3. My Suitcase Has Been Kidnapped #2
“Who is he—" I started to ask, but the door to the salon swung open and a stunning woman with blow-dried, straw-gold hair stepped out. Her aura was one of chill, confident, self-possessed.
Behind her trailed two girls: one was the mirror image of the adult version who looked to be in her early teens, the other was the five-year-old with a cascade of curly hair and a gap in her smile wide enough to swallow whole blueberries.
“Jenna, I want you to meet my honorary daughter, Sadie.”
Honorary daughter? My insides curled up at the phrase, equal parts warmth and the kind of heartbreak you only get from being reminded of who you used to be to someone. I tried to imagine what Jenna would make of this, the ex-girlfriend shuffled into the family lineup. I braced for awkwardness.
Jenna, for her part, handled it with the smooth competence of a woman who’d been through at least one PTA cage match. “Nice to meet you, Sadie,” she greeted me with genuine warmth, and I could see in her eyes there wasn’t even a hint of recognition. This woman had never heard of me before.
Not that I would have expected Dawson to talk about me. We broke up twelve years ago. But I had to admit it did sting that I didn’t even get a mention to his wife.
I forced myself to remember to breathe and smile, so I didn’t pass out or throw up, which were very real possibilities. “You too.”
“And these are my granddaughters, Blake and Tabitha.”
“Tabitha Marie St. Claire,” the little girl clarified. “But you can call me Tabby, like a cat.”
Again, I forced myself to smile “Nice to meet you Blake and Tabby.” As the words came out, I realized the five-year-old said her last name was St. Claire. And that was Dawson’s daughter.
“St. Claire?” I glanced up at Selma.
“Her dad is my son, Deacon St. Claire.”
Her son? Oh, her oldest son. It was in that moment that I remembered the son she’d put up for adoption.
I’d only heard about him two or three times.
The subject wasn’t a secret, but I recalled when it was brought up, it made Selma sad because she wrote to him and never got a response.
Clearly, he must have gotten in touch with her, and he was her oldest son.
The embarrassment of my mistaken identity groom came on so fast I nearly tripped over it.
My whole face went hot, then cold, then hot again, a violent oscillation of mortification that had nothing to do with Selma and everything to do with the fact that for half a second, I’d let myself imagine Dawson was still mine in a way that would matter, even now, after all these years and I’d been crushed when that false reality was stolen from me.
The worst part was how badly I wanted to believe it, despite knowing it could never be.
Selma must have seen right past my feeble attempt to play it cool, because she wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed with a ferocity that threatened to snap the bones if I let myself go limp.
“Oh, sweetie, did you think I was talking about Dawson?” she whispered into my hair, her chuckle so warm and motherly I nearly started sobbing on the spot. There was something about being seen so deeply that it made you want to hide under a table forever.
I tried to recover with a pathetic little laugh and the world’s worst poker face.
“No,” I lied, which made it worse, obviously.
“I mean, it was just—yeah, I just.” My voice fumbled its way through the sentence, each word a speed bump for my dignity.
I squeezed her back, then did my best to extract myself from her embrace and vicinity, creating enough distance to signal that I was totally, completely fine and not at all falling apart.
“Well, it was nice to see you and nice to meet you all,” I said, in the same awkward tone you might use to a dentist you just ran into at a funeral.
I started to walk away, but Selma ignored my farewell and grabbed the handle of my rolling suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I asked as I spun back around.
“You’re staying at the ranch,” she declared, as if it were a law of physics.
Before I knew what was happening, she was wheeling my case toward a row of parked vehicles like she’d just repossessed a stolen child.
With her other hand, she clicked the key fob.
The back hatch of a detailed luxury SUV rose with a pneumatic whump, and she hoisted the suitcase in with a kind of brute grace that should not have been possible for a woman her size.
“This is great! You can come to the wedding.” Her voice lowered to a whisper, but the cheerful register of someone who’d already decided for both of us. “You’re family. It wouldn’t be right if you weren’t there.”
“Selma, no, really, I don’t want to—” I started, but it was clear she wasn’t listening.
She was already halfway back to the salon, heels clopping on the concrete like a pair of tiny gavels.
I rushed after her, raising my voice to a harsh whisper.
“I just… I’m not ready to face people. It’s been a long day, it’s a lot. ”
She stopped, turned, and leveled her gaze at me. It was the first time I’d seen her look truly serious all afternoon. “Fine,” she said, voice low and soothing. “You don’t have to socialize. You can take a nap if you want. Nobody will bother you.”
I hesitated at the word “nap,” which was Selma code for “lock yourself in a room with snacks and cry for three hours.” But what were my alternatives? Going to a motel room by myself with nothing to do but spiral.
“But Dawson, I don’t know if…” I started, then trailed off as I realized how long it had been since I’d actually talked to him.
The Dawson in my head was still eighteen, still possessed of that effortless country swagger with a half-grin that could turn my insides to mush.
The real Dawson was almost certainly nothing like that now.
Selma must have read my mind, because she waved off my concern like she was shooing a mosquito. “He’s on a work trip,” she said with the heavy finality of someone who’d already called in the airstrike.
A work trip? His estranged older brother is throwing a surprise wedding at the ranch, and he’s on a work trip? The last I heard, he worked on Lockhart Ranch. All the boys did.
What work trip could he possibly be on?
I tried one more time to protest, but the words came out in a cascade of half-formed objections. “Selma, I’m honestly fine. Really. I can get a room. I don’t want to impose. I’m sure you have a million things to do with the we—”
She put a hand up, palm out, as if physically blocking my excuses. “Sadie Rose Shepard, it is settled. You are coming home with me, or I will drag you by your hair. And don’t think I won’t.”
I saw the look in Selma’s eyes. There was no stopping her, not now.
I had the distinct sense of being swept up in the current of someone else’s life, with no idea where the river would spit me out.
Selma Montez-Lockhart was diminutive in stature but possessed hurricane-level force.
She was maybe five feet even, and that was on a good hair day.
Her skin was olive and radiant, her features dramatic and perfect, like someone had ordered her from a catalog of genetic upgrades.
She dressed in soft neutrals that made her look even more angelic, but everything about her movements said she’d gut you with a paring knife if you crossed her.
The only flaw, if you could call it that, was the steel in her eyes, which told you exactly how much she’d endured and exactly how little she cared for your self-pity.
It looked like, whether I liked it or not, I would be staying at Lockhart Ranch and going to a wedding.
It wasn’t what I had on my bingo card for my visit back, but once Selma decided something was going to happen, it was best to go along with it.
I may have been gone for over a decade, but even I knew that.