Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) (9 page)

He glanced at the clock and rose from the chair. “Actually, that reminds me. I should clean up the kitchen before I pick up Christian. You want me to close today? Give you a chance to get out of here early?”

“Yeah, sure, I guess.” What else could I say? I’d already sucked all the happiness out of the room. I mean, we’d had zero customers all day. How dirty could the kitchen be? No, he was trying to get rid of me. And in this case, I was happy to oblige. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

With a curt nod, Gary strode back into the kitchen, leaving me to ponder his ramrod back.

Well, sunshine, you did it again, I told myself with a sigh of self-pity. No wonder people didn’t want anything to do with me. Sober or drunk, I had a real gift for ticking people off.

♥♥♥♥

Jayne

The shouting woke me at three in the morning. I bolted upright, clutching the blankets to my chest, my heart pounding, and a gasp escaping from my lips. The illuminated numbers on my clock read 3:08, to be exact. What the…?

The outbursts, peppered with expletives, continued, louder now, more urgent, and I leaped out of bed, grabbing my robe. I slipped my arms into the sleeves while flying down the stairs to my dark living room, tying the sash around my waist as I hit the landing. A white halo of light danced from the bay window over the couch, momentarily blinding me.

I raised a hand to shield the brightness from my eyes and tiptoed closer to the man thrashing on my sofa. Iggy shouted at someone to get the hell out and pull Granger with him.

Within seconds, my sleep-muzzy brain caught up. The light came from a news camera outside, trying to pan in through the windows for images to go with whatever story Tanya Carter planned to run about me and that monster, Vincent Pittman. Iggy’s senses, submerged in slumber, must have picked up on the light and transported him to the dreamland of his war-torn past.

Knowing the source of the fracas, though, didn’t help me figure out how to calm him. Should I wake him? How? With his arms punching the air and his legs kicking out, I hesitated to get too close for fear of injury.

He’d insisted we keep the lights off from the moment we entered the house to prevent our spies outside from getting any pictures. And let me tell you, sitting in the dark across from a stranger is more awkward than it sounds. Luckily, I’d thrown a meal into my slow cooker before leaving the house in the morning so I was able to put together a dinner for two—meager, since I hadn’t expected a guest when I’d prepared it, but respectable—without any illumination. Iggy hadn’t complained. In fact, he’d said the chicken and dumplings I’d made were even better than his mother’s, which I took as high praise.

Now, that same charming man fought invisible demons, kicking off blankets and spewing a river of orders to, “get down, goddammit, get down!”

I’ll never know if I did the right thing at that moment, but I do know I’ll never regret my decision. I flipped on the nearest light.

Iggy shot to his feet in full battle stance, alert and poised to attack, fists at the ready. “What is it?” he demanded. “What happened?”

“You were dreaming,” I said through a mouth gone dry. I licked my lips to generate some moisture.

Iggy Zemski was a rough-hewn oak of man who stood like an ancient warrior, clad in modern society’s version of a loincloth—boxer briefs—in my living room. This man’s muscles sported muscles. Every inch of spotlighted flesh could have been sculpted by Michelangelo as his ideal demi-god.

“A nightmare,” I added, “I think.” He studied me, mute, until an uneasy itch crept into my feet. I took two steps backward, eager to race back upstairs but afraid to take my gaze off this man. I only stopped moving and staring when the staircase newel post stabbed my spine with sharp accuracy. Then I gasped.

My cry woke him from whatever spell he’d suffered under, and he ran a hand over his close-shaven head. “Sorry if I scared you.”

“It’s okay,” I replied, my gaze now flitting toward the floor. Thanks to the single lamp I’d turned on, I was more aware of his presence now than I’d been while sitting with him for hours in the darkness. Hard not to notice the man oozed testosterone. “Do you…umm…want to tell me about it?”

“Do
you
want to tell
me
about your husband?”

My focus shot back to his face, caught his arched brow. “You already know about David. You were in the kitchen today when I told the staff what happened.”

“You didn’t tell us everything.”

No. I hadn’t. The full truth was too ugly, too messy. Still, I forced the lighthearted laugh anyway. “Of course I did.”

He nodded, but the solemnity in his eyes suggested he knew I lied. “Did you love him?”

“The first few years, yes.”

“And after that?”

“After that?” My shoulders sagged with the weight of the question. I sank to a seat on the lowest step and perched my hands on my knees. “I don’t know anymore. I thought I did. Now, it’s all jumbled up in what happened later. I can’t disconnect the two these days.”

“I get that.” He switched off the light, plunging us into darkness again. “That’s exactly what happens to me.”

I understood what he meant. And why he’d turned off the light. We were more comfortable with each other in the dark, especially when revealing secrets. “No matter how I felt about David in those last few years, I want you to know Vincent Pittman is a liar. I had absolutely nothing to do with my husband’s death.” 

“I know.”

He had no idea how much his confidence meant to me. “I needed to say it. I needed to tell someone. Someone who’ll believe me. Lucky you. You’re the only one who fits that bill.”

“Not true. Dr. Bautista believes you.”

“Yeah, but he’s not here right now, is he?” Braver in the inky night, I dared to ask, “Who’s Granger?”

“A twenty-three-year-old private from Lubbock, Texas. Charlie Granger. Engaged to his high school sweetheart. Enlisted the day after 9/11, like a lot of others did. Good kid. Funny. Too damn young.” His eyes dimmed, and his mouth set in a grim line.

“What happened to him?”

For a long minute, he didn’t answer, and I realized I’d overstepped the boundaries of our blooming friendship. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

His silence continued until my skin itched. At last, he released a deep sigh. “We were under heavy fire in this place in Iraq, As Samawah, but managed to cross the Euphrates and set up a bridgehead on the north bank. The next morning, we were pulling back, figuring we were in good shape, you know? All of a sudden, this enemy SUV is driving straight at us. I don’t even know where it came from. We opened fire to keep from getting run down, and the damn truck exploded into an inferno. Turned out the whole thing was full of propane tanks.”

My vivid imagination filled in the blanks. “My God.”

“Blazing shrapnel poured down like rain, lit Charlie up like a human torch. We managed to douse the flames, but the burns were too severe. He died before we could get him to a medic.”

“And you? Were you…hurt at all?”

“Not a scratch. Charlie was our only casualty. His last few minutes were agony.”

I swallowed hard. “I once treated a pit bull who’d been used as part of a gang initiation. They splashed him with acid, then tied firecrackers to his collar and lit them. I know it’s not the same, but—”

“It’s close enough. Watching any living thing die an excruciating death, whether human or animal, leaves a scar. I bet you’ve got lots of them.”

“Not like you. Not soldier stories.”

“We’re all soldiers, fighting our private wars.”

Wow. This man continued to surprise me. “That’s pretty deep.”

“You thought I was just some dumb Jarhead.”

“No. I never thought that.” Good thing the darkness hid my guilty face.

“Yeah, you did.” His tone held no animosity. “It’s okay. Most of the people here have the wrong idea about me. Yours is easier to dispel than theirs.”

“Why is that?”

“Everyone here sees me as some kind of ladies’ man. Guys wanna be like me, and women wanna be seen dating me. You know why?”

“Why?”

“‘Cuz I’m the great war hero.” He blew out a breath, suggesting he mocked the idea. “Some war hero. I still have nightmares that leave me soaked in sweat a dozen times a month. Every year, on the anniversary of that day, I go out to the beach and get blotto drunk alone so I can cry over losing Charlie without anyone watching me.”

“That just proves you’re human. It doesn’t take away from who you really are.”

“That’s the point. No one here knows who I really am. Except you.”

“Me?” I laughed at the absurdity. “I don’t know you at all. I only met you a few days ago. We’ve spent…what? A dozen hours together?”

“Doesn’t matter. You knew I’d take Lucky home. You wouldn’t let me use the same tired lines on you that I’d use on other women. In fact, you wanted nothing to do with me.”

“So…what? That made the chase more interesting for you?”

“No. I’m not that type of guy. And deep down, you know it. I was more than willing to pull back when you turned me down. But when Dom called me and said you needed help, I came back for you. And although it took some persuading, you put your trust in me.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, Iggy. It has nothing to do with you, but I don’t trust anyone. Not anymore.”

The beam of light flashed overhead again, spanning the room and creating shadows on the far wall.

“Dammit. Those nosy jackasses are trespassing on private property. I’m calling Sam.”

I shot to my feet. “No!”

Sam Dillon was the local police chief, a nice enough guy, but past experience had taught me bringing in the authorities only added to my troubles. The bigger the scene I created around the news cameras, the more sensational the coverage became.

The beam of light flickered over my face, elevating my panic, and I shuddered. “Please,” I said in a softer, calmer tone, hugging myself to get my shaking under control. “If we ignore them, eventually they’ll go away.”

“And then what? And then you spend the rest of your life wearing sackcloth and ashes, letting vicious pinheads like Miranda Clark judge you? When does it end, Doc?”

“When does it end for
you
?” Really. What gave him the right to judge me? “You said we’re all fighting our own wars. Well, this one’s
mine
. Don’t you think it’s hypocritical of you to try to ‘fix’ me when you’re, forgive me, fairly broken yourself?”

“No.” His denial came from a breath away. And before I could take another breath, his arm came around my shoulders and his weight settled me comfortably against him on the step. His hand skimmed my hair, soft and soothing and…kinda…dare I say?…sensual. “The difference is that I’m not afraid to ask for help. Believe it or not, I’m improving, thanks to a therapist and a group I belong to that meets twice a month. Every soldier knows he needs the support of his brothers. You seem to think asking others to look out for you is some kind of weakness. Hell, I’m surprised Dom was actually able to convince you to take him up on his offer to come work with him here.”

“I had to.” He nuzzled my neck, sending delicious shivers down my spine and shattering my logic into pieces. “I was…losing…money and…” And oh, God, every bone in my body melted to warmed butter as his lips nibbled my earlobe. 

“You’re not alone, you know,” he whispered. “Not anymore. All you have to do is be brave enough to ask for help, and you’ll get it. Even if you only need someone to distract you when you’re scared or to carry you when your legs are shaking so bad they can’t hold you up. I’m not like the other guys you knew, Doc. I’m not Pittman, and I’m sure as hell not David. No matter what happens, I won’t abandon you.”

The light flashed again, this time on his face, and the intensity I saw in his expression humbled me. “I believe you.”

“Good. Now, get on back upstairs before I continue to take your mind off your troubles the best way I know how.” To confirm what I thought he meant, he placed a warm kiss at the juncture where my neck met my shoulder. I jolted as if he’d zapped me with a branding iron.

“Goodnight, Iggy.” I raced up the stairs, his rumbling laughter following me.

“Goodnight…
Jayne
.”

Terri

U got any plans 2nite?

Dry-mouthed, I stared at the text from “Al.”

I was seated in my car, still parked behind the tea shop. After my disastrous conversation with Gary, I couldn’t build up the energy to leave. I just sat in the driver’s seat, my hands gripping the steering wheel, the key in the ignition. I was rerunning the conversation in my head for what must have been the thousandth time when my phone buzzed, and I pulled it out to see Max had finally gotten in touch.

No,
I typed back.
Y?

I waited for his reply, unable to breathe. I was totally out of my element here. Still shell-shocked from the interlude with Gary, I wasn’t ready to alienate someone else. What would he say? He needed a babysitter for his agent’s neighbor’s kid? Or he wanted me to help him change a flat on his limo?

The sad part, I’d do either of those things if he asked. I was a star-struck, pathetic loser, with too few friends and a habit of burning anyone who got too close.

At last, my phone dinged, and his message appeared on my screen.
Party in the Hamptons. Booze there. And other stuff. Be my guarddog?

Holy crap! He was inviting me to some shindig in the Hamptons? Tonight?

For those who don’t follow the Hollywood elite, the Hamptons was the summer playground of the rich and famous. I had no idea who would be hanging around the area in November…or why. Not that it wasn’t still a nice bunch of towns, but once Labor Day came and went, so did most of the power players.

Unless this was a soiree for some big movie about to hit the theaters? Sometimes, when a movie was set or filmed on the east end of Long Island, they’d host the premiere around here. I was usually one of the gawkers standing behind the barricades, stretching to catch a glimpse of one of the beautifully dressed starlets or hoping to touch the newest, hottest male celebrity.

What if, this time, Max was inviting me to stand on the
other
side of those barricades? On the red carpet? Where I could see everyone,
touch
everyone? Where people would be gawking to see
me
? Ohmigod! What would I wear? Who else would be there?

I stifled the excited screech straining to escape from my lips and stared out the windshield at the line of scrub pines adjacent to the parking lot. Rain dripped off the needles and onto the blanket of dead leaves that had blown there on some other day’s blustery wind. I don’t know why I noticed them. Since finding sobriety, some of my senses had grown stronger, no longer dulled by alcohol. Nowadays, I noticed a lot of things I hadn’t before: the smell of the air before a heavy rain like this morning’s, the softness of a puppy’s fur, the tang on my tongue when I drank orange juice. All of it was new and exciting. Which brought me right back to tonight’s invitation, also new and exciting, and my heartrate kicked up a notch.

Breathe, kiddo. Play it cool. Don’t be a dork.

When I finally got some semblance of control again, I texted back.
What time?

Be ready by 5?

Two hours’ notice? Was he kidding? Or did he think I’d just spent the day waiting for him to text me and invite me someplace? Don’t answer that. I know I did, but that didn’t mean I wanted him to know it—or even
think
it. Okay, how did I answer him without looking like the dateless loser I was?

I took another deep breath, let it out slowly, then did it again. I toyed with the leather tassels on my keyring and continued the slow breathing exercises I’d learned in rehab.

My time-wasting ploy had nothing to do with drinking, of course. I didn’t want to look too eager. Let the famous Max Trayham think I had to consider my options. As if I had any other options, besides sitting home with a nuked frozen dinner while binge-streaming some television series from my childhood. Addicts like me never really get over their addictions. We channeled them into other habits: smoking, coffee-drinking, or in my case, TV-watching.

While I wasted time, I wondered what he was doing on the other end of our conversation. Did he worry I might say no? Was he staring at his screen like I was? Or was he scrolling through his contacts list, seeking out better possible dates? That thought had my palms sweating and my heart galloping again, so I typed a quick one-letter reply.

K
.

Crap, I was such a dateless loser.

This time, his response came back almost immediately—as if he had it already typed out, just waiting to hit Send.

Don’t shatter the fantasy for me, please. Just go with it.

Great. I need your address so we can pick you up
.

We. Right. I should have realized he already had a date. He did say he wanted me to be his guard dog. That’s all I was to him. His sober buddy. Still, I was going to a party in the Hamptons. That was a PBD: a pretty big deal.

What should I wear?
I asked.

Whatevs.

Really? That was his answer? Didn’t he understand the horror of being under- or overdressed at an event? Women sweated and died, stressing about looking just right. Maybe not “died,” but I bet the pressure shaved a few minutes off their lives. Add that up over a lifetime…

Is it dressy or casual?
I texted.

Both, I guess.

Oh, for God’s sake! My thumbs hammered the keys on my cell.
Can you at least tell me where it is?
If I knew the venue, I might have a better idea of the dress code.

At a friend’s house.

Nope. Not a clue. I tried again.
What are
you
wearing?

The usual.

Aaargh! The man was no help at all. I’d have to muddle through on my own, come up with something casual but dressy. Rather than prolong my agony, I surrendered on the topic of clothing and sent him my address.

Great. See you at 5. Tx, Terri. You’re my angel.

Heh. He called me his angel.

Trust me,
I texted back.
I’m nobody’s angel.

With a satisfied smile, I tossed my phone into my purse, started my car, and headed home. I was going to have to seriously rummage for something “whatevs” to wear.

♥♥♥♥

Jayne

I woke up the next day to the smell of bacon cooking. Funny. I didn’t even recall buying bacon during my weekly shopping trip. Then I realized…Iggy must have hit the mini-mart on Main Street. After wrapping my robe around me, I headed downstairs. Sure enough, I found the man standing in front of my kitchen stove. Fully dressed now—more’s the pity—he handled two sizzling frying pans while Midnight weaved in and out of his legs, meowing. I watched Iggy for a minute, unsure how to proceed after last night. He and I seemed to be much more comfortable with each other when we sat in the dark.

“Good morning,” he said without looking up. “Breakfast is coming right up. There’s fresh coffee in the pot.”

Wow. He’d made himself at home pretty quick.

I watched Midnight, who remained a whisker from Iggy’s ankles, even when the man strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a brick of cheddar cheese. Apparently, my cat was smitten with our visitor. “How much bacon did you feed him?”

“The cat?” Iggy attempted to deny it, but the twitch of his lips gave way to a guilty grin. “One piece.”

“One piece?” Uh-huh. And I can eat only one potato chip. I feigned displeasure with my fickle feline. “You’re such a cheap date, Midnight.”

“So…” He nodded at the cat. “Midnight.”

I knew what he was getting at. “Yeah.” I ran a hand over the cat’s long-haired, snow white coat, and he arched his back in pleasure. His rumbling purr vibrated against my palm. Oh, yeah. Bacon
and
affection? My furry friend was in heaven. “His name’s a reminder that things aren’t always what they seem.”

“Clever.”

“Not really. More…” I stretched my brain for an appropriate term that didn’t include a foul word. “…bitter experience.”

“I get that.” He returned his attention to the pans on the stove before mumbling at the eggs, “Sorry I woke you last night.”

“You didn’t.” I picked up the coffeepot and filled a mug to keep him from seeing the lie on my face. Here was something we had in common: expertise at deflecting attention from ourselves with menial tasks. “I couldn’t sleep anyway. I was actually on my way downstairs to grab a novel from my bookshelf when you began shouting.”

I took my mug to the table and sat, blowing on the pool of coffee before taking a sip.

Iggy slid a plate in front of me. The fluffy scrambled eggs dotted with red and green diced peppers framed by two strips of crisp bacon were a true work of art. Too bad I had no appetite for such a heavy meal. “I…umm…don’t usually eat breakfast.”

“Mistake number one,” he said as he set a second, fuller, plate at the seat across from me and sat. “You need protein to fight the good fight. What time do you go to work today?”

“Noon. I’m working 12-9 tonight.”

“Good.” He scooped up a forkful of eggs. For such a large man, he ate with a polite delicacy suited for a fine Regency manor house. “After breakfast, we’ll go to the sheriff’s office to file a complaint with Sam about those cockroaches outside.”

“No, we won’t. I already told you, I’m not bringing the police into this.”

He frowned. “That’s mistake number two.”

“That’s
your
opinion. Adding police complicates the situation. Trust me.” I knew better than anyone. Shining the law enforcement light only brought more unwanted attention.

“Fine,” he replied with no emotion while he continued enjoying his meal. “Don’t go with me. I can report them myself.”

I slammed my fist on the table, making the dishes clink and startling Midnight, who hissed in reaction. “You will not talk to anyone! This is
my
problem. You can deal with your issues however you want, but don’t come marching into my world and try to take over all the decisions in
my
life. I don’t care if Dom asked you to keep an eye on me. The last thing I need is another man screwing around with me and mine. I’ve lost everything, thanks to a bunch of pig-headed males who all assumed they either knew what was best for poor li’l- ol’-girly-me or used me for their own selfish devices. I’ve had my fill of all of you. I know better than anyone what will happen if you involve the police. I know how best to deal with the press.” My temper threatening to boil over, I shoved the plate of eggs to the side. “And I know how to eat, too. I’ve been feeding myself for a long time and haven’t starved yet.” While Midnight pounced on my neglected bacon, I shot to my feet, clutching my robe at my throat. “I don’t need a babysitter. Don’t worry about the dishes when you’re done eating, Mr. Zemski. Just let yourself out through the back door, please. Don’t contact the police, and don’t speak to the reporters, either, if you don’t mind.”

I left him there to finish his meal while I stomped upstairs where I locked my bedroom door before turning on the tap for the shower. Was I rough on him? Maybe. But I’d reached my limit on men trying to protect me.

In one bizarre moment of insanity, my husband had plotted and carried out his own murder. Why? Because he wanted to protect me from discovering we teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, thanks to some financial miscalculations, and he hoped, if he looked like the unfortunate victim of a robbery-slash-carjacking, his double indemnity insurance would make me whole again.

If he’d bothered to let me in on his plan, I would have assured him that we’d weather the financial storm together, that no amount of money was worth his life. And I would have warned him that if he made a deal with the devil, the devil would always find a way to get his due—and burn the dealer at the same time. In David’s case, the devil came in the guise of Vincent Pittman, junkie and part-time car thief. After Pittman’s arrest for my husband’s murder, he spilled the whole ugly story to his lawyer, and the press ran with it. Basking in his fifteen minutes of fame, Pittman added the fable that I’d been in on the entire scheme from the get-go and had promised him a portion of the life insurance money in exchange for his help. Now, according to that barracuda reporter outside, before he died, he’d dared to claim that he and I were lovers?! Like he was revealing some deathbed confession? The unmitigated gall.

And yes, I was more furious with the fact the lies would not die than I was with Iggy Zemski’s interference. Iggy happened to bear the brunt of my frustration, my anger, and my fear. I was finally becoming comfortable in this sleepy seaside town, finally beginning to think I had a chance to resume a normal life. I should have realized, no matter where I went, the black cloud of suspicion would hover over me.

After stripping off my robe and pajamas, I stepped under the steaming spray and let the hot needles of water pound my skin until I turned pink. When I finally turned off the water several minutes later, I heard the back door slam.

Good.

So long, Mr. Zemski. It was fun while it lasted—not.