High Cotton Country

By Leta McCurry

Secrets. Hidden they can destroy from within. Revealed they will explode Cazzie Randle's world. A message that her father is dying sends a reluctant Cazzie Randle to his bedside but not to reconcile a lifelong estrangement. This is her last chance to make him reveal the secrets behind the memories that haunt her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leta McCurry
• Release date: Apr 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311950734

Leta McCurry

Tale-spinner. Revealer of secrets. A dog’s best friend. Cornbread and fried okra country girl. Lives on the Oregon Coast and enjoys writing, reading, a large, fun-loving family, her Min-Pin dog, Daisy Mae, the open road on a motorcycle (trike - as a passenger), good food, and travel Favorite destination: Ireland.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Llano River Bridge

Mason County, Texas - September 1938

The last thing Big John Clifford needed was one more aggravation to pester his day, but there she was, big as life.

Big John was so focused on his miseries he paid little attention as his old 1928 Model A Ford truck coughed and spit its way across the Llano River Bridge. But, about half a mile beyond the bridge he was startled out of his fretful thoughts by a sight so unexpected he instinctively slammed down the brake, jerked the steering wheel toward the shoulder of the road and almost skidded into a ditch. He sat there while the old truck shuddered and jerked on its creaky springs.He couldn’t believe what his eyes were seeing out here in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn’t enough that Clara, his lady friend of ten years, decided she had waited long enough for him to get the hitchin’ itch and was now walkin’ out with the local feed store owner. Or that, to show her where the cow ate the cabbage, Big John up and took a job diggin’ postholes starting the next morning at the Double K Ranch way up by Zenith. Big John hated diggin’ postholes.

It wasn’t enough that it felt more like July than September with the scrubby landscape of the Texas hill country hunkered down under the humidity like dumplings under the lid of a cast iron pot of boiling chicken gravy. Or that, hovering over the tops of the low hills to the southwest, black clouds looked so angry and tortured Big John thought he could hear them moan. There was going to be billy jack to pay, no doubt about it. Tornadoes mostly hit in the spring, but they could ravage the countryside any time, and Big John knew a twister cloud when he saw one.

If all that wasn’t enough to just jimmy-jam a saint, there was a woman walking along the opposite shoulder of the road in the same direction Big John had just traveled. What in the world was she doing way out here? Why was she pulling a child’s battered red wagon holding a little boy and a baby in nothing but a yellowed diaper?

Big John maneuvered the truck into a safer position on the side of the road. He pulled a bandana out of his hip pocket, removed his Stetson and mopped away the salty sweat that trickled down his face. He plunked his Stetson back on, sighed deeply and hauled himself out of the truck. His mama had raised him not to meddle in other people’s business, but he had also been taught to be neighborly and mindful of women folk in particular. He felt obligated to offer whatever help might be needed.

The woman didn’t stop walking or look up. A slat sun bonnet hid most of her face so he had a chance to study her briefly. He noticed her homemade flour-sacking dress was clean but threadbare. It and her cotton stockings were so saturated with sweat they clung to her bony back and thin legs. The boy, shirtless and barefoot and wearing striped bib overalls, was sitting on a pile of tow sacks, his shoulders seared an angry red by the sun. Big John guessed the boy to be about three. Tipping his hat to the woman, he said,

Afternoon, ma’am.

He spoke clearly but softly, hoping to assure her of his good intentions. The woman stopped and raised her head slightly, enough for him to glimpse under her bonnet. Perspiration beaded on her forehead and upper lip and her face was flushed crimson with the heat. He could see nothing but her face and hands because the bonnet covered her hair and her high-necked, long-sleeved dress hung inches above dusty, scuffed shoes with run-down heels. Her hands were chapped, the cuticles ragged, and her face was haggard.

Big John was accustomed to seeing hill country women used up fast by a life of hard work, never enough of anything, and one still-sucking child slung on one hip and another in the belly. They married at fourteen or fifteen. Young’uns come one after another into late middle age. They seldom had a chance to even raise their heads from the time they said I do until they were lowered, worn and wasted, into their graves. So Big John was not surprised to realize this woman was much younger than she first appeared to be. She said nothing, just stared down the road.

Ma’am, Big John began then hesitated, not sure how to proceed. He couldn’t flat out ask what in tarnation she was doing out here in the middle of nowhere with two young’uns in the smothering heat of the day. She must’ve walked some five miles or more because there was nowhere she could have come from between where she stood and the outskirts of the town of Zenith. Ma’am, he forged ahead, can I give you a ride? I’m on my way to Zenith and I have plenty of room to put you and the young’uns up front. We could put the wagon in the back. He held back on offering to take her someplace back down Highway 87 in the direction he had just traveled.

She was so silent and unmoving he thought maybe she was a deaf-mute. Then she said in a voice that sounded like mice walking on dry corn husks, Not going back to Zenith.

But, ma’am, there ain’t much between here and Fredicksburg except Cherry Springs and it’s shut up tight this time of day. He knew she couldn’t walk far enough or fast enough to gain any shelter he could think of before nightfall. Besides, it was doubtful she had enough strength to go another mile pulling the wagon in this heat. He suspected she was hungry, the boy too, but he had nothing to offer them. A clap of thunder caused him to look up at the darkening sky. Ma’am, that’s a bad storm about to bust loose any minute. We’re in for some hard rain, maybe a twister.

Storm won’t hurt us, she replied so softly Big John leaned forward to hear. She recoiled from him as if cringing from some anticipated punishment.

John instantly stepped back. Ma’am, I think we might make Zenith before the worst of the storm and they’s plenty of folks would share a cellar with us.

No, thank you. She glanced at him and he noticed her eyes were an unusual color, not brown, not gold, but more like a thick stream of dark Karo syrup poured out against a window full of bright sunshine, speckled with a darker gold. Will you just look at that? I’ll bet she was some filly before hill country life got a good hold on her. Embarrassed by his frivolous thoughts about this strange woman, Big John shuffled his boots in the gravel and turned to follow her gaze back down Highway 87. What in tarnation did she see? He didn’t see anything. He squinted and stared until his eyes started to water but there was still nothing in any direction but scrubby mesquite and a few prickly pear cactus. There hadn’t even been a vehicle on the road besides his for the last hour or more.

Ma’am. Big John knew he was begging. Please, I’d be more’n happy to take you and the young’uns back to town. He wanted to insist, to persuade her somehow, but being a simple man, he didn’t know how.

No, thank you kindly. She walked away, pulling the wagon behind her. There wasn’t anything else to say, at least nothing Big John could think of that didn’t sound meddlesome.

Well then, afternoon to you, Ma’am. Big John tipped his hat again. He climbed into the truck and drove slowly away. He carried on a silent argument with himself for about a mile then stopped the truck in the middle of the road and sat in total puzzlement. A peculiar cold feeling twisted itself into a knot right behind his big Lone Star belt buckle. Hell and damnation! Something ain’t right. He had to help her whether she wanted it or not, but how? It was unthinkable that he could just pick her up and put her in the truck although he could easily do so physically.

Wimmin! Big John snorted aloud, viciously jerking the steering wheel to turn the truck around. No matter how, it had to be done one way or another. He was going to help this strange, haunting woman and he was sure her man would thank him for it.

He didn’t see her. The silvery steel web of the bridge loomed ahead and he knew she couldn’t have walked any farther. Maybe she decided to go down and cool herself at the water’s edge. Big John stopped the truck in the middle of the bridge and strode to the rail. He saw her about fifty yards up the rocky river bank.

The boy was still sitting in the wagon holding the baby, but the woman was walking along the edge of the water dragging the tow sacks behind her. The sacks were tied together with clothesline and there was about two feet of slack between them. The water was shallow where she was walking but Big John knew the river dropped off into a deep and dangerous pool a few feet away. He was about to shout a warning, but her next action was so odd, he hesitated in pure bewilderment. She stooped over, picked up a large rock, put it in one of the sacks, walked a few feet picked up another rock and put it in the same sack. He could tell one sack was heavy and the other empty by the way she dragged them.

Now, what in tarnation is she doing? She dropped the sacks on the ground and walked over to the children. She lifted the baby out of the little boy’s arms then grasped the boy’s hand to help him out of the wagon. As they walked toward the sacks, Big John was seized by unspeakable dread. A chill rippled through his body and the hair on the back on his neck stood on end.

He stared in open-mouthed disbelief as the woman placed the baby in the empty sack attached by the clothesline to the one containing the rocks. John tried to shout but he was paralyzed by the horror he suspected was playing out before his eyes. He bunched his muscles to spring into a run but his feet were rooted to the pavement. Imprisoned in the agonizing immobility of shock, he watched as she bent over and put the clothesline around her neck. When she straightened the two sacks dangled from her scrawny shoulders, one on each side of her body. As she reached for the boy’s hand, a skinny finger of lightening jabbed the earth a mile away. The sudden flash and rumble of thunder rocked the bridge under Big John’s feet, jolting him into action.

Ma’am! he shouted. He was certain she heard him, but she did not look in his direction. Lady! he screamed at the top of his lungs as he lunged toward the end of the bridge. Running, he kept his eyes glued to what she was doing and bellowed his frustration at his inability to stop what he saw. She firmly held the boy’s hand as she waded into deeper and deeper water. Big John could not hear his own screams but the hysterical shrieking of the boy and the alarmed wailing of the infant joining together in a chorus of pure, raw terror seared his soul. He saw the boy twisting and struggling to escape his mother’s hand. But the woman held him firmly and when he lost his footing, she continued to drag him toward the deep pool.

Oh, God! Oh, Lordy! Lady, please! Big John shrieked as he bolted around the end of the bridge. His feet hit the loose rocks and, losing his balance, he tumbled head over heels down the steep incline toward the river’s edge. His Stetson flew off and his jeans ripped. Big John had the strange sensation of both being in his body as it hurtled down the embankment and, at the same time, out of it, standing a distance off, watching himself in slow motion as he kept his eyes glued to the woman wading deeper and deeper into the river, dragging the wailing boy behind her. The two sacks were already under water. Now, instead of one unending shriek, the boy’s screams were jerky as he struggled to keep his head above water. The sound empowered John with stamina and speed he didn’t know still existed in his old body.

What seemed like an eternity was only minutes. The woman was already in water up to her chest as John drew near along the bank. The boy was being towed face down, under water except for his feet which were thrashing wildly, his screams now gurgled into silence. As Big John splashed into the river, lunging for the boy’s feet, he thought for a microsecond about his new Pedro Martinez boots, for which he had frugally saved for three years and which he was wearing for the very first time. Then the muddy bottom dropped from beneath him and he was in over his head. Opening his eyes and diving deeper, he frantically thrashed about, trying to see, until his lungs roared for air.

Big John surfaced, gulped air, and dove again, reaching for depth. A shadowy apparition rose up to meet him from the murk. The darkening sky was turning the pool into a watery blackness with rapidly diminishing visibility so it took a moment for him to recognize the woman’s bonnet. It rode giddily on the current, the ties undulating behind like two snakes dancing in silent, bizarre unison. Big John back-paddled, attempting to elude the bonnet, but it relentlessly pursued him. It swirled against his head and he closed his eyes as the clammy fabric clasped his face, sucking greedily against his nose and mouth. In a panic, he tore the bonnet away to a sight that would haunt him all the rest of his days.

Her face was only inches from his but her body faded into the darkness so her head appeared suspended, bodiless. Wispy hair, now loose, fanned out around her face like silken threads floating on the current. Big John could not have been more terrorized if her actual decapitated head had floated up to meet him, but it was her eyes that froze his heart. They were open and they were not dead eyes. They were living, knowing eyes, and she was looking at him. Her mouth was wide open and he realized she was drawing water into her lungs and drowning even as he watched. He reached for her but she faded into the murk. A few strands of her hair slipped through his fingers then she was gone. Big John dove into the depths again and again, finally surfacing for the last time. He floundered, bone weary and nerve raw, struggling to crawl to the river’s edge. He sat in the shallow water, gulping great breaths of air to fill his screaming lungs.

Lightning fried the sky overhead, followed by thunder that rattled the teeth of ground hogs in their holes. A gust of wind picked up his Stetson from near the bridge and sailed it through the air then skipped it along the surface of the water until it stopped skipping and floated off downstream. Big John stared blankly at the toes of his boots sticking up from the water with not a single thought about Pedro Martinez or the cost of his footwear, now soggy and discolored. He was not aware of the thunder nor did he see the lightning. He was seeing an old-young face with a spray of freckles across the nose, loose silken hair floating like a spider web in the current and wide-open weary eyes looking at him.

Big John Clifford, who had not shed a tear in more than fifty years, threw his head back and howled his rage at his impotency against her determination, and he wept.

He was there later in the day when the sacks holding the infant and the rocks were found at the bottom of the deep, murky pool. And he watched again the next day when, in the early afternoon, the woman’s body was snagged by grappling hooks and brought to the surface by sheriff’s deputies dragging the river about a mile downstream.

The body of the boy was never found.

CHAPTER 2

The Message

Dallas, Texas - June 1970

After a difficult morning, Cazzie Randle put her Gucci purse in a drawer and her snakeskin briefcase on the desk. She took a chilled club soda from a small refrigerator concealed in a credenza below a large Zuniga lithograph of a native girl in a pink skirt, and poured it into a Waterford Irish Lace highball glass. Sitting in her leather chair, she took a long drink of the soda, sighed deeply and punched the intercom button on the phone.

Molly, can you come in please?

Molly Carter was standing in front of Cazzie’s desk almost before Cazzie hung up the phone. She waved Molly to a seat. I need you to coordinate with Shirley in the Houston office and make sure we’re all set for the board meeting. We only have ten days to pull it together.

I already memoed Shirley with a list of the files you want. Do you need hotel reservations?

No. I’ll do a one day turn-around. Molly scribbled shorthand on her steno pad as Cazzie continued, Schedule Joe Henry to chopper me down from the ranch. Cazzie stood, ready to pace, as she often did when thinking.

They both jumped at the jangle of the silly Minnie Mouse phone sitting next to the sophisticated business model on the desk. Less than a dozen people in the world were privy to Minnie’s private unlisted number and no one, not even Molly, who had been Cazzie’s personal assistant for more than ten years, dared answer Minnie when she rang. But Cazzie always answered promptly no matter how important the matter at hand. She removed the handset from the polka dot bow on top of Minnie’s head. Hello…

Cazzie dropped the phone like it was a live rattlesnake and stepped back. She could hear Parker’s voice sounding hollow and far away. Cazzie? Are you there?

Cazzie felt the color drain from her face. She was shaking so hard she was afraid her teeth would chatter. Molly! Not in front of Molly. Cazzie put her hand on the back of her chair for support and inhaled deeply. You always get to the other side of trouble, Granny always said. Just start paddling. Cazzie straightened her spine, lifted her chin and picked up the handset. Sorry, Parker, I dropped the phone. Can you hold a minute? Then to Molly, forcing her voice to be steady, Please excuse me for a minute.

As soon as the door closed, Cazzie gripped the hand set so hard it hurt and said, I don’t care, Parker.

He’s a very sick old man, Cazzie. He’s asking for you. The doc doesn’t think he can last much longer.

I don’t think you heard me, Parker. I. Don’t. Care.

Good God, Cazzie. I don’t know what your differences are, but he’s your father.

You’re right. You don’t know. And, since you don’t know, keep all that righteous judgment to yourself. Goodbye, Parker.

Cazzie sank into her chair, heart pounding, and a headache beginning at the base of her skull. She lifted Minnie’s handset and dialed the phone at the University Park house.

What’s up, Cazzie? Her best friend’s voice was like honey flowing over sun-warmed stone.

Hey, Nine. I was hoping you hadn’t gone back to the ranch yet, Cazzie couldn’t keep the tremor from her voice.

No, I still have a few more clothes to buy for the girls. I’m going back tomorrow…you okay, girl? Cazzie heard the edge in Nine’s voice and knew her friend’s intuition had kicked into high alert.

No, Nine. No, I’m not.

What is it?

Can you meet me for lunch in half an hour?

Where?

Cazzie followed the maître d’ through the restaurant, keenly aware that a number of handsome and not-so handsome heads, both male and female, were watching her progress toward the secluded table where Nine was already seated. Cazzie was confident there was nothing about her demeanor or appearance to suggest the turmoil in her mind. But she knew Nine would see straight through her bravado. As Cazzie slid into the booth, a white-coated waiter delivered two Jack Daniels and water over ice.

It sounded like I should invite Jack to lunch, Nine grinned as the waiter placed the frosty glasses in front of them.

Bless you, my child. You’re a mind reader, Cazzie replied and advised the waiter they wanted some time before they ordered.

Nine sipped her drink and looked steadily at Cazzie over the rim of her glass. Okay. What is it?

Cazzie inhaled deeply. In a minute.

Nine grinned and switched topics instantly. Hey, Frosty, you gathered a trail of admirers all the way from the front door to the table.

Cazzie laughed at Nine’s reference to the nickname Billy Maddox had given her a long time ago. It was the touch of levity she needed and the tightness in her chest began to loosen.

They sat, silent, for a few minutes, then Cazzie, looking intently into her drink like something was swimming in it, said, He’s dying.

Nine didn’t ask who. Instead, drawing upon a commanding memory of Bible verses, she said, To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to keep silence and a time to speak. Looks like your time to speak has come, Cazzie Rae.

Are you saying I should go? Cazzie gripped her glass so hard she thought it might break but she couldn’t let go. She had to hold on to something. Don’t let me down now, Nine. Back me up here. Tell me it’s okay not to go. Well, I’m not going. He can rot in hell for all I care.

Fine, Nine picked up her menu. Then why are we having this conversation? Let’s have a nice lunch and go shopping at Neiman’s for the rest of the afternoon.

A waiter took their order, a Cobb salad for each of them. They sat in silence.

Nine Bellew. Thank God for you. A smile played at the corners of Cazzie’s mouth as she remembered meeting Nine when they were both cleaning toilets for Crouse Janitorial Service. When the tall black woman had looked up from a sparkling clean toilet and said, I’m Nine, who might you be? Cazzie looked at her blankly.

Nine? Nine is your name? Is it short for something?

No, ma’am, it be my name.

You mean like the number nine?

That be it, Nine grinned, her teeth white like milk against her ebony skin. I be the ninth girl child of my mama and daddy. By the time they got to me they had used up all the girl names they could find in the Bible, so they jist called me Nine. I praise the Lord I weren’t number thirteen! Nine guffawed so boisterously her breasts jiggled under her cotton blouse. Cazzie had laughed too and liked the big, raw woman immediately.

Now Cazzie slowly drank half her drink and studied her friend who was no longer the poor, uneducated country woman of their Crouse Janitorial days. I didn’t think it would matter when the time came.

And now?

I don’t know what I feel. Cazzie shook her head, causing a wisp of dark hair to fall forward against her cheek. Like somebody buried a rusty ax in my back mostly.

I don’t know how you can expect to feel nothing. It’s not like the man is some stranger.

He made the decision to shut me out of his life. I was only six. It’s his problem. He lived without me. He can sure as hell die without me.

Since you’re not God, I’d say he’ll die when its time whether you’re there or not.

Cazzie poked at the salad with her fork but didn’t eat. You never give me any wiggle room, do you, pal?

Nope, never have, never will, Nine grinned. So?

So, okay, I want you to tell me not to go. Cazzie let out a big whoosh of breath. That it’s okay not to go.

Cazzie, only you can decide if you want to spend the rest of your life with this burr in your britches or if you want to settle things. All these years, there’s been time. Now, time’s up.

Still, I just don’t know… Cazzie twisted her five carat canary diamond ring around and around her finger.

Nine reached across the table and covered Cazzie’s hand with her own. What are you afraid of? Her voice was gentle.

I don’t know. Yes you do. He’ll hurt you again. Cazzie pressed her lips together trying to stop the quivering of her chin.

Maybe you’ll find out you still love him or he loves you, or both. Is that what scares you?

I detest him. If he loved me, he wouldn’t have left me and stayed away all these years without a word.

Well, then, Nine continued, if you go and find out he really is the lowdown son-of-a-skunk you think he is, you can go right on hating him the rest of your life with a clear conscience. If you’re wrong and you don’t go, you’ve lost the chance to set things right.

Would you go if it were you?

Yes, Nine said firmly, I would go if it were me.

Cazzie signaled the waiter for another Jack Daniels then sat silently rotating the glass with her fingers, lost in the ghost voices in her head.

I kain’t hardly hold myself together, Cazzie after…well, you know, the awful trouble.

I’ll take care of you, Daddy.

It’s jist you and me now, Cazzie. We got to take care of each other.

Don’t be lonesome, Daddy. You still have me.

You promise, Daddy? You’ll stay with me forever and ever?

Forever and ever, Cazzie.

Cazzie? Nine spoke sharply. Cazzie jerked like she had been poked with a cattle prod and knocked over her drink, the liquid spreading like a flood across the table. A waiter rushed over to clean up. As soon as he walked away, Cazzie turned to Nine.

"Okay. You’re right, Nine. I’m afraid to go but I’m more afraid of not going. But it’s not to make peace. You can put money on that. I just want the bastard to tell me face to face why he did it.

CHAPTER 3

Traveling Music

Havi Navarro adjusted the rear view mirror in order to better see Cazzie curled against the soft navy leather in the corner of the back seat. Her eyes were closed but Havi knew she wasn’t sleeping.

Cazzie, we’ll be in Stephensville in about ten minutes. We need gas and I could use some coffee. How about you?

Glancing over his shoulder, Havie saw her lift both arms and stretch like a cat. Sounds good to me.

He inhaled deeply, savoring her smell. If scent were a color, Cazzie’s would be the molten gold of a tropical sunset. She was dressed casually in a pair of faded blue jeans, a soft, baby-chick-yellow cotton sweater, and well-worn cowboy boots. Muy bonita. Havi read, wrote and spoke fluent English with no trace of accent, but he often thought in the vernacular of his native Mexico.

Havi supposed Cazzie wouldn’t be called a true beauty by a strict definition of the term but there was no question she was striking. Eyes, the color of amber warmed by sunlight with flecks of gold, but with a deep translucency and framed with dark lashes, they were the first thing a person noticed. Like the simplicity of everything else in her appearance, Cazzie’s hair, the smoky chestnut of a healthy young bear cub, was kept perfectly cut in a classic chin-length bob. She was tall and slim and moved with purpose and, usually, grace. Unless she was angry. Then she moved like a lioness on the prowl for supper.

Cazzie was the most vibrantly alive person Havi knew, but today she appeared so weary and listless. He had seen Cazzie frustrated, fatigued, fighting mad and under severe stress on many occasions, but he had never seen her so - he searched for the right word - vulnerable. The thought of Cazzie in pain caused a hard lump, like he had swallowed a big stone, to fill Havi’s chest, for whatever hurt Cazzie Randle hurt Havi Navarro.

Mi amada… The stone turned over. He wanted to touch her, comfort her, and tell her everything would be all right for he, Havi Navarro, would make it so. He loved her, not only with the fiery intensity of unrequited passion, but also with a deep and steady affection rooted in years of loyalty and friendship. Havi was one of Cazzie’s two closest friends and he was confident she trusted him completely. He was also sure she had no idea how deeply he loved her and he would never tell her.

Always near the surface of his consciousness was the memory of the day many years ago when he had confessed his desperate secret to her, a secret that locked them together in a fierce loyalty to each other no one, except perhaps Bama and Nine, could even begin to understand

Senora, I do a thing, he had said. You must know. I cut a man. He knew he was putting his life in Cazzie’s hands.

What do you mean, cut a man? she asked, her level gaze never faltering.

I mean I cut him, Senora, from here, he placed his hand at the top of his pelvis, …to here. The hand moved with lightning swiftness upward so the back of his fingers rested under his chin. Cut him… muerto… his intestino… He pantomimed the man’s insides spilling into his own dying hands.

Why? Cazzie looked at him without blinking.

Havi told her.

The following day Xavier Hector Navarro was released from his job on the landscape maintenance crew for the Tapp ranch house and was moved into the empty chauffer’s apartment above the garage.

Havi was no longer the uneducated, terrified raw peasant Cazzie had met ten years ago. Thanks to Cazzie and Bama Tapp, he had become a citizen and his English was impeccable.

He knew people, especially women, found him attractive and charming. Although he was sure no living person, other than Cazzie and his cousin, Ricardo, knew his secret, he was aware people intuitively interacted with him with a certain wariness. That instinctive sense of caution had earned him the nickname of El Toro Peligroso, the dangerous bull.

Now, on this perfect June day, as he drove Cazzie through the rolling hills covered with a quilt work of wildflower color, Havi could tell Cazzie’s mind was not on the beauty of the countryside. On the radio, Merle Haggard was singing about making it through December but Cazzie didn’t seem aware of the strains of her favorite traveling music, as she called it. The music cycled into the lyrics I can’t stop loving you. Havi turned the radio off.

This is as good a place as any. Havi brought the limousine to a stop by the gas pump