Best Kept Secrets

Best Kept Secrets by Sandra Brown

 

 

 

One

 

 

 

It wasn't so much the cockroach that made her scream as the

 

chipped fingernail. The cockroach was small. The chip was

 

a dilly. On her manicured nail it looked as deep and jagged

 

as the Grand Canyon.

 

 

 

Alex swatted at the cockroach with the laminated card that

 

displayed the motel's limited room service menu. The reverse

 

side advertised the Friday night Mexican buffet and The Four

 

Riders, a country and western band currently performing in

 

the Silver Spur Lounge nightly from seven till midnight.

 

 

 

Her swipe at the cockroach missed by a mile and it scuttled

 

for cover behind the wood veneer dresser. "I'll get you

 

later."

 

 

 

She found a nail file in the bottom of the cosmetic case

 

she had been about to unpack when the metal clasp had

 

wrecked her fingernail and the cockroach had come out to

 

inspect the new tenant of room 125. The room was located

 

on the ground floor of the Westerner Motel, three doors down

 

from the ice and vending machines.

 

 

 

Once the nail had been repaired, Alex gave herself one

 

last, critical look in the dresser mirror. It was important that

 

 

 

 

 

she make a stunning first impression. They would be astonished

 

when she told them who she was, but she wanted to

 

create an even stronger impact.

 

She wanted to leave them stupefied, speechless, and defenseless.

 

They would undoubtedly make comparisons. She couldn't

 

prevent that; she just didn't want to come out on the short

 

end of then' mental measuring sticks. If she could help it,

 

they would find no flaws in Celina Gaither's daughter.

 

She had carefully chosen what to wear. Everything--

 

clothes, jewelry, accessories--was in excellent taste. The

 

overall effect was tailored but not severe, smart but not trendy;

 

she exuded an aura of professionalism that didn't compromise

 

her femininity.

 

Her goal was to impress them first, then surprise them with

 

what had brought her to Purcell.

 

Until a few weeks ago, the town of thirty thousand had

 

been a lonely dot on the Texas map. As many jackrabbits

 

and horned toads lived there as people. Recently, town business

 

interests had generated news, but on a comparatively

 

small scale. By the time Alex's job was done, she was certain

 

Purcell would capture newspaper headlines from El Paso to

 

Texarkana.

 

Concluding that nothing about her appearance could be

 

improved upon short of an act of God or very expensive

 

plastic surgery, she shouldered her handbag, picked up her

 

eel attache case, and, making certain she had her room key,

 

closed the door to room 125 behind her.

 

During the drive downtown, Alex had to creep through

 

two school zones. Rush hour in Purcell began when school

 

dismissed. Parents transported their children from school to

 

dentists' offices, piano lessons, and shopping centers. Some

 

might even have been going home, but the sluggish traffic

 

and clogged intersections indicated that no one was staying

 

indoors that day. She didn't actually mind the stop-and-go

 

traffic. The delays gave her an opportunity to gauge the personality

 

of the town.