The Great Escape

“She hears it all the time,” Panda said. He looked across the table at Lucy and said in fluent Spanish, “Ella es otra persona que piensa que te pareces a Lucy Jorik.” And then, to the woman, “Her English ain’t too good.”

“It’s amazing,” the woman said. “’Course, now that I’m closer, I can see she’s a lot younger. Hope she doesn’t grow up to be like her.”

Panda nodded. “Another spoiled brat who thinks the world owes her.”

Lucy didn’t like that at all, but peach pantsuit lady was on a roll. “I used to admire the way President Jorik raised her kids, but obviously she missed something with that Lucy. Running out on the Beaudine boy. I see his mama’s television show all the time. And Conrad’s a big golfer. He never misses watching any tournament where Dallas Beaudine’s playing.”

“I guess some women don’t know what’s good for them,” Panda agreed.

“Confidentially, neither does Conrad.” She smiled at Lucy. “Well, y’all have a nice day. Sorry to have bothered you.”

“No bother,” he said, as courteous as a small-town preacher. But the moment she disappeared, he crumpled his napkin. “Let’s get the hell out of here before more of your fan club shows up. I don’t need this crap.”

“Snarl all you want,” she told him. “You’re the one who invited me on this joy ride, and I’m not calling it off.”

He tossed some bills on the table a lot harder than he needed to. “Your funeral.”

Chapter Four

THE SMALL RENTAL HOUSE SAT on one of Caddo Lake’s hidden bayous. A pair of aging window air conditioners protruded from the faded mustard-colored siding, and a square of artificial turf covered the front stoop. They’d spent the previous night at a motel near Nacogdoches, where Panda had made a point of ignoring her. Early this morning, they’d headed northeast toward the lake, which sat on the Texas-Louisiana border and, according to the pamphlet she’d picked up when they stopped for gas, was the largest freshwater lake in the South—and surely the spookiest, with its primordial swamps rising out of brown water.

The house was shabby but clean, with a small living room, two even smaller bedrooms, and an old-fashioned kitchen. Lucy chose the room with twin beds. The orange plaid wallpaper curled at the seams and clashed with the cheap purple and green floral quilted bedspread, but she was too grateful to have a wall between her bed and Panda’s to care.

She changed into her shorts and made her way to the kitchen. It was outfitted with metal cabinets, worn countertops, and a gray vinyl floor. The window above the sink looked out over the bayou, and a nearby door led to a small wooden deck that held a molded plastic table, webbed lawn chairs, a propane grill, and some fishing gear.

She found Panda gazing out at the palmetto banking the bayou, his feet propped on the deck railing, a Coke can curled in his palm. At least he hadn’t hunkered down with another six-pack. He didn’t acknowledge her as she checked out the grill, then examined a fishing pole. His silences were unnerving. “It’s hot out here,” she finally said.

He took a swig of Coke without bothering to reply. She averted her eyes from the disagreeable T-shirt she’d been pretending all day not to notice. Panda’s concept of sartorial elegance didn’t extend further than a shower and a clean pair of jeans. She felt an unwelcome pang for Ted, the sweet, sensitive, even-tempered bridegroom she’d thrown under the bus.

“A shade umbrella would be nice,” she said.

Nothing but silence.

She spotted an excursion boat in the distance, cutting through bald cypress webbed with Spanish moss. “If I were a biker, I’d have a better name than Panda.”

Viper.

He crumpled his Coke can in his fist and stalked off the deck into the backyard, pitching the can into a black plastic trash bin on his way. As he walked toward the lake, she slumped into the chair he’d abandoned. Ted was a great conversationalist and the best listener she’d ever known. He’d acted as though he was fascinated with whatever she said. Of course, he acted that way with everybody, even crazy people, but still … She’d never known him to be impatient or short-tempered—never heard him utter a harsh word. He was kind, patient, thoughtful, understanding, and yet she’d dumped him. What did that say about her?

She pulled one of the matching chairs closer with her heels, feeling bluer by the minute. Panda reached the dock. An overturned canoe lay on the bank, and an osprey skimmed the water. He hadn’t told her how long he planned to rent the house, only that she was free to leave anytime, the sooner the better. But did he really want that? She was growing increasingly convinced that he was smarter than he let on, and she couldn’t let go of her nagging fear that he was talking to the tabloids. What if he’d figured out he could make a lot more than a thousand dollars selling them her story?