Page 10 of A Temporary Memory

I couldn’t give up on money, though. The end of the month was bearing down on me, and I’d have Mom’s long-term bill due. I’d pumped all of my funds into setting up my show—the dress, the face and body makeup, and advertising. Frederick had created opportunities, and I’d coasted off his lifestyle, using my money to get me to the next level and handing him any extra to “invest and grow.”

He’d walled off the money garden. Jackass.

Why had I moved my checking account to the bank he worked at?

“I need a job,” I said.

“You could work here.”

While I was certain Mr. Uptight out there put a nice tip down for Thelma—she’d have called him shit stick or some other name by now if he didn’t—I doubted the Hummingbird’s patrons were heavy tippers. I wouldn’t be buying a used Volvo on the gratuity left anywhere in Crocus Valley.

Besides, Thelma’s retirement plan wasI’ll figure it out. I wasn’t taking her tip money or her customers.

“Think I could teach dance lessons?” There was an old, empty theater next door that enchanted me. The former stage house turned movie theater oozed small-town charm and character. I fell in love the moment I saw it after I arrived. Thelma’s apartment was above the drugstore on the opposite side of the theater.

She took another pretend drag. “You’d have to rent a place to hold lessons—unless those garden club bitches let you use the park. But then they’d grill you about your credentials.”

I’d taken dance lessons since I was three—tap, ballet, ballroom, jazz—it didn’t matter. As long as it was movement to music, I was in. Mom had seen what it’d done to help me focus and control my emotions, and she’d nurtured it. Grandma had done what she could, but there were only so many lessons she could foot the bill for while collecting social security.

“You think they’d be all judgy about burlesque?” I was used to it. Burlesque wasn’t sophisticated enough for the “real” dancers, and it was too close to stripping for most. I didn’t know why there was a problem with either. I didn’t care to strip, but I poured years of experience and creativity into my act. I was proud of burlesque but also defensive. Maybe a little insecure.

After the way Frederick treated me—raw.

“Probably,” Thelma answered, confirming my fears. “The nearest strip club is three hours away. It’s not a part of life here.”

“Shouldn’t matter,” I grumbled, sick to death of the struggle to be taken seriously. I’d been a performer and a business owner.

If I’d been a smart business owner, I wouldn’t need a job so damn badly right now.

“You and I know that.” She flicked her unlit cigarette into the garbage and pushed off the doorframe. “I gotta go check their milks. That guy puts ’em down like they’re forty proof.”

Smiling, I tried not to run the image of “that guy” and his wide shoulders through my head. No man should look that sinful in a shirt with an off-colored milk stain hugging his impressive pecs. He wasn’t a wall of muscle like a lot of the gym bros who creeped at the gyms I’d gone to in my life. Nor was he overly lanky. He was built, but like he’d earned his body through sweat equity—hard work and a meat-and-potatoes diet—instead of plastic surgeons, protein drinks, and ninety-day diet plans.

Usually, I didn’t care. A person could look good with any method they wanted, but the LA girl in me was intrigued.

“I’m going to take a walk,” I said. “See if anyone’s looking for help.”

I was about to head for the dining area when she said, “You hoping to get one more look at milk-does-a-body-good guy?”

Heat stoking in my face, I went to my toes in relevé and spun. “The back door is fine,” I said sweetly, and she narrowed her eyes at me.

I breezed out the back, ignoring the pang in my chest that I wasn’t going to lay greedy eyes on the uptight dad again. Milk really did do his body good. Would his ass in those slacks outshine any I’d seen yet?

Nope. Didn’t matter.

Outside, I paused. Crocus Valley was like stepping back in time. The buildings were historic in a way that I didn’t see in LA. Old brick of various shades, sometimes on the same buildings, which had been moderately kept up, lined Main Street. In between some buildings were newer wooden structures, also moderately maintained. Some had the undeniable style of the seventies—browns, yellows, and whites that were now also more yellow. Other buildings were from the eighties, and then a random stucco house fit into the far corner. Every decade was reflected on Main Street, and I liked the variety.

I went all the way through the alley, not scared at all to traverse a place I’d stay far away from in a bigger city. Since the space was fairly private, I added a few hitch kicks before I rounded the block to reverse my direction toward the theater.

The two-story theater with large plate glass windows flanking either side of the entrance was built with reddish-brown brick, which was the hallmark of the area. Thelma said another small town not far away was known for its brick. She’d spouted all sorts of facts on the drive to Crocus Valley from the Bismarck airport.

I owed her so damn much. I sent the manager of my mom’s long-term care home a message that I had temporarily relocated and briefly explained the situation in case Frederick tried to track me or Mom down. I asked her to tell Mom I was hanging with Thelma. I’d given her the number for the burner phone.

Laughter from children playing across the street caught my attention. Turning, I found the milk-loving dad pushing his little girl on a swing. His dark hair had busted free of the severe styling and feathered over his forehead. The scowl was still in place, and he had his phone in one hand.

What was it with guys? Being a workaholic shouldn’t be a badge of honor. Some, like Frederick, should’ve worked on bettering themselves rather than filling the well with more money than they could use in their lifetime.

All I’d need was a fraction of Frederick’s wealth. I could open a dance school, give a few performances, and do things like travel to see my mom. I’d stay with Thelma. We could catch up and share fun memories of Grandma. I wouldn’t only be visiting so I could nurse my wounds and figure out how to make money when all I had was a small suitcase half-filled with garments for my act. The few clothing items I’d purchased at the airport weren’t job interview material.

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