earned, a part of her said, “Take that!” to the people of Dale who thought she’d never amount to anything. That was why she’d used her last bonus to buy the black BMW. Having a car in the city was an enormous expense. It would have made more sense to fly down and rent a car, but she’d gone out and bought the BMW as soon as the check cleared.
No one would believe the poor gypsy girl with the wild hair and hand-me-down clothes would drive into Dale in a foreign luxury car wearing pearls and a five-hundred-dollar suit. Maybe she’d take a stroll down Main Street just to let all the local gossips get a good look at her Jimmy Choo shoes and Kate Spade bag.
Lord, if her mama hadn’t been cremated, she’d be turning over in her grave right about now. Nadya laughed at herself as she slid into the leather interior of the BMW. Expensive trappings had never mattered to Tala, and seeing Nadya dressed like one of the gadzé would have made her mama shake her head in disgust.
The drive to Dale was only thirty miles, but it was all winding, narrow, tree-lined roads. At least they were all paved now. When she was growing up, much of the route into the hills had been gravel.
Acid churned in her stomach as she approached the town limits. God, she’d thought she’d never see this place again. She’d placed Dale firmly in her past the day she’d found out what the good people of the town did to her home based on the jealous ravings of one woman. What the hell was she doing back here? Was whatever her mother left for her worth seeing this place again? Bringing back all the memories of the cuts and slurs that had been heaped upon her her entire life?
Yes. If for no other reason than to shove it in their faces that she’d made it. While they were still living in the back end of beyond, she was in New York City working for a prestigious law firm.
The sign declaring Dale, Georgia, population 322 looked old and weathered. The gilt lettering had faded completely, and the black numbers were a watery gray now. Its state reflected the town itself. Several shops she remembered from her childhood were abandoned with faint For Sale or Lease signs in the windows. Weeds sprouted up through cracks in the sidewalk and were about the only things growing. She guessed even the Georgia sun couldn’t bake kudzu.
Nadya glanced at the lawyer’s address again to make sure she had the right place. The small, glass-fronted store looked more like a pharmacy than a law office. She hadn’t expected an office complex like the one she worked in, but this was ridiculous. Sure enough though, hanging off the door knob was a sign stating this was the office of one Marshal T. Hornblower, Esquire.
Bracing herself for the heat and humidity, she checked her appearance in the rearview mirror and reapplied her lipstick before stepping out of the air-conditioned coolness of the car.
“Mama, if you’re listening, help me through this.”
The heat hit her like a wet slap, and sweat immediately beaded up between her breasts. She was thankful she’d ditched the idea of nylons. The jacket she wore wasn’t exactly cool, but at least the meager breeze could waft across her bare legs.
A dog of undetermined breed barked unenthusiastically at her from next door where it was tied in the shade of the green-and-white-striped overhang. It didn’t even bother to get up. Did it ever get this hot in New York?
Nadya knocked at the door, then entered at a hollered, “Come on in!”
It took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dimness of the office—such as it was. The glass window was covered by a blind that was frayed around the edges. A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, and a window air-conditioning unit chugged away at the back of the office. There was only one desk out front and a small kitchenette in the back corner.
“I’ll be right with you,” the same voice that had told her to come in called from behind the refrigerator door.
Seconds later, an older gentleman who could have been Colonel Sanders’s twin brother, complete with white suit and trimmed beard, backed out from the depths of the fridge with two sweating glasses of iced tea.
“You must be Nadze…ah…Nadzedha Sarvo?”
“You can call me Nadya. And you’re Mr.