

We followed the signs to the airport. Puppa parked the truck and came inside the clean, modern facility, visiting with me as I printed my boarding pass at the kiosk, then brought my suitcase to the small-town baggage checkpoint where my luggage was inspected on a table while I watched. The guard rubbed circular white pads on the inside surfaces, in case I was some terrorist with bomb-making residue on my clothing. Other passengers scrutinized the process as they waited in line, leaving me glad I packed my undies on the bottom. The security officer put the chemical pads under a sensor, then gave me the green light.

Puppa and I headed toward the waiting area, where he could sit with me until the boarding call. At that point, airline passengers would go through security screening to a separate waiting area that had everything but a restroom.

“There’s no guarantee you’ll be safe from Majestic and his goons even in Churchill Falls, you know,” Puppa said.

“I know. But I figure if anyone gives me trouble, law enforcement can step in.”

“I don’t know if you’re faithful or foolish, Patricia. Sometimes you ask God to perform a miracle to cover your back, when you’re someplace you shouldn’t be to begin with.”

I gave a nervous chuckle, remembering my bargain with God on the cliff that day. God had certainly held up his end of the deal and got me out of my tight spot. But here I was, about to do something else stupid. Was God obligated to rescue me from this whopper of a mission, or had he already done his part and could now just sit back and laugh as I dangled from the next tricky spot? With revenge my prime directive, I resolved it was too much to ask of God to go with me anyway. I’d have to leave God here at Sawyer International and hope he’d be waiting for me when I returned.

The call for my flight came over the loudspeaker.

Puppa stood. “Well, Patricia. I’m going to miss you. I wish you could have stayed put awhile. I sure enjoy your company.”

“I’ll be back. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again, maybe sooner than you think.” Yeah, but would he ever speak to me again after what I had planned for his girlfriend? Maybe that “friend’s” apartment in Havana was waiting for the possibility of Puppa reconciling with Candice.

If that were the case, Puppa might not appreciate my quest for justice.

We hugged.

“Take care, Patricia. I love you,” Puppa said, walking me to the security line.

“I love you too. I’ll be fine. Now go.” I gave him a playful swat and watched him leave the building, wishing I could have my revenge and still keep my grandfather. But somehow, I knew I couldn’t have both.

32

A night in an airport lounge chair and a night in a Goose Bay hotel room. I was convinced there was no difference between them when it came to quality of sleep. Maybe it was my nerves that had kept me awake, or maybe second thoughts. Either way, I felt caged sitting in the commuter plane on the last leg of my journey, a bundle of pent-up energy ready to explode or expire. I looked through the scratched-up Plexiglas window as the noisy Provincial liner circled the Churchill Falls field.

From my seat in the air, the town looked like a wheel with two sides lopped off. An extension of long, straight roads ran off in one direction, ruining any symmetry that might have pleased visitors from outer space. To the south, hills rose on the horizon. And to the north, there was nothing but a flat expanse of snow and water.

With a final turn, the plane landed and the sparse array of occupants disembarked. Inside the terminal, I claimed my oversized suitcase and hooked up with a local woman heading to town.

The middle-aged brunette gave me a running commentary on the company-owned settlement as we headed to the inn, where Koby, my thoughtful travel planner, had booked a room for me.

The car traveled east on Churchill Falls Road and hung a right toward the lopped-off wheel part of town. We turned on a street that began with an
O
but was impossible to pronounce. And by the time we reached our destination, I’d given up on trying to read the French-Canadian and native Inuit words.

According to my hostess, the Churchill Falls power plant and the community that served it had been built in the early seventies. My hotel room confirmed the story, the architecture and amenities testimony that no updates had been made since then.

But beds were beds, and within moments of bolting the door to my room, I climbed under the covers and fell asleep. I must have been dreaming, but I could have sworn I heard the doorknob jiggle, and the door creak open. A man entered the room. It was Brad. He’d found me and come to take me home. He snuck over to the bed and leaned over me. I could feel his hot breath on my cheek, the heat of his skin where his hand touched my neck, the brush of his lips to mine . . . Still dreaming, I jerked open my eyes. Brad dissolved like a vapor, gone. I sat up in bed, checking the room. Empty.

Disappointed, I flopped back to my pillow and tried to shut down my brain.

A few hours later, I woke to the squawk of hunger pangs. I sat up, throwing off the green and yellow floral bedspread, and yawned. When we’d pulled up to the inn, my driver had called the building the Town Center, mentioning that the complex also housed the school, theater, library, bank, post office, and most importantly, a restaurant.

I freshened up in the mirror, running a brush through the hair I’d managed to save from Maize’s scissors. The California summer had bleached the ends to a straw color now topped by dark winter roots. With my daily wardrobe consisting of a sweatshirt, jeans, and a ponytail, it was easy to forget there was such a thing as style. I threw on a dab of makeup, hoping to perk up my still-sleepy eyes. A fresh coat of lipstick, a cardigan over a turtleneck, and I was headed down the hall toward food.

But when the restaurant appeared dark and closed, I walked to the front desk instead.

I cleared my throat hoping for the clerk’s attention.

“Excuse me, where would I get something to eat?” I asked.

The woman laid the novel she’d been reading facedown on the desk and stood, walking to the counter.

“Sorry. Restaurant’s closed. Chef quit last week.”

My stomach gurgled. “What about the grocery store? Isn’t there one in this building?”

“Grocery store, bank, post office, school, you name it, it’s in here. But you can’t shop until Thursday. It’s closed for the holiday.”

A squeak from my intestines. “But Christmas was yesterday.”

“It’s always closed Sunday and Monday, but since they fell on holidays, the employees get two extra days off. That’s the way it is with The Company.”

“Oh.”
Squeeeeeek
. My stomach roiled with hunger.

The look on my face must have earned her pity.

“Here.” She handed me a slip of paper. “It’s a voucher for the mess hall. That’s where the plant workers eat. Probably better than what you’d get here anyway.”

I took the paper like it was manna. “Which way do I go?”

She pointed at the front door. “Out there, then take a right on Naskaupi. It’s about a half kilometer down.”

“Thanks.” I walked back to my room to bundle against the frigid wind, glad for the attack of good sense that overcame me during my layover in Boston. I slipped into my new hip-length cream parka with fur trim, feeling chic enough to put Lara Croft to shame. A pair of snuggly wool-lined boots, hat, and mittens, and I was ready to take on the frozen tundra.

Not another soul braved the weather. I hiked alone down the street, grateful everything I’d need during my stay was contained in a one-mile radius. Snow had begun to fall and a steady breeze kicked up swirls that stung my cheeks. I pulled my hood tight around my face and stood under the glow of a streetlight looking at the building marked Staff Dormitory & Mess Hall. My stomach plunged, suddenly no longer hungry, as I wondered what I’d really do to Candice LeJeune if I actually found her. I resisted taking another step, the voice in my head screaming, “Go back! Go back!”

But the thought of Brad, wasting away at River’s Edge, never again to be mine, kept me moving toward the door. I pulled it open. Light streamed onto the snow. I stepped inside and brushed off the flakes. A scattering of plant employees sat around several cafeteria-style tables. An array of steaming food was set up off to one side, the smell of turkey and stuffing curing my temporary nausea. After briefly making eye contact with a few curious onlookers, I bellied up to the buffet, handed over my voucher, and piled my plate high.

The recluse in me saw a solitary spot at a far-off table. But the bloodhound in me led me toward a table of four.

“Mind if I join you?” I gave a big, friendly smile to the three men and one woman.

“Go ahead.” The woman gestured for me to take a seat.

I set my tray down and scooted into a chair.

“What brings you to town this time of year? Family?” she asked.

I mulled over my answer. Candice could be considered family. She’d always said I was like a granddaughter to her. “Yes. Family.”

“What’s the name? We probably know them.” The man spoke with a French accent.

The group gave a laugh.

“I suppose you know everybody in town.” I smiled along with them.

“If they’ve been here any length of time, we know them,” said the French-speaking man.

“Ah,” I said. “What about one who arrived recently?” I dug in my purse for the picture of Candice I’d packed for a moment just like this.

“Sometimes. If they’ve been over to the bar,” he chortled.

“I’m looking for my grandmother. Her name’s Candice LeJeune, but she may be here under another name.”

“Ah, she is running from an ex-husband, no doubt.” I shrugged. “Something like that.” I set the photo on the table. “Have you seen her?”

The dark-haired Frenchman picked up the photo. “She is very young and beautiful. It is easy to see why she is being hunted.”

“The photo was taken more than twenty years ago. She’s in her midsixties by now. But she looks about the same as she did back then.”

“It would not be wise to hide in Churchill Falls if you are an older person. Here, they must leave town at retirement age. The Company only rents to active employees. All others must go.”

I watched as the group passed the photo, looking at Candice’s picture and shaking their heads. Disappointment swelled in my throat.

“Thanks. I’m staying at the inn, if you happen to see her. I’m Tasha Stewart, by the way.” At the last moment, I decided that my pseudonym would be a safer route, though my travel arrangements had been made under the name Patricia Amble. I could imagine the innkeeper’s confusion if someone did try to contact me.

I dug into my meal, savoring the juicy breast meat and gravy. In my mind, I thanked God for the Christmas feast, even though I didn’t deserve it. I dabbed at my mouth with a napkin, catching the Frenchman looking at me. I blushed, uncomfortable under his gaze.

“I am sorry to stare at you. You remind me so much of a girl that is a friend to my daughter.”