GOD’S MONEY
I sit in the back seat of Patrick’s enormous, red, shiny pick-up truck as we blow past the Lighthouse Cathedral on the way to the family’s spread. The cathedral is Je-fricking-enormous, bright, and shiny under cobalt blue Texas skies surrounded by black topped parking lots that take up more real estate than the ones surrounding football stadiums. If I were God, I’d dress up in my finest suit, slick back my hair, and shave twice before I walked into this place – it’s intimidating.
I text Amelia.
Evie: Plans changed. I’m staying through Sunday. Medical emergency.
Amelia: You okay?
Evie: Yes. Not me.
Amelia: Good.
Evie: If you wouldn’t mind, could you check my place?
Amelia: No problem. I’ll take Victoria with me in case creepy stalker Fan is there.
Evie: Don’t say that.
Evie: Take a guy.
Evie: A big guy. You’ve got a set of keys, right?
Amelia: I think you gave them to me a while back.
Evie: There’s an extra mailbox key hanging on a hook next to the front door. It’s blue.
Evie: Check the box okay.
Evie: I get this weird feeling that something’s not right.
Amelia: I’m sure everything’s fine.
Evie: Let me know.
Amelia: Soon as I swing by.
The McAlister home’s a few miles down the road from the church. We stop at a gated community guardhouse for the few seconds it takes a guard to salute Patrick and wave us through. We motor past gated estates with expansive lawns, not that many trees, each lot situated on twenty or so acres circling around Lake Grapevine.
The guys exchange measured pleasantries but the vibes traveling through the air aren’t all that friendly. Patrick pulls into the driveway of a ranch style estate, punches in a code on a security box and waits as the gates open, driving inside. A large house is the hub with an attached five car garage, and four cabins scattered on the periphery.
“It looks the same,” Dylan says, opening the passenger, stepping out and holding his hand out to me, helping me step down from the truck.
“Not much has changed,” Patrick says.
“Fresh coat of paint. The house is yellow now, not white,” Dylan says.
“Mom wanted something bright and cheerful after her last bout with cancer. You haven’t been back since then?”
“Of course, I’ve been back since then,” Dylan says. “I arrived at night. When you weren’t here.”
“Right,” Patrick says. He lifts our suitcases from the truck bed onto the pavement and they split up the bags wheeling them up the driveway.
I accompany them into the main house expecting marble floors, gilded mirrors, and giant statues of Jesus. Instead there are honey colored hardwood floors, framed photos on the walls of laughing, smiling kids of all colors.
A thin sixty-something year old woman with sunshine yellow Doris Day hair moves into the kitchen’s entrance, sees Dylan, and stops dead in her tracks. She squeals in excitement like a teenage girl, her hands flying to her face. “My baby’s home!”
“Mom,” Dylan says, dropping the bags, walking the few yards toward her, pulling into a careful hug.
“I’m not china.” she says and smacks his arm. “Give me a real hug.”
His arms circle her waist more securely. She stands on tiptoes, planting a kiss on his cheek, tearing up.
It’s love I see around me. Love and warmth. An older man who could be a shorter, silver haired version of Dylan walks down the stairs toward me: his dad. There’s no judgment in his eyes, simply curiosity. “Welcome,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Pastor -- ”
“Dad,” Dylan says. “Meet my girlfriend, Evie Berlinger.”
“Honored to meet you, sir,” I say as he grips my hand so hard I fear it might fall off. “Dylan’s said so many nice things about you.”
“Apparently, you’re a miracle worker because he talks to you,” he says. “How’d you get him to do that? I’ve been trying to get him to talk to me for thirty-eight years.”
“Maybe he doesn’t talk to you, Bill,” Dylan’s mom says, “because you’re always lecturing him. Hi, Evie. I’m Rosemary, Dylan’s mom.”
“Mom! Give me a half second to make the introductions, please.”
“Lovely to meet you, Mrs. McAlister,” I say.
“Call me Rosemary. Come with me,” she motions. “We’ll let the boys catch up on boring guy stuff. Besides it’s cocktail hour somewhere and I need a drink. I bet you could use one too after being stuffed in that airplane for – where were you flying from?”
“Memphis.”
She grabs my hand and leads me into the kitchen.
Bill frowns. “Are cocktails prudent Rosemary? You know what the doctors said --”
“Screw the doctors,” she says as I follow behind her. “I’m having fun before the cancer games start up again.”
“It’s gorgeous here,” I say. “Is this where Dylan grew up?”
Rosemary and I are sitting next to each other at an intricately carved Spanish dining room table in the kitchen. The French doors are open onto a terracotta tiled back veranda. Flowered vines twirl around columns bolstering the portico. Potted herbs: basil, sage, oregano smell delicious.
Rosemary snaps open an old-fashioned silk fan and waves it in front of her face. “This house? Oh, no, honey. This is the house that God’s money bought.”
A Latina maid dressed in jeans and a T-shirt sets stainless steel bowls on the patio. Three dogs abandon the guys lounging around the swimming pool and race toward the food, gobbling it down like they haven’t eaten in days. The green lawn is deep and ends abruptly where it drops off into Lake Grapevine. A boathouse is tucked in a far corner of the property. Crickets croak as the sun sets in a hallelujah chorus of reds, oranges, yellows, and purples.
“We lived in an 1100 square-foot yellow wood-framed home in a poor part of Dallas for the first seven years of Dylan’s life,” she says. “Life wasn’t always green lawns, margaritas, and French manicures.”
She’s so down to earth it’s impossible not to like her. “What was that like?” I ask.
“Long hours for Bill in seminary. Even longer hours ministering at our first church. There was nothing fancy about that parish, the parishioners, or us for that matter. I cut coupons and we ate chicken casseroles. I have recipes for twenty different kinds stuffed in a box somewhere.”
“I loved the one with the taco chips on top.” Dylan peers in at us from the portico, and tips back a beer. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, Dylan. No need to hover. I’ll keep Evie safe.”
“I’m not hovering.” He makes his way to the fridge. “Did Maria make her famous guac?”
“Is it Friday?” his mom asks. “Third rack down. Bring us some and the home made chips while you’re at it.”
Dylan sets a tray of food on our table. “Holler if you need anything,” he says and heads back out to the pool carrying his own stash.
“You like him, don’t you?” Rosemary asks.
“Guilty.”
“What do you like about him?”
“His honesty. The fact that he works so hard at everything he does. His sense of humor. His kindness. He’s so real, so down to earth.”
“Hallelujah.” She lifts her glass in the air and I take that as a prompt to lift mine. “A toast.”
“A toast?”
“Here’s to someone finally liking Dylan for who he really is.”
We toast and toss back our drinks.
“Dylan needs someone to like him just for him.” Rosemary sighs and pushes herself up from the table. It’s then I see the tiredness wearing on her. She takes a bit longer to walk to the oven and open it, the smell of comfort food wafting through the kitchen.
“Can I help?”
“Casseroles are almost done, honey. I’m making one for tonight and three for the potluck tomorrow. I’m not going to do the vegetables until tomorrow ’cause they’ll just get soggy if I make them too early.”
Amelia’s words echo in my brain, ‘Tell his mother you love anything she cooks.’
“I bet your cooking is great,” I say.
“My cooking sucks. Tell me about your upbringing. Where’d you grow up?”
“Wisconsin. Illinois. Iowa for a short stint. We moved a lot.”
“Military brat?”
“Nope. Mom, my sister Ruby and I bounced around a bit. The houses were small. The apartments dingy. Not very many chicken casseroles.”
“Sounds interesting.” She removes the baking dishes from the oven with fat potholders and places them on racks on the large stove. “Was there love?”
“Yes. I just never knew how it would present itself.”
“Did your parents have a drug problem?”
“Mental health.”
Rosemary dips a tablespoon into the casserole, scoops out two generous helpings and clack-clacks them onto plates. “That’s tough, honey,” she says. “Look, I know coming here is a change in Dylan’s plans. Patrick intercepted you at the airport and laid some guilt trip on him. I wish I could tell you I wasn’t happy to see him, but honestly, I am.”
“He talks about you a lot.”
“I wish he visited more but he’s still uncomfortable and I don’t blame him. Do you know what’s going on with him, Evie? He doesn’t share all that much with me. If I poke the bear he’ll go into his cave and hibernate. Then I don’t talk to him for a month.”
“He’s definitely going through something. I don’t want to break his confidence, but if you ask him directly, I’m sure he’ll tell you.
“Do you think he’ll figure it out?”
A rush of sadness and raw need hit me like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Rosemary McAlister needs to make sure everything’s going to be all right.
“I think so. I’m doing my best to help anyway I can. I’d never bet against Dylan McAlister figuring things out.”
“Good. Keep helping him, Evie. He needs no bullshit people in his life. Did he tell you about his ex? Dixie?”
“A little.”
“What a fucking disaster she was. A gold digger with dollar signs popping out of her blue contact-tinted eyes.”
I cough, nearly choking on my chip.
“Oops, did I say the F word? My husband hates when I swear. But he’s not here, is he?” She sets two small plates of casserole on the table and sits back down. “I don’t know how much longer I get to be here. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around to make things right.”
“Mrs. McAlister …” My phone pings repeatedly.
“Dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s, honey. You take that,” she says. “Maria! Freshen up the cottage for Dylan and his girlfriend.”
I walk onto the patio, pluck my phone from my purse, and read my texts.
Madame: Call me. Now.
I dial her number and she picks up.
“I don’t even have the words to tell you how angry I am,” she says.
I walk away from the house onto the lawn. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re literally taking money out of Ma Maison’s pocket,” she says. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t fire you.”
Damn. “I’ll never do this again. I promise. This is a one time thing.”
“Oh, please, Evelyn,” she says. “I wasn’t born yesterday. Once a thief always a thief.”
“I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you? What can I do to make this better? Just tell me and I will do it.”
“Prove you still want this job. Prove you still want to work for Ma Maison.”
“I’ll be home in a few days. Book a client, keep my fee. I’ll do a freebie. I won’t take a dime. Will that make you happy?”
“It’s not about my happiness, Evelyn. It’s about boundaries. It’s about knowing your place. Clients come to Ma Maison because of our reputation. We vet clients, assign them to the escort we think would be the best match. We help you, but we do not work for you. You work for Ma Maison. And if you stop abiding by our rules, you are free to find other employment.”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth. “I’ll do it. Book it. Tell me where and when.”
“It’s already booked. The client’s in Texas. Dallas actually. Considering you’re in Dallas I thought this was meant to be.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night. A wedding. A new client wants a date for a wedding.”
How am I going to get away from Dylan? “He can’t go stag?”
“Does it concern you why he wants to drop five thousand on a date that lasts six hours?”
“Where and when?”
“The Sycamore Pines Country Club. He passed background checks. You’ll meet him at the club. 6 p.m. It’s a society event. Wear something upscale. Conservative cocktail attire. I’m thinking you packed that for your road trip with Dylan McAlister, who I’d love to throttle by the way.”
“Leave Dylan out of this.”
“That’s difficult, Evelyn.”
“It was my decision to travel with him.”
“It was a bad decision.”
“It was the best decision of my life. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
She hangs up.
How in the hell am I going to explain to Dylan that I’m leaving? I’ll just tell him I need a few hours away. That I need a few hours to talk privately with Mom. Facetime with her.
A text comes in from Amelia.
Amelia: All’s cool with your place.
Amelia: I’m watering the plant in your kitchen.
Evie: Great.
Evie: Hey, can you do me a favor? Text me tomorrow around 5:30.
Evie: Need an excuse to get out of something.
Amelia: Sure thing.
Amelia: By the way you got a letter.
Evie: My name typed. No return address?
Amelia: Yes.
Evie: Open it.
Amelia. K.
Amelia: Another letter from Fan.
My stomach flip-flops.
Evie: Send pictures please.
Amelia: K.
I look at the guys sitting around the pool. Dylan’s in the shallow end tossing tennis balls, the dogs paddling to fetch them. His Dad’s leaning back in his chair sipping from a longneck beer and talking about how church needs to stay off the political bandwagon and stick with Jesus’s original message about ministering to people. Patrick’s sitting next to Pastor McAlister hanging on his every word.
The photos arrive thirty seconds later.
Dear Evelyn,
I hope you got my first letter. Not everyone checks their mailbox anymore.
I’ve thought about this for a while now. I’ve run it past a few people. Smart, educated people. They say it’s healthy to get things out in the open. Properly communicated feelings do not percolate or fester. They do not become a problem. Even though I’ve decided to share with you how I feel, I have so many feelings that I don’t know where to begin. So, I’ll start with the obvious.
Affection.
You’re easy to like, Evelyn. I love your smile. I’ve always loved your smile. Remember when your softball team won that game against the Southside Tigers a month ago? There was a photo on Instagram of your team celebrating. In one photo your head was tilted to the side and I spied a few freckles across the bridge of your nose, spreading onto the apples of your cheeks.
That picture’s so sweet.
You weren’t wearing any makeup. You looked so innocent. You could be a thirteen-year-old girl.
That’s all for now, really. Hope everything’s okay by you.
By the way, I haven’t seen you in over a week. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your place. I don’t want anyone messing with my favorite person.
Best,
Your Fan
A shiver runs up my spine. I text Amelia.
Evie: You took someone with you to my place – right?
Amelia: No.
Evie: R U still there?
Amelia: Yes.
Evie: Get out.
Evie: Get out now.