In His Good Hands (11 page)

A short bald man of about sixty, wearing a dapper suit with a blue silk tie, peered up at him through half-glasses perched on the end of his pointed nose. “Brett O’Connor.”

“That’s right. Mr. Toltz?”

“The same. Enter, please.” Mr. Toltz turned and led the way across the narrow shop, between glass cases filled with shelves of coins, jewelry, war medals, old books, aboriginal artifacts and curiosities. Brett thought he glimpsed a Fabergé egg.

At the back of the shop was a large desk illuminated by a gooseneck lamp. It was littered with old coins and yellowing documents. Mr. Toltz gestured for Brett to sit as he cleared a space.

Then he lowered himself into his high leather chair and propped his hands over his rounded stomach. “Now, what do you have for me?”

Brett pulled the square leather box out of his pocket. He opened the lid and set it on the desk in the pool of light.

Mr. Toltz took off his glasses, folded them carefully and laid them in an open case. He affixed a jeweler’s loupe to his right eye. Brett fought the impulse to fidget as the older man studied the contents closely.

“Are you sure you want to part with this?”

Brett gripped his knees with white-knuckled hands, curbing the urge to grab the box and run. “How much can I get for it?”

“There’s always a market for a Brownlow Medal. And when the owner is someone of your stature in the game, it’ll be snapped up in no time.” He turned it over and checked that Brett’s name was engraved on the back.

“How much?” Brett repeated.

“The original Charles Brownlow Medal from 1924 sold recently for three hundred thousand. Len Thompson, also a popular Collingwood player, sold his for seventy-four thousand. But that was over ten years ago. You could expect more.”

“How much more?”

“It’s difficult to say.”

“Ballpark.”

“Somewhere between those two figures.” Mr. Toltz shrugged his rounded shoulders. “One hundred and fifty thousand. Perhaps more.”

Hopefully much more. “How soon could you sell it? And when could I expect to get the money?”

“Trouble with the loan sharks?” Mr. Toltz chuckled, his belly jiggling beneath his suit jacket.

Brett didn’t crack a smile.

Mr. Toltz sobered. “A week or two. I’ll put out a press release that an auction—”

Brett raised his hand. “No media.” The last thing he wanted was a bunch of reporters digging into the circumstances surrounding the sale of his Brownlow. “I came here because I was told you’re discreet. And because I can’t wait for a public auction and all the advertising and publicity that goes with it. I need the money fast for a pet project of mine.”

“All right,” Mr. Toltz said. “I’ll make inquiries among private collectors. I’m confident I can find a buyer within a few days.”

Brett’s shoulders sagged. Selling his medal was a form of taking action, which meant he was back in control. He would have the gym he wanted.

But at a cost he’d never thought to pay.

“She can’t do it if she’s not here, can she?” Renita demanded, stacking dishes onto a tray with a clatter. “Why should it be
her
job? You’re both retired. What else do you have to do? Jack said you’ve even stopped going to the Men’s Shed.”

“I have to take care of Smedley.”

“He’s going to be all right. The vet said so.”

Renita was relieved that Steve hadn’t gone back to eating the cakes and cookies that aggravated his type 2 diabetes. He’d learned something, at least. But a steady diet of take-out food was almost as unhealthy for him.

A brisk knock was followed by Brett’s voice calling through the open door, “Hello! Can I come in?”

Renita picked up the tray piled with dirty dishes and carried them out of the living room through the foyer. She blew back a wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail. “What are you doing here?”

“Stopping in to see how Steve is doing.”

“He’s sulking.” She gestured behind her with her head, then headed for the kitchen. “Go see for yourself.”

Brett peered around the dividing wall into the living room, then joined her. “Is your father having a breakdown?”

“He’s completely gone off the rails,” she said, running hot water in the sink. “He was starting to see results with his exercise and diet, and now this. I’ve begged and pleaded. Nothing I say seems to penetrate. He’s given up.”

“Begging and pleading won’t get you anywhere,” Brett said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Go easy,” she warned. “He’s had a couple of bad shocks—first Smedley, then Mum.”

“Did going easy work?”

“No, but—”

“He needs tough love. Trust me on this.” Brett retraced his steps to the living room and stood in front of the couch, hands on his hips. “Yo, Steve!”

Steve opened his eyes and blinked. “Brett.”

Renita stood at the archway, arms crossed, chewing on her thumbnail.

“I see your dog survived,” Brett went on. “That’s great.”

Steve combed a hand across his disheveled gray hair, only messing it up more. “He was lucky.”

“You’ve missed three personal training sessions. We need to reschedule you.”

“I don’t know….”

Brett scooped a stack of magazines off the armchair and dumped them on the floor. Sitting, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Renita told me about Hetty. I guess you’re angry.”

Steve shrugged and glanced away.

“You
should
be angry,” Brett said.

“I don’t think—” Renita began.

He held up a hand to shush her. “Your wife can’t just up and leave without warning, without making sure you’re all right. That your dog is okay.”

A faint spark glimmered in Steve’s eyes. “That’s right.”

“Let me give you some advice from one who’s been there,” Brett said. “Don’t let her make your life worse than it has to be.”

“What do you mean?” Steve said. “How can it get worse?”

“If you don’t take care of yourself, if you get sick again, that’d be worse, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure, but…” Steve blinked, nonplussed.

“You need to reinvent yourself, the sooner the better. Get yourself in shape. If you feel good, look good, and are doing great things, she’s going to be sorry she left you. She’s going to feel like a fool.”

Oh, man, Brett was talking revenge, exactly the same as she’d planned for him. It didn’t sound very nice, hearing it spelled out so coldly. Calculatingly.

“Excuse me, Brett,” Renita said. “I don’t think this is the way to—”

“Shh. Let me do this.”

Steve pushed his fingers across his comb-over and sat up straighter. “Do you think?”

“I
know,
” Brett said. “Success is the best revenge. Women aren’t interested in losers who sit around in their underwear, drink beer and get fat and pasty-faced. They want a winner.”

“I don’t know,” Steve said, shaking his head.

“You can be a winner,” Brett insisted. “But you’ve got to get off your butt. Get back to the gym. Throw out the crap food and learn to cook.”

“Cooking’s women’s work,” Steve scoffed.

“Not at all. The best chefs in the world are men.”

“Oh, please.” Renita rolled her eyes.

Brett continued to ignore her. “Your son, Jack, cooks. Women really go for a guy who knows his way around the kitchen. You want romance, learn to make risotto. Women will be beating a path to your door.”

“I’m too old to be looking for someone new,” Steve said, slumping back down.

“Exactly.” Renita walked into the room and stood between the two men, facing Brett. “Listen, you. He wants my
mother
back. That’s what we should be working on.”

Brett stood and moved her aside, speaking directly to Steve. “You’re never too old for romance. It’s either that or you lie down and die right now. Is that what you want?”

“No, I don’t,” Steve said. “Smedley would miss me.”

“
I
would miss you.” Renita turned to him, exasperated. “We all would.
Especially Mother.
”

“So what are you going to do?” Brett asked Steve.

“I’ll think about what you said.”

“That’s a start,” Brett stated. “You could take a cooking class. Or get Jack to teach you. I could show you a few recipes. My seared scallops and chorizo is a big hit with the babes.”

“Babes?”
Renita choked out. “Dad needs to convince Mum to go to couples counseling, not start over as a gigolo.”

Brett turned to her. Lowering his voice, he asked, “Do you want your father to be happy?”

“He’ll be happy if my mother comes back.”

Brett took her arm and led her away a few paces. “But would she be happy with him the way he is now? Isn’t this partly why she left?”

“It’s not that simple,” Renita said.

“Of course it isn’t. But you pleading with him to take care of himself isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference. He has to want to change for his own sake. I’ve given him a reason.”

“But telling him to go out with other women—”

“Did I?” Brett’s blue eyes gleamed. “Practically everything I said could be taken as ways for him to get your mother back.” While Renita thought about that, he added, “Steve needed a prod. I gave it to him.”

Her mouth tightened. She couldn’t dispute that, but the way he did things was just so infuriating. If he got results…

If he got results she’d be happy, period. “Thanks for taking a personal interest in him. You didn’t have to do that.”

“All part of the service.” Brett went back to her dad. “I want to see you at the gym tomorrow, bright and early.”

Steve hesitated. “I’ll try.”

Mission accomplished, Brett walked to the front door and down the steps.

Renita followed and stood in the doorway. “Is that why you want your gym to be a success? So that Amber will be sorry and come back to you?”

Brett stabbed a finger in her direction. “The reason I want the gym to be a success is because I don’t do anything half-assed.”

“Oh, like the way you’re such a wholehearted, attentive father?”

Brett recoiled as if she’d slapped him.

Renita put a hand over her mouth. It had just slipped out….

But Renita wasn’t sorry. She’d been thinking it for a while.

“I appreciate you taking Tegan shopping, but don’t…” He held up a hand in warning. “Don’t you go there.”

Then he got into his car and drove away.

“I want something different.”

“Different?” Lynn smiled. “What kind of style?”

“Modern. Trendy. Edgy. Surprise me.”
Gulp.
“I mean, as long as I don’t end up looking like Ziggy Stardust or Amy Winehouse.”

Lynn ran her fingers through Renita’s thick wavy bob. “You’ve got great hair. I know just the haircut for you.”

Renita gripped the arms of her chair. “Let’s do it.”

“Color, too?” Lynn asked. “Do you want to go blonde?”

“No.” She wanted to be herself, only…better. “But you could put in some highlights. Or lowlights. Whatever they’re called. Do you have time to do all this?”

“I’ll fit you in, don’t worry. This is so exciting.” Lynn bustled away to mix the color.

While she waited, Renita picked up a women’s magazine and idly flipped through the pages. Naturally there was a photo of Amber at a red carpet event. She certainly was high maintenance, with nails like talons, tattoos, spray-on tan, makeup worthy of a movie star. Amber had long blond hair à la Pamela Anderson. She bore another similarity to Pammy—huge breasts.

Renita glanced in the mirror and her mood dimmed a little. She’d been congratulating herself on her improved appearance, but she couldn’t begin to compete with women like Amber. No matter how much weight she lost she’d still be a small-busted brunette.

With highlights,
she consoled herself.

Anyway, it shouldn’t matter what she looked like. Personality, intelligence, kindness and character were what counted.

Sure they were. That’s why Amber, ex-manicurist, party girl and cheater, was standing on a red carpet surrounded by celebrities. While Renita, quiet living and loyal, could only dream about having a man like Brett.

The thought brought her up short. She was over Brett.

She was a grown woman, no longer susceptible to teenage fantasies. Being older and more experienced, she could see Brett’s faults as clearly as she could ogle his good looks. His neglect of Tegan made her as angry as his charm made her weak in the knees. His impatience to refurbish the gym frustrated her as thoroughly as his concern for her father warmed her.

Her worried eyes stared back at her from the mirror.

Lynn returned, stirring a plastic cup of hair coloring. She sectioned Renita’s hair with a comb and teased out a few strands over a piece of aluminum foil. With a brush she began painting on the color. “You’ve lost weight, haven’t you? Have you met someone?”

Renita denied it. But by the time Lynn had colored, cut and blown Renita’s hair dry, she’d heard all about her personal training sessions with Brett, Smedley’s poisoning and an abridged version of Hetty and Steve’s problems. In turn Lynn updated Renita on the doings of her grandchildren and the on-again, off-again relationship with her Russian boyfriend. She’d also updated her on Amber’s split with her other footy player.

Three hours later Renita left the salon, feeling like a new woman. She floated down the street, glancing into shop windows to check out her reflection. The chin-length cut was layered and bouncy, with dark gold highlights that brought out the natural hint of red in her dark brown hair and gave her a warm glow that matched the way she felt inside.

She was too keyed up to go home, so she drove over to Lexie’s house to show off her new do. Sienna’s car was parked out front. Even better.

She rang the doorbell and just walked in as usual. Hearing the TV, she veered left toward the living room. “Lexie?”

Oliver was sitting on the rose-patterned chintz couch in his school uniform, gray pants and green polo shirt. Yin, Lexie’s cream-colored Burmese cat, lay curled on his lap. Yang, the chocolate Burmese, was stretched out behind Oliver’s head on the back of the couch. The boy glanced away from an old episode of
Get Smart
and did a double take. “Renita?”

“Hey, Olly,” Renita said, grinning. “Yep, it’s me.”

“You look so different.”

“I just had my hair done. Do you like it?”

“Sure, I guess.” He motioned with his head toward the backyard. “Mum and Lexie are out in the studio.”

“I’ll find them.” Renita started to go through the door then paused. “By the way, do you know Tegan O’Connor? I think she’s in your class at school.”

Oliver’s nose wrinkled. “The new girl? It’s cool that her dad’s a famous footy player, but she’s kind of stuck-up.”

Renita could see how Tegan could come across that way. “It’s hard to break into a new school where everyone already knows each other.”

Oliver stroked Yin. “How do you know her?”

“Her father owns the gym I go to.” She paused. “Are you going to the dance?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Could you talk to her? Maybe ask her for a dance?”

He groaned. “Do I have to?”

“It would be a nice gesture. Think about it.”

Renita walked through the house and across the backyard to the detached studio, where Lexie was working on a portrait of Sienna. Renita approached the open door cautiously. Her sister didn’t like to be disturbed when she was painting. But for Renita to get a new hairstyle was as novel as an alien invasion in Summerside.

The third version—or possibly a fourth—of Sienna’s portrait was on the easel. One of the paintings would be entered into the competition for the Archibald Prize, a prestigious nation-wide contest. Renita thought they
all
looked amazing.

She waited out of sight while Lexie finished painstakingly stroking in what appeared to be every single hair on Sienna’s pre-Raphaelite head. Lexie and Sienna were talking about babies. Both women were in their late thirties. Sienna wanted to get pregnant. She had a good chance, now that she and Jack had found each other. But Lexie was single. Renita felt a tug at her heart, hearing the yearning in her sister’s voice even as she denied that she wanted a baby.

At a natural pause in the conversation, Sienna happened to glance up. “Oh, my God!” she squealed. “Renita, you look fantastic!”

Lexie’s brush jogged and she turned. Seeing her, she gasped. “Wow. Just,
wow!
”

“Sorry to interrupt. I had to show someone.” Renita fluffed her layers and twirled. “You like?”

Lexie pressed paint-stained fingers to her cheeks. She still held her paintbrush, and now a streak of burnt umber wove through her long blond waves. “I
love.
You look gorgeous.”

“Pretty soon we won’t recognize you,” Sienna said.

Renita basked in their admiration. “Come on,” she said in a token protest. “It’s just me. I’m still the same person.”

But even as she said it, she wondered if it was true.