Chapter 6
Mellie
I stare up at the ceiling. Despite the medication, the pain in my leg feels like a million wasps buzzing and stinging the
nerves beneath my skin. The doctor told me I was lucky, that things could have been much worse. Funny, I don’t feel lucky.
The shades are closed, and I have no concept of time. It could be midnight or noon for all I know.
There’s a tap on the open door. “Come in,” I say, my throat still scratchy from the smoke. I run a hand self-consciously through
my hair, knowing that it’s in need of a good wash, as a woman steps into the room. “Mrs. Drake,” I say in surprise.
“No, call me Madeline, please,” she says, as she limps to my bedside. She looks as bad as I feel. She’s wearing hospital scrubs,
her face is puffy, and the skin beneath her eyes is purple with exhaustion. She smells like a campfire. “I wanted to see how
you are doing,” she says, looking around the room nervously.
“I’m okay,” I say, because what else am I supposed to say? I’m in the most fucking pain I’ve ever been in my life. The doctor
says the burn on my leg is only surface-level, but it hurts like a son of a bitch. “How are you?” I ask because it seems like
the polite thing to say. “Is the baby okay?”
“I’m fine. She’s fine,” Madeline says, with a relieved smile.
“A girl?” I ask, a knot forming in my stomach. “You found out what you’re going to have?”
“Yeah,” Madeline says with a smile. “A little girl.” Then the smile drops. “How are you? How is your baby?”
The baby. One little lie has become so big. When I told Madeline and Johanna about the baby, it was a means to an end, a way
to get my foot in the door. I did my homework. I scoured social media for insights and clues. Their personal accounts were
locked down pretty tightly, but I saw an opening when I found Johanna’s midwife page.
“She’s fine too,” I say, laying my hands across my midsection.
“We’re both having girls!” Madeline says, and the happiness and warmth in her voice makes me like Madeline Drake even more,
makes me more conflicted about what I’ve done, what I’m going to do.
Tears fill my eyes. Real tears.
“Mellie,” Madeline says, sitting down next to me on the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong? Do you want me to get a nurse?”
I sniff, wipe my eyes with the corner of my bedsheet. “No, I’m fine. The doctor says I can go home soon.”
“That’s a good thing,” Madeline says, eyeing my wrapped leg with concern. “Do you have someone to help take care of you? Family?”
“No,” I say in a small voice. “My family isn’t from around here. But really, I’ll be okay,” I insist. “They wouldn’t send
me home if they didn’t think it was safe.”
“But who will get your groceries and fix you meals?” Madeline persists. “Don’t you need someone to stay with you for a while?”
Why is this woman being so nice to me? In my experience, rich women have little time for underlings like me. Sure, they are
polite, and if I do my job well and am attentive—but not too attentive—if I’m pretty—but not too pretty—I might get a good
tip. But no one has ever been this interested in how I’m doing.
“No, it’s okay,” I sniffle. “I’ll figure it out. And I’m really sorry to hear about your friend. Did they find out what happened yet?”
Madeline’s own eyes rim with tears. “Thank you. No, they don’t know or aren’t telling us much. I can’t believe she’s gone.”
She looks so lost, so sad. I lean forward in my bed and wrap my arms around her, and suddenly I’m the one doing the comforting.
I thought she would be like all the others: snobby, fake, condescending. I had taken this particular job with the catering
company for one reason: to show Wes Drake that I will not be fucked with. To let him know that though he may think he’s done
with me, I’m not going away. At least not quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Madeline says, pulling away with an embarrassed laugh. “You’ve got enough going on without me crying on your
shoulder. Now, listen,” she insists. “I want you to get a hold of me if you need anything. Anything at all.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “That’s okay, really . . .”
“I insist,” Madeline says. “Do you have your phone?”
Confused, I nod to the bedside table. Somehow, during the entire fiasco at the ranch, I hadn’t lost my phone. Madeline picks
it up, hands it to me, then rattles off a phone number. “I don’t know what happened to my cell,” she says. “But you can reach
me on our home phone.” She must see the skepticism on my face as I key in the numbers. “I mean it, Mellie,” she says forcefully.
“I want to help. I don’t have any of my own family around here either, except for Wes, and I know how hard it can be so far
from home. How lonely. You can reach out to me, day or night. Understand?”
“Okay,” I say, sinking back into my pillows, still suspicious of this unexpected kindness. Madeline leans in and gives me
one more hug, gets to her feet, and moves as if in pain to the door.
Before she leaves, she turns, gives me a mock-stern look and shakes a finger at me. “I mean it, Mellie. Call me. Promise?”
“I promise,” I say.
I fell in love with Wes Drake the first time I saw him. It was a year ago, and I was working some Horsemen Association luncheon.
I served Wes an old-fashioned on the rocks, and he said something about how it was too bad that a nice young woman like me
was stuck waiting on such a lecherous group of old men. I responded by saying they weren’t all bad, just the ones that ordered whiskey with their lunch. He laughed, and I went about my business of pouring drinks. I’m
used to men hitting on me, but there was something about Wes—he was different.
I saw him with his wife a month later at some fancy fundraiser. Madeline Drake wasn’t just one of those pretty rich women
I’ve come to know working these kinds of events, she was beautiful and nice. While the other wives looked right through me, Madeline made eye contact and thanked me every single time I brought
her a drink or presented a tray of hors d’oeuvres. What Madeline Drake didn’t seem to notice was how her husband was looking
at me the entire night. But I noticed. I could feel the hot pull of his gaze, the way his eyes followed me around the room.
And I watched him too. Wes Drake was funny, sweet, and, to my surprise, hot for a guy twice my age. We even talked for a while.
Wes made me laugh, made me feel like the only woman in the room.
The third time I saw him, at an anniversary party, Wes completely ignored me.
Didn’t glance my way, didn’t acknowledge my presence at all.
My feelings were hurt, which was silly. He was rich, important, and married.
But then I saw him at yet another event, and that night we ended up having sex in an empty hotel conference room.
I can’t even remember what the event was for—just a bunch of rich ranchers smoking cigars and drinking top-shelf booze.
From then on, we couldn’t get enough of each other and met up whenever possible.
But Wes had rules. Lots of them. No phone calls, no texts, no emails, making it nearly impossible to coordinate times to be together until I suggested we have a standing date.
Every Thursday afternoon we met at a hotel in Jackson.
The reservation had to be in my name, and I had to pay for it, but Wes always gave me cash to cover the costs.
It made me feel a little dirty, doing it that way.
But I didn’t take a dime more from him, even when he offered me gas money.
Then his wife got pregnant. I have to admit, that was a surprise. The way Wes made it sound, he and Madeline were on the outs.
Obviously, at least for one night, that wasn’t true. What does a fortysomething man and a twenty-one-year-old have in common?
Lots, actually. We lie in bed and can talk about anything: music, movies, books, politics. Wes listens to me—really listens.
And those few hours we have together are the highlight of my week. Maybe I’m being naive, but I really do think he loves me.
True, he’s been more distant lately and has stood me up more than once, but he has a lot on his plate right now. So yes, I
made sure I was going to work the gender reveal party. And yes, I concocted the story about being pregnant just to get close
to his wife’s best friend.
Then there was the explosion, and I ended up in the ambulance with his wife, and we bonded over being pregnant and motherless.
My mom just happens to be alive and kicking in West Virginia, probably drinking a gin and tonic in front of the television
right now.
As I sit in the dark all alone, it dawns on me that Wes is somewhere in this hospital right now. He most likely rushed over
here as fast as he could to make sure his wife and baby were okay. I try not to let it bother me, but a little voice in my
head keeps saying What about me?
I think of the invitation that Madeline so kindly offered. You can reach out to me, day or night. Understand?
An idea creeps into my mind. A terrifying, dangerous, exhilarating idea. I have a feeling I’ll be calling on Madeline Drake
very, very soon.