A Justified Bitch. H.G. McKinnis
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start in the fall,” Jordan answered, cutting a glance toward Pat. “We just haven’t decided where yet.”
Pat reached out and touched Marc’s arm. “Helen.” She could barely force the words past her lips. “This is Marc.”
Helen turned, eyes curious. “Are you a friend of Jordan’s?”
Pat shook her head. All the sleepless nights, all the tears, all the time she spent wondering if she had done the right thing, all the legal paperwork, all the counselors. And yet, of all the reactions she had imagined, Helen’s total detachment never made the list.
“He’s not a friend, Helen. This is Marc. Your son.”
Chapter Eight
Sunday, July 4
Helen narrowed her eyes, studying every detail of Marc’s appearance, then shook her head. “We don’t have a son.”
Marc looked relieved, as if a catastrophe had just been averted, but also a bit disappointed, as if cheated of parental recognition. Without a word, he slid into the front passenger seat and inserted his earbuds.
Stunned by Helen’s unexpected response, Pat could think of no words to ease the boy’s trauma but knew they would have to discuss the situation soon, before his emotions boiled over into some kind of crazy, teenage reaction.
Oblivious to the drama, Jordan climbed into the backseat with his aunt and instantly started to fill her in on his plan to attend UNLV. Helen, who seemed equally thrilled at the prospect of having him in Las Vegas, divided her attention between Jordan and her dead husband, stopping now and then to repeat Bobby’s remarks. Jordan seemed unfazed by the inclusion of his deceased uncle in the conversation and enthusiastically participated in the strange triangular communication. Marc ignored everyone, staring silently out the window as if he had never seen anything quite so fascinating as the slow-moving traffic and giant marquees that lined Las Vegas Boulevard.
Pat pulled beneath the portico at Caesars Palace. “Jordan, you and Marc grab the bags.” She waited for the parking receipt, then grabbing Helen’s hand followed the boys inside.
Jordan stopped ten feet inside the doors, staring in slack-jawed wonder at the gaming machines, the leggy cocktail waitresses, and the mob of enthusiastic gamblers. He was clearly entranced by the flashing siren call of the machines, and his eyes filled with longing when they spotted a baby-blue BMW convertible revolving in seductive motion over a flashing row of slots. “Now that’s a cherry ride.” His gaze shifted back and forth between the crystal-encrusted ceiling and the white marble columns that circled the casino. “Wow. This place is just like Gladiator.”
“The Colosseum wasn’t like this,” Marc muttered. “Hollywood gets everything wrong.”
Ignoring his brother’s foul mood, Jordan pointed to a sign: THE FORUM SHOPS—The Ultimate Shopping Experience. “Let’s go there. They have a Planet Hollywood.”
“Later,” Pat answered, almost shouting to be heard over the bells and trills of the machines. “After we check in. You boys stay out of the casino area. You have to be twenty-one to gamble.”
Helen, oblivious to the turmoil she had created within the family, chatted away with Bobby. “Remember the Barbra Streisand concert we saw here?” She tilted her head, listening to a voice only she could hear. “No, it wasn’t Diana Ross. It was Streisand.”
Hoping to get settled and out of the public eye, Pat herded everyone to the reservations counter. “Henderson.”
“A two-bedroom suite?” the clerk asked, glancing nervously from her computer screen to Helen, who was swatting at her invisible companion and laughing uproariously.
“That’s right,” Pat answered, the thought of sleeping in the same room as her sister almost more than she could endure. If she hadn’t promised to play guard dog, she would have asked for an additional room.
The woman tapped a few keys, then pulled a receipt off her machine. “That comes to four ninety-five a night.”
Pat ran the numbers through her mind. Fourteen nights at five hundred per night equaled seven grand. She mentally waved good-bye to the money for their planned Hawaiian vacation.
“The windows face the Strip.” The clerk slid four plastic key cards across the marble counter. “It’s a beautiful view at night. Have a lucky day.”
Pat nodded, thinking she was overdue for a stroke of luck.
A bellhop escorted them up to the twelfth floor, ushered them into the suite, and immediately launched into his earn-a-big-tip spiel. “This is your flat-screen HDTV,” he explained, opening the armoire and adjusting the set. The boys immediately disappeared into one of the bedrooms. The man continued his rap, demonstrating the remotes for the lights, draperies, and electronics. Fighting to control her impatience, Pat waited for the performance to end, then handed the man a twenty. The minute the door closed, she made a beeline for the boys’ room, not surprised to find them raiding the minibar.
“Get out of there.”
“I’m just getting a drink,” Jordan answered, flourishing a can of Rockstar.
“Put it back.” The greenish-white color of the can was enough to turn Pat’s stomach. “I’m not paying those exorbitant prices.”
He reluctantly replaced the drink. “It’s not like we can’t afford it. You and Dad make a lot of money.”
“That’s right. Your . . . dad . . . and . . . I . . . make the money. When you make the money, you can blow all you want on overpriced junk food.” She motioned toward the phone. “I’m ordering lunch. What does everybody want?”
Jordan scowled. “You said we could go to Planet Hollywood.”
Though the boys never seemed to tire of the restaurant, Pat felt she could die happy if she never saw another studded-leather jacket or gaudy guitar.
“Yeah,” Marc chimed in, his tone accusatory. “You promised.”
Not up to another public outing with her crazy sister, Pat pulled a couple of twenties from her purse. “You go ahead. Helen and I will eat here. And go easy on the fries. They’ll give you zits.” Knowing they had no interest in nutrition, she could only appeal to their vanity.
Conspicuously avoiding eye contact with Helen, Marc snatched the bills and was out the door, Jordan a step behind. Pat handed Helen the shopping bag from Target. “Would you like to change into your new clothes before lunch?”
Helen paused in her murmured conversation with Bobby. “I get my clothes at Goodwill.”
“These are special,” Pat answered. “I picked them out just for you.” She had actually picked them out for the woman she wished was her sister—someone who wore a bra, clean underwear, and neutral colors. She steered Helen into the second bedroom and pushed open the door to the Roman-style bathroom. “You can change in here.”
Helen stared at the tiled whiteness, the luxurious white towels with their gold embroidered CP, and the gold faucets rising like jewels from the black marble counter, then ran a hand over an ankle-length robe hanging behind the door. “This is pima cotton. I could sell it for twenty dollars at my booth.”
Pat mentally added another hundred dollars to the hotel bill, feeling as if she had acquired a third child. “If I lie down for a minute, will you be okay?” She felt exhausted, buried beneath an avalanche of responsibility.
“Of course,” Helen answered with a wry grin. “I know how to dress myself, Cleo. I’ll be extra quiet so I don’t disturb you.” She pulled a pair of silver huarache sandals out of the bag. “Oh, these are beautiful.”
Pat forced a smile at the sight of the shiny eyesores. “Jordan picked them out,” she said, wanting to give credit where credit was due. “I’m glad you like them.” She shut the door, collapsed onto the bed, and punched Wyatt’s