Later Shiner’s mother would remark that her son seemed to have matured during his mysterious absence from Grange, that he now carried himself with purposefulness and responsibility and a firm sense of direction. She would tell him how pleased she was that he’d turned his heathen life around, and she’d encourage him to chase his dreams wherever they might lead, even to Dade County.
And not wishing to cloud his mother’s newfound esteem for him, Shiner would elect not to tell her the story of the $14 million Lotto ticket and how he came to give it back.
Because she would’ve kicked his ass.
It wasn’t a loaded firearm in Mary Andrea’s purse. It was a court summons.
“Your attorney,” she said, waving it accusingly, “is a vicious, vicious man.”
Tom Krome said, “You look good.” Which was very true.
“Don’t change the subject.”
“OK. Where did Slick Dick finally catch up with you?”
“At your damn newspaper,” Mary Andrea said. “Right in the lobby, Tom.”
“What an odd place for you to be.”
She told him why she’d gone there. “Since everybody thought you were dead—including yours truly!—they asked me to fly down and pick up your stupid award. And this is what I get: ambushed by a divorce lawyer!”
“What award?” Tom asked.
“Don’t you dare pretend not to know.”
“I’m not pretending, Mary Andrea. What award?”
“The Emilio,” she said sourly. “Something like that.”
“Amelia?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
He shot a wrathful glare toward the house, where Sinclair was holed up. That asshole! Krome thought. The Amelias were the lamest of journalism prizes. He was appalled that Sinclair had entered him in the contest and infuriated that he hadn’t been forewarned. Krome fought the impulse to dash back and snatch the yellow-bellied slider from the editor’s grasp, just to see him whimper and twitch.
“Come on.” Tom led his wife away from the bustle of the shrine, around to the backyard. He set the bulky aquarium in the sun, to warm the baby cooters.
Mary Andrea said, “I suppose you saw it on television, Turnquist’s big coup. You probably got a good laugh.”
“It made the TV?”
“Tom, did you set me up? Tell the truth.”
He said, “I wish I were that clever. Honestly.”
Mary Andrea puffed her cheeks, which Tom recognized as a sign of exasperation. “I don’t think I’m going to ask about those turtles,” she said.
“It’s a very long story. I like your hair, by the way. Looks good short.”
“Stop with that. You hear me?” She very nearly admitted she’d started coloring it because it had become shot full of gray, no thanks to him.
Tom pointed at the summons, with which Mary Andrea briskly fanned herself. He had to grin. Fifty-nine degrees and she’s acting like it’s the Sahara.
“So when’s our big day in court?”
“Two weeks,” she said curtly. “Congratulations.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve already ordered the party hats.”
“What happened to your face?”
“A man stomped it. He’s dead now.”
“Go on!” But she saw he wasn’t kidding. “My God, Tom, did you kill him?”
“Let’s just say I was a contributing factor.” That would be as much as he’d tell; let her make up her own yarn. “Well,” he said, “what’s it going to be? Are you going to keep fighting me on this?”
“Oh, relax.”
“Gonna take off again? Change your name and all that nonsense?”
“If you want the truth,” Mary Andrea said, “I’m tired of running. But I’m even more tired of road tours and working for scale. I need to get back East and jump-start this, acting career of mine.”
“Maybe look for something off Broadway.”
“Exactly. I mean, God, I ended up in the middle of Montana.”
“Yeah?” Krome thinking: Not a megamall for a thousand miles.
“Me in cowboy country! Can you imagine?”
“All because you didn’t want a divorce.”
“I’ll be the first Finley woman in five centuries to go through with it.”
“And the sanest,” Tom said.
Mary Andrea gave a phony scowl. “I saved your goodbye note. The lyric you ripped off from Zevon.”
“Hey, if I could write worth a lick,” he said, “I wouldn’t be working for schmucks like Sinclair.”