Free Love Mercy by Earlene Fowler

said automatically, grateful for the food and even more grateful that someone made a decision for her.
    She was halfway finished with the pasta when the door to the café opened, and a tall, kind of bony woman with reddish hair walked in. When Rett heard a couple of men call out her name—Love—she knew it was her grandma. The woman glanced over at Rett, her pale eyes lingering for a split second. Before Rett could react, her grandma turned to speak to the woman that Rett had flipped off.
    Great, she thought. They’re probably best friends or something. Her grandma would hate her before they even met. Rett immediately started thinking about where she could go from here. Her money wouldn’t get her far. She hated thinking about it, but she might have to pawn the banjo. Though the thought of pawning the gorgeous instrument kinda killed her, it also made her smile. Dale would bust a vein. Would serve him right. Maybe she’d send him a postcard with a little cartoon showing the banjo in a jail cell. Just like all those cute little cartoons he drew on Hampton Inn stationery and sent her when he was on the road. All the time he was probably sending Patsy the same cartoons along with love notes reliving what they’d done.
    Just thinking about Dale and Patsy made her eyes burn. She bit the inside of her cheek, making herself concentrate on the physical pain, so she wouldn’t think about the ache in her chest. She’d sung he-done-me-wrong songs since she was barely five years old, but this was the first time she understood what those women were talking about.
    She pushed the lasagna away, her appetite gone. Forget about Dale, she lectured herself. You’ve got to figure a way to make some money and get out of here. She was certain she’d used up whatever good girl, spiritual savings she’d acquired with the Mister upstairs, so she doubted whether someone like Brother Dwaine would show up and drive her to L.A. Maybe she could get a job bartending, though she didn’t have any idea how to make any kind of drink except a sloe gin fizz. She tried to remember the ratio between sloe gin and fizzy water. Was lemon juice involved somehow? Maybe she could Google it. She’d need to find a fake ID too.
    “Hello, Loretta.”
    Rett looked up, surprised to see her grandma standing next to her. She was struck dumb for a moment. She looked right into her eyes, then back down at the table. “I go by Rett now.”
    She looked back up to see her grandma’s reaction. For some reason, she knew this moment would be one she’d remember her whole life. She tasted the sweet-tangy marinara sauce in the back of her throat. The contents of her stomach crashed and broke like an ocean wave. It suddenly struck her that this was her father’s mother. She’d given birth and raised the man that was Rett’s dad. What would this woman think of her? What if her grandma didn’t want to have anything to do with her?
    “Rett Johnson.” Her grandma cocked her head and rolled the name off her tongue as if she were tasting it. Her voice was pitched low, like a blues singer. “I like that.” A soft Kentucky twang still echoed in the shadows of her vowels. Her thin, pale lips turned up into a smile. “Well, Rett, welcome home.”

FIVE
    Mel
    M el had finished her riding lesson and was currying the sweat and dirt off Redeye’s back when Maisie came up behind her.
    “Benni says you were a cop,” Maisie remarked, leaning against the metal hitching rail where the horse was tied.
    Mel kept grooming and didn’t answer.
    “In Las Vegas,” Maisie persisted.
    According to Benni, Maisie’s father had called and said he’d be late, so she had hung around during Mel’s lesson supposedly helping Gabe build a new chicken coop. Throughout her lesson, Mel had heard the young woman’s clear voice talking a mile a minute to Gabe.
    “ Were being the operative word,” Mel said, glancing over at the curious young woman. Strands of Maisie’s hair had worked their