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Half an hour after seeing Alice, Molly back-kicked the pedal on her bicycle and took off from the courtyard, leaving her partly Spanish, partly Mexican, but oh-so-Texan hacienda to bake the midmorning sun.
She tried to get her mood in tune with the day, but almost didn’t see the cornflower-blue sky or sense the beauty around her. She had to get into town now and see her mother, before this stranger arrived. He knew things about her. He was dangerous and on the run—why else would he be protecting his equipment? What was his equipment? What did roof builders cart around with them?
And she’d thought the thing a problem.
She rode the downward slope of the rough track driveway, nothing but fine Calamity land surrounding her. The tassels on the handlebars twirled in the windrush as she freewheeled beneath the crumbling white arch that denoted the entry to her property.
By the time she’d cycled the twenty minutes to Hopeless the heat from her exertion had bled her concerns to a trembling muscle fatigue.
She’d sold her own vehicle when she dumped the fiancé, and had put that money into the first pressing renovations, such as making the lodge house she was living in habitable. If she needed to haul goods home, she borrowed Momma’s pickup.
If the thing would just send her the twenty thousand he owed. What an idiot. Molly, that was, not the ex-fiancé. Jason was a scumbag and everybody knew scumbags were smart. She should have seen him for what he was. Instead, she’d succumbed to the lure of not being lonely. Mrs. Molly Birling. How normal did that sound? No “Crazy Molly” or “Wacky Mackillop” title. But all that time she’d thought Jason Birling was expanding his motel chain while she plowed through his books and took the photographs for his motel brochures, he’d been working the new girl in the empty rooms.
She slowed to cruise-speed, passing the buildings she’d grown up with. “Morning, Mr. Jack,” she called to the town’s upholsterer. Not that he had any business in the upholstery area, but he did clothing alterations and that kept him more or less occupied.
“You tell that Mrs. Wynkoop to stay out of the co-op plot, Molly,” he called from the doorway of Jack Upholstery. “I’m getting tired of patching up the knees on her denim.”
Mrs. Wynkoop ran the library, which was more of a book swap place than a library, and when she wasn’t busy dusting the books nobody read, she tended the co-op garden.
“Will do.” Molly didn’t slow down or she’d be kept chatting all day.
Most buildings in town were basic flat-fronted with more or less flat roofs. The meeting hall and the old market courtyard where the co-op garden was housed gave off a Spanish flare with whitewash and terracotta tiles.
A few cabins had sprung up twenty years ago. They were painted pale greens and light blues and were cared for on the outside but empty on the inside.
Like the hacienda. Empty. For more decades than the town dwellings. But not for much longer. Not when Through the Lens was up and running.
Start your day early with breakfast at the hacienda where we’ll develop your ideas.
She’d need a new stove, not to mention a roof.
Expose the real you. Choose the tone and I’ll take care of the ambient light.
Light was a wonderful thing, in all its forms. Daybreak, midday, late afternoon, and evening. The valley was an idyllic painting for any photographers she might cater for.
Zoom in on Calamity Valley. Visit the town of Hopeless and pick up some traditional art, or a slice of the famous Hopeless sponge cake. Lunch at the hacienda—
More catering. She hadn’t decided how to handle that part yet, but some great idea would hit her. She already had a few townspeople in mind for specific jobs. She’d be employing people. The valley would have a chance. Which should keep the developers off their backs.
“Oh, heck!” She swerved the front wheel of her bicycle to the curb.
“Head in the treetops again,” Davie said, moving his bulk to the sidewalk.
Davie Little was the valley bouncer. He’d been born here. His Mexican grandmother had known the philandering great-grandfathers. Molly adored him. He was the father she’d never had. As he was to her cousins, Lauren and Pepper. The grandmothers had their own protection with their ability to see what was right and what was wrong with people, and Momma didn’t need protecting from anybody but herself.
“Morning, Davie. ¿Cómo estas?”
Davie spoke Spanish and English and frequently mixed the languages—especially when confusion was necessary, like that time with Donaldson’s Property Developers, a special Hopeless sponge cake, and the laxatives.
“Hope you’re not up that ladder again,” Davie said. “You stay off that roof, Molly.”
“Haven’t been up there for ages.” What he didn’t see he didn’t know about.
An eerie chill crept over her shoulders and trickled down her back. She looked down the near-deserted street.
“Um... Davie, don’t suppose you’ve seen any odd-looking strangers this morning?”
“Lost, or tourist?”
“When did we last see a genuine tourist? No—this stranger’s not lost but he might be hauling some equipment. Make sure you check his equipment.”
“I’ll keep my eyes peeled.”
The sudden chill vanished and the warmth of the sun was back on her face. “Thanks.” This was another great thing about Davie. He never queried the oddities of a question. He was also handy to have around in a bar fight. Although they had to go to Surrender for one of those.
“Catch ya later,” Davie said.
Molly took a moment to look at her town when Davie made his way back to the art gallery he looked after. Momma had started it way back when Bling was first given a capital “B” but had gotten bored and handed it over to the generous-hearted valley bouncer, whom, she’d said, was far more deserving, being a Mexican craftsman.
The main street—the only street actually, but still known as Hopeless Main Street—was paved, and wide enough for the most careless driver to cruise through without knocking somebody over or crashing into another vehicle—of which there were few.
Nobody lived in town now, except for those who worked the lonesome businesses. They lived out of town, in houses dotted around the valley, and worked in Amarillo or traveled an hour to Lubbock. If someone wanted gas, they had to drive to get it. But if they wanted a slice of the famous Hopeless sponge cake or an updo hairstyle or to post a postcard and maybe buy some of Davie’s sculptures or paintings, Hopeless was their place. If they got lost enough to find themselves here.
Molly set off again toward Momma’s salon, taking in the serenity of Hopeless and trying to let the gentle colours and queit ambience settle her worries.
Three minutes later she pushed through the swinging plastic blinds on the salon doorway. “Morning, Momma. What a day I’ve had already. You won’t believe it!” She didn’t want to frighten anyone, so decided to ease into the dangerous stranger subject.
“Take a seat in the hair-chair, baby. Momma’s going to do your hair.”
Molly groaned. “It’s out of the way in a ponytail.”
Momma pulled the hair-chair from the salon counter. It was pink, her favorite color—she wore something pink every day and today she was head to toe in pink. “Let your mother fix you up.” She slid her arms into her bright pink salon apron, covering her curvy, narrow-waist figure.
Molly walked toward the hair-chair Momma only used when she was about to embark on serious beautification, knowing she’d be stuck in town for close to two hours. “No makeup. I haven’t got time to be your practice model today. There’s a lot going on.”
Momma grabbed her hand and studied it. “You need a manicure and a polish.”
Three hours...
“Is that a new style?” Molly asked as she checked her mother’s updo. Molly had inherited Momma’s shiny chestnut hair, but her mother’s was streaked with lighter tones, teased to her height requirement.
“Just my morning ’do, honey. I’m going for gilt slides this afternoon.”
“Looks great.” Molly sat. “Any chance of coffee? Maybe some cake?”
In between hairstyling for those in need of specialty styling—women traveled far and wide for one of Momma’s updos—Momma had opened the Hopeless Takeout next door to her salon. Although the only takeout on offer was coffee and Momma’s famous Hopeless sponge cakes, which she sold to visitors. The lost ones and the many who visited the grandmothers hoping to hear good fortune was about to find them.
“Winnie!” Momma yelled over her shoulder.
Winifred Thomas scurried from the corridor that kept the takeout apart from the salon—health regulations—and smiled sweetly at Molly.
Molly blew a kiss to another of her favorite persons. Heck, she had so many favorite people in the valley she sometimes wondered why she hadn’t come back sooner.
Then she remembered why.
The problem with Jason Birling was that he was a smooth talker and good-looking to match. Tallish—five-foot-ten—which meant Molly at five-foot-five could wear heels and not worry, even when she teased her waist-length hair into an updo ponytail. A lot of women in Colorado Springs had wanted him, according to Jason. But Molly had gotten him.
Unfortunately.
She’d been in Colorado Springs four years and things were starting to go her way, then her daypack had been stolen, along with her cash and her credit cards. Once Jason discovered she was looking for employment to pay her motel bill he’d turned his chiseled jaw her way, his brown eyes narrowed and glowing with a desirous flame—they were actually beady but she hadn’t recognized that yet—and asked her to be his girl.
“Coffee and cake for our baby, please, Winnie,” Momma said.
“Not too big a slice,” Molly called after her adopted aunt. “And three sugars in the coffee, please.”
“That’s tit taking tat for a ride, isn’t it?” Momma said.
Molly held up her arm and squeezed hard to make her muscles bunch. “Need to keep my strength up for the renovations.” And for fending off the dangerous stranger.
“Sugar’s sugar, no matter which form you take it.” Momma combed through Molly’s hair, parting it into sections and sticking clips through each segment. “You’ll need mental strength to deal with the developers,” she said in a lowered tone.
Donaldson’s again. “They’re still pushing? I thought we’d gotten rid of them.”
“One little sponge cake isn’t going to work miracles.”
Molly was happy to try a second time. Two of them had arrived in town for an impromptu visit a couple weeks ago and she’d had the idea of putting a large pinch of senna into a special cake just for them. The grandmothers livened things up by following through with a threat to give them all cramps. They’d likely never forgive the Mackillops...
Donaldson’s Property Development had their business base in Austin. So far as anyone in the valley knew, there was no one called Donaldson “on the ground.” He was probably some swaggering, eternally tanned, jewelry-encrusted millionaire who lived overseas on the spoils of his successes. But the company was run by three men. Leonard D’Prichiatori was head developer and as nobody could pronounce his last name they called him Leo D’Pee.
Second in command of development was Ty “Slick” Wilson. No need for a new nickname there...
The third developer was Bob Smith. But nobody had ever met him, and as he sounded like a real boring guy with a paunch and a slack smile, they just referred to him as—Bob Smith.
“I just don’t know what their next move will be,” Momma said. “But Davie and I are on the lookout.”
Donaldson’s would flatten all three towns and build super exclusive resorts with luxurious cabins and stone houses. Each of them with their own spa and swimming pool. Each of them with a grand scenic view of Calamity land—and the canyon. That was why they wanted the valley, because of its proximity to that special place. They’d make millions from their private and elite resort-style “new” towns.
The valley was nestled on the western edge of the Palo Duro Canyon and there was only one road in—from Amarillo—but the valley edged the backcountry wilderness and there were a few beaten tracks to and from the canyon, which was how tourists got lost and found themselves here.
“I really need a roof,” Molly said to her mother’s reflection in the salon mirror. “But I can’t get the thing to return my money because he won’t answer my calls.”
“Forget about the money. Stop calling him. A man doesn’t like to be pestered by his ex.”
“He owes me twenty thousand dollars. I’ll pester him until I get it.” Plus the ring. He had her engagement ring and since she’d paid for it, she wanted it back.
Momma picked up small bandage-like rags and placed them on the four-tier trolley at her side. She chose one and wrapped a section of Molly’s hair in it.
“Ringlets?” Molly asked.
“They’ll drop overnight,” Momma assured as she expertly fastened sections of Molly’s hair into wrapped sausage shapes. “I need to practice a ringlet updo for an important client your cousin Lauren sent my way.”
Molly took a breath and broached the next subject. “You’re not really thinking about a Hopeless Herald, are you?”
Momma stopped working and dropped her hands to her sides. “You’ve been to see Alice.”
“I see her nearly every day.”
“I’m not speaking to her.”
“Again?” Momma hadn’t been dealt any spooky-genes so she and Alice occasionally had trouble understanding each other. Why Molly understood both of them, she had no idea. Maybe that was her gift.
“She told me to stop flirting with Leo D’Pee,” Momma said. “Said I’d come across as flighty. She can talk. As if any of us Mackillop women know who our fathers were.”
Molly doubted her mother would ever stop flirting—she enjoyed it—but it was true about the menfolk. Each male had fathered and run off, and the grandmothers refused to give their names over. “I don’t know mine, either,” Molly reminded her mother.
“That’s different, honey.”
It always was, but Molly didn’t know why, and she didn’t care. His loss, whoever her father was.
“D’Pee said I should have been a Hollywood star,” Momma pronounced with a toss of her head.
“Have you checked his social security number? He’s not even Italian!”
Momma gave one of her butter-wouldn’t-melt smiles.
Molly grinned. Momma was playing Leo D’Pee. “Just be careful.”
“Oh, baby.” Momma paused in her task and squeezed Molly’s shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re home. Just think—if you’d become Mrs. Molly Birling, wife of a motel magnate, you wouldn’t have had the opportunity to create a thriving community for us back home.”
“Three crummy motel businesses does not a magnate make.” She knew. She’d kept Mr. Birling’s books.
Winnie came through from the takeout with a plate of cake and a fork.
Molly straightened in the hair-chair. “Thanks, Winnie.” She eyed the large wedge of Hopeless sponge and the creamy filling and piled-high topping. Mango cream with crushed sweet-chili-spiced nuts. Her favorite.
“What did you have for breakfast?” Momma asked.
“This.” Molly sank her fork into the feather-light sponge, the mango cream squishing through the seam of the cake.
“Perhaps you ought to move into town, baby. I’m worried about how you’re not taking care of yourself.”
“I’ve got running hot water, I’ve got a roof on the lodge house, and I’ve got a working kitchen. I’m fine.” The kitchen was in the hacienda’s single story—the section without a roof. But she’d strung thick waterproof canvas over the beams still in place, so everything was fairly rainproof.
“I don’t want you up on that roof when you’re there alone,” Momma said. “You need a man.”
“I need a builder.” Molly turned in her chair and looked at Winnie who was sweeping the already spotless salon tiled floor. “Did anyone answer my ad, Winnie?” Because that would be more natural than having some stranger turn up out of the blue.
Winnie shook her head, an apology in her smile. She’d wandered into Hopeless twenty years ago, looking for work. There wasn’t any to be had, but Momma had taken her under her wing anyway. Just as she’d done with Davie three decades ago when she’d taken him home to the house she’d lived in with Crazy Alice.
Momma’s strays. Molly’s family.
“Alice said her fire told her a stranger was on his way,” Molly said quietly, then waited to see what reaction she’d get before saying more.
Momma paused, and Winnie stopped sweeping.
“He’s not coming for me, is he?” Momma asked, worry creasing the creamy-toned canvas of her perfectly made-up face. “I don’t have time to spread my affections around. Is he coming for you?”
“I’m not right for him.”
“Alice said that?” Momma asked, deepening her frown and studying Molly intently. “When’s he coming?”
“Might be two months. Might be two hours.”
“It’ll be soon.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m just guessing.” Momma turned. “Winnie, go whip up some chocolate cream for the sponge I baked this morning. Sprinkle some candied violets on the frosting, but don’t make a fancy pattern. Men don’t care about the pattern, they care about the sugar.”
Winnie dropped the broom and scuttled through the corridor. Momma baked the cakes and made the fillings and the frostings, but Winnie’s little hands were decorating machines.
Momma swung the hair-chair around so that Molly faced her, and scrutinized her face. “We’re going to make you up.”
“Momma! I told you—he’s not coming for me. He’s going to build my roof, that’s all.” She didn’t want to worry Momma by adding “he’s dangerous and he’s going to change my life forever” in case that meant he pushed her off the roof. That would definitely change her life.
“What else did Alice say about him?”
“Um... not much. She said he’s got equipment, he’s on his way—that sort of thing.”
Could a person change their fate? She hoped so, given her circumstances. But no matter what, she was making a stand and she wasn’t going to let anything bad happen.
Momma peered into Molly’s eyes, making Molly squirm. Then she put her manicured hand, laden with rings, onto Molly’s shoulder. “You keep on your toes, baby.”
“That’s what Alice said.”
“Alice said the same? That’s it then.” Momma dragged her beautification trolley over, pushed the hairdressing trolley to one side. “Just remember, Molly, you don’t need a man to look after you. You need a man who’s prepared to watch out for you. Different qualities entirely.”
“He’s not coming for me! And I don’t need any man.” Especially one of the dangerous variety.
Momma chose her weapons and snapped open the lid of a foundation pot.
Molly closed her eyes as her mother swept a foundation sponge over her cheeks. “I swear to God,” she said beneath her breath, “one of these days I’m going to make a stand.”
