16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

C lark reached for his acai berries. “What game?”

“Our twenty questions game. We only got through a couple of them with Dottie.”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Whose turn is it?”

Cleo tried to remember but couldn’t. “Yours, I think.”

He scratched his head. “Okay, we’ve gotten easy questions out of the way. It’s time to play hardball.”

Cleo quickly sobered. She’d thought she wanted to play this game with Clark, but maybe she’d been a fool for suggesting it.

“Who are you going to see in Texas?”

Cleo squirmed in her seat. Hardball indeed. Her knee-jerk reaction was to pass, but was it really that big a deal to tell Clark? Who was he going to tell?

He let her mull over her decision for a minute before he added, “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s fine. I just haven’t talked about her with anyone before. In fact, I just found out a few days ago that she’s in Texas.” She inhaled deeply. “It’s my mom.”

Clark’s eyes grew wide for a split second before he relaxed and said, “Wow, I bet that’s…quite a story.”

“It is.” And not a quick one, especially as she’d never told it to anyone before now, other than Bea, who knew pieces of it. So Cleo did her best. She told Clark about Bernice and how she’d grown up thinking Bernice was her mom, only to discover years after Bernice and her father had divorced, that she was her step-mom. And then there was the letter the night before her wedding from Bernice, stating that she knew where her mom might be. She explained how that had knocked her sideways, setting into motion a plan to escape her fate.

Clark whistled low. “That is…Cleo, I can’t even imagine.”

“Yeah,” she answered. She felt like she was living in a soap opera. Especially when she couldn’t quite shake this nagging fear that she wasn’t going to get away with it, getting to her mom. She’d had a creepy-crawly feeling in her gut all day. At first she’d attributed the feeling to the shenanigans of the night before with Clark, but now she wondered if it was something else.

“So, you don’t know if she’ll even be there? In San Antonio?”

Cleo shook her head. “This trip might be a complete waste.”

“But you had to try. I mean, I would’ve tried, too. You have to know you’ve done everything you can. If you want a relationship with her, that is.”

“I don’t know if I want a relationship with her. I guess it depends on what I find there. If she tells me there’s a reason I’ve never heard from her, that she doesn’t want me in her life, then I guess that’ll be that. Or if she’s a horrible person, I don’t think I’d want to get to know her.”

“Well, I hope she’s still living there and is as lovely as her daughter.” Cleo felt her face flush at the compliment. Especially since she didn’t feel it was warranted. She was starting to realize she wasn’t as nice as she thought she was. She wasn’t downright mean or anything, just a little careless with others’ feelings. She could blame it on a negligent step-mother or over-indulgent father, but she probably needed to take full ownership of her actions. She was coming to see her selfishness and wondered if now that she recognized it, she could do something about it.

Clark rubbed his bicep with his hand, a very distracting move. Was he flexing? Or did his arm always look that big? Cleo looked up when she realized Clark had caught her staring, a small smile lighting up his eyes. She glanced away, her face heating once again.

He didn’t embarrass her by calling her on it; he just moved on. “Your question.”

Cleo bit her cheek. What was she going to ask? She grinned as a thought came to her. He wanted to play hardball? She’d play hardball. “What name do you write under?”

Clark hardly hesitated. “Clark Jonas.”

“Clark Jonas? Not a pen name?”

“It’s sort of a pen name. Jonas is my middle name.”

“What’s your last name?”

“That’s another question. It’s my turn.” Oh well, at least now she could look him up and see what he’d written. If she ever got access to the internet again.

“Next question: What’s in your notebook?” He pointed at the white pages currently poking out of the bag at her feet.

Cleo stuck her hands under her thighs and kicked her bag underneath her. “My notebook? Oh, just some doodles.”

“I don’t think so.”

Her heart bounced once. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not just randomly doodling in that.”

“I’m not?”

“I don’t think so,” he repeated. “Don’t you have to answer these questions honestly?”

“You can’t prove that I’m not being honest.”

“You can prove that you are. Show me.”

“No.”

“Why not? If you’re telling me the truth, you won’t mind showing me your ‘doodles.’”

“That’s not part of the game.”

“If the integrity of the game is compromised by one player not being honest with the other, then proving yourself either becomes part of the game or the game must cease.”

Cleo’s mouth fell open. “Do you write legal documents for a living, too?”

“No, it’s just common sense.”

“Then pass.”

“Pass? You really want to waste a pass on this? Just show me.”

“Fine.” Cleo pulled out the notebook and turned to a page that showed the Sunsphere and surrounding buildings in Knoxville.

It was Clark’s turn for his mouth to drop. “Did you do that from memory?”

“Yes. I’m sure I got a lot wrong, but this is what I remember.”

“That’s incredible.” Cleo loved to sketch places she’d seen with her own eyes, and Knoxville’s skyline had been so impressive she’d immediately itched to sketch it. The itch only went away when the image in her brain was captured in ink. Another itch currently driving her crazy was to get The Black-Eyed Susan down on paper.

“Show me the others.”

“No way. I’ve already proven that I doodle in here. And you’re driving, so it wouldn’t be safe.”

“Those aren’t doodles. Doodles are flowers and circles and maybe a game of M.A.S.H. or two. That is art.”

“Potato, potahto. My turn to ask a question.”

“No, that question has to be nullified since we can’t agree whether you answered it honestly or not.”

“Good grief. I’ve never played with anyone so picky about the rules before.”

“I’m known for my fastidiousness; ask my sisters.”

“Fine, you get another question. But I don’t have a pass.”

“Fine.” Clark arched his eyebrow. “Am I in that notebook?”

Cleo shoved it back in the bag under her seat and answered without thinking. “Pass.”

A slow smile spread across Clark’s face, and it was as handsome as she’d thought it would be. It dazzled her, until she realized what it represented. Dangit, she should’ve just answered the stupid question. Now he knew the answer was yes, and she’d used up a pass on it. So stupid. She scowled at him, knowing he’d tricked her and gotten away with it. “My turn again. What tattoos do you have and where are they?”

“First of all, that’s two questions, and…I’m not sure I want to tell you the answer to either of them.”

“Are you passing, RK?”

“I’m…passing.”

“Wow, now I really need to find out. Do they say an ex’s name? Or ‘Mom’ inside a heart? Or is one misspelled?” She grabbed his arm and gasped. “Please tell me you got one in another language and it doesn’t mean what you thought it meant, like you were trying for ‘serenity’ but it really means ‘constipation.’”

He chuckled. “You have a twisted sense of humor, Princess.”

“You have no idea.” She realized she still held his arm and pulled her hand away, instantly missing the feel of it.

Clark glanced to where her hand had been, like maybe he missed it too. He cleared his throat and asked, “If you could do anything and be anything, what would you choose?”

Cleo tapped her finger against her mouth. After a minute Clark grew impatient and asked, “Can’t think of anything?”

“No, actually the opposite. Too many options.” The notebook caught her eye, and she said, “I’d work in the Met during the day and draw or paint when I’m not there or helping out with Bea’s foundation. Art is the one part of my life I wouldn’t give up.”

“Why don’t you work in the Met now?”

“Because I don’t have an art degree or any experience to qualify me. Except I’ve visited it over a hundred times and probably know the paintings there better than most of the docents.”

“Is the Met your favorite art museum?”

“It’s definitely up there. I’ve been to a lot of art museums, but some of my favorites happen to be in southern Poland.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Krakow has some exceptional art. My favorite museum there might’ve been the stained glass museum. I love stained glass, and you get to watch them create it there.”

“Sounds cool. What do you like about it?”

“Stained glass is like a puzzle to put together. When I work with it, it quiets my brain and all the noise in it.”

Clark bobbed his head like he knew what Cleo meant. “Everyone should have something like that in their life.”

“Is it writing for you?”

Clark cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “It used to be. Now…. Well, now it sometimes makes more noise than it silences. But I’m working on that.”

Cleo wasn’t sure what that meant, but she knew Clark wasn’t likely to elaborate. Instead she asked, “Which is your favorite Elvis song?” The signs for Memphis must have planted that question.

“Who says I like Elvis?”

Cleo smacked his arm. “You’d better, or when we pull up to the gates of Graceland, I’m dragging you inside to tour the entire thing until you become Elvy’s number one fan.”

“Elvy?” he questioned.

“The Big E?” Cleo offered. “The Hillbilly Cat? Fire Eyes? Elvis the Pelvis?”

“Okay, stop. Let’s get this straight: I will never be a fan of anyone named after that body part.”

“He didn’t call himself that; those who disapproved of his gyrating did.”

“And I’m supposed to like someone who ‘gyrates,’ am I?”

Cleo shrugged. “You do love Shakira.”

Clark laughed. “Touche?.”

“You don’t really hate Elvis, do you? I don’t know if I can sit alone in a car all day long with someone who hates The King.”

“Fine, I don’t hate Elvis. My favorite song is I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You .”

Cleo gasped. “You are a romantic!”

“I told you I was.” Clark checked the map on his phone. “You’re not really going to make us go to Graceland, are you? I thought you wanted to make it to San Antonio today.”

“I do. Maybe we can visit for just a few minutes? I’ve always wanted to see it.” Clark agreed and soon they were able to see skyscrapers in the distance. “Is that Memphis?”

“It sure is,” Clark drawled in his best Elvis impression. “Would the little lady like to, uh, come see where I live?”

Cleo clapped her hands together. “You are scary good at that!”

He continued, “Why thank you, thank you very much.”

“If writing ever doesn’t work out, you could always take up marrying people in Vegas.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clark said, sounding like himself again.

As Clark drove them through the streets of Elvis’s hometown, the lyrics of Walking in Memphis played on repeat in her brain.

“Do you know who W.C. Handy is?” she asked Clark, but her question died as she caught sight of a sloping, green hill. On top was perched a pretty, red-bricked mansion with white columns rising up out of the earth. Cleo pressed her face to the glass window as Clark pulled the car over to the curb and cut the engine. She got out and took it all in, from the plane parked across the street to the sign overhead proclaiming they were on Elvis Presley Boulevard.

Cleo trailed her fingers along the red brick wall until she spotted the curvy, sheet-music gates that were about to open. She peeked through, spying Graceland at the end of a long, curving drive. If Cleo let her eyes go blurry, she could just picture Elvis’s ghost walking up toward the house, no doubt headed to meet some gorgeous girl in the Jungle Room like the song said. Cleo loved old houses and vowed that someday she would return here for a proper visit.

“I think you can go visit Elvis’s grave in the Meditation Garden before the house opens,” Clark said when he reached her.

“I don’t need to see that, but thanks. I think we get tickets for the house over here.”

As Cleo headed toward what she thought was the ticket office, she saw a man wearing a tan guayabera in the distance, scrutinizing everyone who passed him by. He had on dark shades and his hair was slicked back, just like….

Cleo froze in place then grabbed Clark’s arm. Concern etched his features as he asked, “What’s the matter? Why did we stop?”

“I need you to slowly turn around and walk back to the car with me,” she said.

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.” The man in the shades was still looking out over the crowds of people, scanning faces. She knew the second he saw hers. He started toward them but Cleo had already spun, holding fast to Clark’s hand as she dragged him behind her. He didn’t know what the urgency was, but he was soon sprinting next to her.

Cleo and Clark weaved through hordes of people, bumping and jostling several as they passed. At least their pursuer would have to fight the masses as well. They finally reached the last of the crowd where their car was in sight.

“I’ll drive!” Cleo yelled, and Clark tossed her the keys. She threw open her car door and dove into her seat just as the man burst through the crowd. Cleo ducked down low, trying to fit the key into the ignition with shaking hands. She finally managed to start the engine, alerting the man to their presence.

“Stop!” he yelled as he raced toward them.

Cleo pulled out into traffic in front of another car that narrowly missed colliding with them. The driver honked long and loud as he swerved around them, flipping them off for good measure.

Cleo gunned it, shouting at Clark for directions. He navigated her back to the freeway as Cleo obsessively checked over her shoulder and in the rear view mirror for a car that might be following them. Her heart felt like it would beat right out of her chest as she took big gulps of air to quiet it.

As their car passed over the magnificent bridge and the great Mississippi River toward Arkansas, Clark asked, “What just happened back there?”

“We were spotted.”

“Yes, but by whom?”

“By someone my father hired to find me.”

Clark’s mouth gaped open. “What? He sent someone after you?”

“Apparently.”

“And you didn’t think that would’ve been something you should’ve told me before I committed to a several-days car drive with you?”

Cleo slowed the car down to ten over the speed limit instead of twenty over. “I didn’t know he’d come after me.”

“But you knew there was a chance.”

“Technically, yes.”

“And now he has our car description and likely a license plate number.”

Cleo threw up her hands. “Should we get off the freeway and go a different way or something?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in a car chase before.”

“We’re not in a car chase yet. Where are we driving to anyway?”

“Uh, I thought we were driving to Texas.”

“Right, but it’s kiiiiind of a big state.” Clark had been super vague about where he needed to stop in Texas. “Like, are we going to Dallas, or can we skirt around that and head to Austin?”

“You can, uh, just let me off in Austin.”

“Are you sure? No need to hitchhike when we have a car that can drop you at your door.”

“I’ll have you know, I’d be an excellent hitchhiker.”

Cleo shook her head. “I don’t even know how to unpack that sentence. What does being an excellent hitchhiker entail?”

“I mean, I bet I could get any car to stop.”

“I’m sure your legs are nice, but I doubt they’d make anyone stop.”

“No legs, just a good ol’ trusty thumb.”

Cleo could picture it perfectly, Clark with his thumb so confidently thrust out toward the passing cars, getting overlooked every time. “I hope you never have to trust that theory, because I’d bet my Nespresso machine it would never work.”