Love Me If You Must (19 page)

 
32

The SUV pulled into a vacant space in front of the same strip mall that housed Goodman’s Grocery. I’d never noticed the café before. A rectangular lighted sign said Sam’s Coney in red letters. A hot dog wearing a diner hat and holding a cane danced beside the words.

“How often did you say you ate here?” I had a hard time imagining I’d find any reasonably healthy items on Sam’s menu. It was bad enough I splurged on pastries at the Whistle Stop. I didn’t need to clog my arteries with dancing hot dogs.

“Couple times a week.” Brad opened his door. “Come on. I want you to meet someone.”

I followed him past the plain brick façade and into a dimly lit interior. Square tables cluttered the center of the room, each one accented with a tiny white vase and a fake red carnation with a sprig of pine needles. Someone’s interpretation of Christmas decorations, I supposed. A row of red-upholstered booths lined the perimeter. Stark white walls held art that commemorated dead movie stars.

The title on one poster caught my eye. boulevard of broken dreams. I stared at the drawing. Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe, and Humphrey Bogart were among those that huddled at the far end of a diner bar. I swallowed, surprised to find myself fighting back tears and battling a lump in my throat. With a few brushstrokes, the artist could add my mother, grandmother, and one day me to the scene. Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Yep. I lived there.

“What do you see?” Brad asked.

I shook my head and cleared my tears. “Nothing. Sorry about that.”

He put an arm loosely on my shoulder and looked at the rendering. “That’s all of us, Tish. We’ve all got dreams we’ve set aside or given up on. It’s part of life. You get a new dream and keep moving ahead.”

“I thought you went to school to be a cop, not a psychologist.”

“Same difference. It’s all about what makes people tick.” He dropped his hold and moved toward the counter. “Let’s sit over here.”

We sat on retro red stools. He ordered a Coke. I ordered the diet version.

“Tell Sam we’re here, would you please?” Brad said to the waitress. She scurried off to the kitchen.

“To answer your question,” he said with a smile, “I’ve lived in Rawlings all my life. The house I live in now belonged to my grandmother. She died when I hit my early twenties. I moved in and fixed it up over the years.”

So Brad lived in a family heirloom. That explained his lousy choice of location. “You’ve never wanted to leave Rawlings? You know, shake its dust off your feet and move on?”

“I owe a big debt to my hometown. It’s why I am who I am today. I love giving back to the area a little bit of what it gave me.”

“You must have had a good childhood experience to say that. Most people can’t wait to get out of Dodge.”

“Too many roots. Here’s one of them now.” Brad stood for the arrival of a stunning, tall brunette wearing a tight T-shirt with the diner’s logo across the chest. She leaned over the counter, held Brad’s cheeks between her hands, and kissed him on one eye.

“Hey, bro,” she said with a grin.

Brad pretended to wipe spit out of his eye. “Sam. I want you to meet my neighbor, Tish Amble.”

She extended her hand and gave me an unwavering gaze. “Nice to meet you, Tish. I’m Samantha Walters, Brad’s adorable little sister.”

Samantha’s adjectives for herself fell far short of an accurate description. I came up with beautiful, leggy, lippy, sexy, funny. Adorable and little never made the list.

Her grip felt firm but not stifling. I liked her. “Hi.”

“So what can I get you two for lunch?” She pulled a pen and pad out of her apron pocket.

“I’ll have the usual, please,” Brad said.

I hated to think of the fat content in something called “the usual.”

“I’ll have a tossed salad, ranch dressing on the side, and a cup of the chicken noodle.” Sometimes you had to show by example the right way to eat, regardless of how hungry you really were.

“Comin’ up.” Samantha sashayed to the kitchen, leaving Brad and me in awkward silence.

“So . . . is she the Sam from the sign?” I asked.

“Sort of. This was my dad’s diner. Believe it or not, when I was in high school, I used to flip burgers and dogs back there on the grill.”

I smiled at the picture he brought to mind.

“When Dad died, Sam Junior there took over the restaurant.”

“How does she do it? Didn’t she have plans of her own?” I thought of my own plans that had been forever boggled by my grandmother’s illness and eventual death.

“I’ve never seen anybody happier. She runs the diner, plays in a band, writes songs. She has more friends than King Solomon had gold. Life always looks good to her no matter what she’s going through.”

I swallowed. “I could sure use some of her outlook. Does she sell that here in the diner?”

Brad grinned. “No, but she could probably tell you where to get some.”

I felt my face turn red.

“Church,” Brad said quickly. “She goes to a really great church. I go to the same one, actually. Maybe you’d like to come with me Sunday?”

I shook my head. “Thanks, but no. I’m taking a spiritual hiatus. I have a lot of healing to do before I can head back to organized religion.”

“Then you’re taking a church hiatus. Nobody gets off the hook on the spiritual part. That’s just a part of being alive. You’re on a journey whether you want to be or not.”

“However you want to put it.”

Sam dropped our drinks in front of us and disappeared. I unwrapped the straw and started slurping, hoping to put an end to the discussion.

I watched Brad take the paper off his straw. I liked his hands. Wide across the palm with long, agile fingers.

Neither Walters sibling wore a wedding band, a quirky fact for two so attractive people. “How is it that you two have managed to stay single? Or were you married before?” I asked.

Brad looked in my eyes. “I’ve waited a lot of years to find the right bride.” He looked away. “Sam was married when she was young, but got dealt a dud. She hung in there longer than any of us thought she should. I think she’s still getting over the sting. But I have to say, I’ve never known anybody as happy to be single as Sam.”

Seeing Brad’s brotherly devotion to his little sis, I struggled with David’s accusations against him. How could this sweet, sister-loving guy be a big-time philanderer?

Of course, no one could, by simply looking at me, say, “There goes a grandma killer.” Unless they’d read about it in the papers.

Secrets. Everybody had them. Mine happened to be tough to keep.

But like Brad, some people out there excelled at keeping secrets. Such as the person who murdered Dietz and Cellar Dweller.

“So where do you call home, Tish?” Brad’s voice interrupted my brooding.

“Um . . .” His question stumped me. “I spent most of my youth in Walled Lake with Gram. But I guess if I think about it, home’s up north, where I was born.”

“Up north. Like Traverse City?” Brad asked.

I bit my tongue. I got really irritated with people who thought Michigan ended at the Straits of Mackinac.

“No. Up north, like Escanaba,” I said.

Brad raised his eyebrows. “An Upper Peninsula Girl, huh?”

I geared up for the insults I’d grown accustomed to hearing whenever I mentioned my place of origin. Sure, the U.P. had its problems. But so did the rest of the world.

Brad cleared his throat. “I went to the academy with a guy from Gladstone. Mike Segerstrom. What a great sense of humor. He’s a state cop in Manistique now.” He shook his head. “Man, is it beautiful up there. I spent a couple weeks fishing with Mike after graduation.”

I sighed in relief. No insults. “I barely remember it,” I said. “I was only seven when I moved downstate.”

I closed my eyes and saw gentle waves licking a rocky shore. Heard leaves fluttering in a playful breeze. Smelled fresh earth and pine needles. Felt hot sand running through my fingers. All memories of a happy childhood, before Mead Quarry rose up that night and swallowed my mother.

“Maybe I’ll take you back there one day.” Brad nudged my shoulder and smiled impishly.

“Maybe.” I looked toward the kitchen, avoiding Brad’s eyes.

I didn’t like the way he got to me. I shouldn’t want to know more about him. Or want to have lunch with him again. Or even feel comfortable around him.

But there was something about Brad that ate away my defenses, made me trust where I shouldn’t, made me hope where I mustn’t.

Sam glided to the counter and set our meals in front of us. Hot steam from the soup hit my nose and I grabbed for a napkin. I looked over at Brad’s fare. A Coney dog and a bowl of the chicken noodle. Not bad looking, actually.

I watched Brad take a bite out of the juicy chili-n-cheese-covered dog smothered with onions. I dipped a fork into my salad, spearing a chunk of lettuce. Brad chewed the spicy-scented Coney. I crunched away on iceberg.

Brad spotted me staring.

“Want a bite?” He pushed his basket toward me.

“Maybe just a little one.” Using my fork, I sliced off a piece. Nothing had ever tasted so good. “Mmmm” was all I could manage.

“You haven’t lived ’til you’ve had Sam’s Coney Deluxe.” Brad took another bite.

“Sounds like a radio ad. But I think you’re right.” I dabbed at the spot of mustard on a corner of my mouth.

“Sam,” Brad called.

She came around the corner.

“Yeah?”

“Get Tish a Coney Deluxe, please.”

I waved my hands in protest. “No. No, really. One bite was enough.”

“One bite is never enough,” Brad said.

Sam looked me up and down. “You look like you can afford it. One Coney Deluxe coming up.”

Brad had me laughing all the way through the second Coney. Sam joined in with her blithe jokes and bright smile. I’d never felt so warm inside. Must have been the chili beans. And all those onions.

At one o’clock sharp, Brad took me back to the house and dropped me off at the back door. Staring out the kitchen window, I rubbed my arms to warm up and watched Brad drive off. The Victorian had never felt so lonely.

 
33

I closed my eyes and let my dreams run free around me. A pot of chili simmering on the stove. Brad at the kitchen island I’d be putting in next month, reading the paper, a cup of steaming hot coffee in his hand. Kid Number One, with reams of dark spiral curls framing her round four-year-old face, sitting next to him, filling in the lines of her princess coloring book. Kid Number Two beating on the tray of his high chair, babbling for more crackers. My heart swelled at the imagined scene.

I rubbed a tear from my cheek. A beautiful dream. Nothing more.

Yet for some reason, Brad led me to believe it could come true.

I gave in to the burst of maternal energy that lunch with him had somehow unleashed. By six that night I had finished another upstairs bedroom. The two little dream kids now had a place to call their own. By the time I finished everything, Brad and I could lodge four cuddly whippersnappers each in their own bedrooms.

I washed the paintbrushes in the sink, content. Everything seemed to fit together. My life had unfurled like a mural, with Rawlings the final chapter. Right here in this house I’d spend my days loving my husband, raising my family, and entertaining friends.

Life would be perfect, for the first time ever.

I looked up from the suds at a figure crossing in the dark outside my kitchen window.

David.

I squeezed my eyes closed and sighed. What would I say to him?

What could I say to him? Sorry, David, your worst nightmare has come true. One bite of Brad’s Coney Deluxe and now I’m hopelessly in love with him.

Hearing myself think the words snapped me out of my intoxicating drama. In love with Brad? In love with a churchgoing, iron-pumping police officer? It didn’t even sound like me. In fact, it was almost the exact opposite of what I’d planned for myself.

David knocked. I wiped my hands on a crusty paint rag and opened the door.

“Hi.” I couldn’t think of anything more brilliant to say.

“Tish. I missed you this afternoon.” Remorse, or maybe accusation, sounded in his voice.

“Oh, that.” I waved it off. “I just went for a quick bite to eat.”

“Then you and Brad aren’t . . .” He paused and raised his eyebrows.

“What? An item?” I giggled. “Good heavens, no.”

“Can I come in? Do you mind?”

“Oh, gosh, of course.” I stepped aside.

David walked over to the watercooler and poured a cup. “Would you care for any?”

“No. Thank you. Listen—” I fidgeted, uncomfortable with his familiarity in my kitchen—“why don’t we walk over to the coffee shop? We can talk there.”

He set his cup on the counter, its pure-as-a-mountain-spring contents untouched. Two long paces and he stood over me, barely a foot away. His body radiated heat. I blew at my bangs to cool my forehead.

“How long have we known each other, Tish?” His voice came low and soft. I nearly keeled backward.

“The cumulative total?” A whisper was all I could manage. “About three hours.”

David smiled, unshaken. He reached for my hand and pulled me six inches closer. “I think we know each other better than you think. We both want the same thing from life. Someone to love, a measure of happiness, maybe a child or two.”

My outer vision blurred until David’s face became the only thing in focus. The only thing in the room. The only thing in my life.

He slid his hands upward until they cupped my cheeks. Heat from his palms added to the impossible burning in my head.

“Tish. What I’m saying is, I want you to marry me. We’ll be happy together, I swear.” He pulled me to him. His heart beat in my ear.

I held on, drowning in the warmth of his body. I let myself go under for the third time, never wanting to come up for a breath of air, never wanting to end this moment of surrender.

His lips burned against my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling close to death from sensory overload.

“Marry me, Tish.” His lips touched mine. I clung to him, ignoring his question, ignoring nudges from the practical Tish who tried talking sense into me.

But Miss Practical wouldn’t shut up. “David.” I peeled myself away from him. “I can’t. I mean, I’ll have to think about it.”

His ragged breathing filled the kitchen. “Right. Right. Sorry.” He pushed me an arm’s length away, but kept hold of my shoulders. “Of course you have to think about it. It’s a big step. Take a week to mull it over. Just know that I love you, Tish.”

He brushed his lips against my forehead, cleared his throat, and went for the door.

I stood in place ten minutes after he left, wondering what had just happened. My first marriage proposal and I said I’ll have to think about it? The guy wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t exactly a loser. I could do worse.

But could I do better?

I chewed on a fingernail, glad it was my own, and paced a square around the room. “Better” was all in one’s perspective. It came down to what I wanted in a man. Did I want the computer geek–engineer type with an amazing historic home and silky bathrobe? Or a Joe Schmo–cop type with a fixer-upper and sweatpants? Or somebody else altogether?

I couldn’t think. Why did David give me only a week to mull it over? Why not a year? What was his rush? If he thought he’d be getting the cooking, cleaning, domestic type, he’d probably be disappointed. It was one thing to imagine being a mom and wife, but another thing to actually be one. What was my example, after all? My mom ran into a snag or two in her life and took the easy way out. And Grandma. The woman could inflict pain on everyone around her but had no tolerance for it herself.

I couldn’t trust myself to do the right things or act the right way in a relationship. If I failed, perhaps I’d fall into despair. Then what would stop me from carrying out the family tradition? I couldn’t bear to do that to people I loved.

The only guarantee would be to remain single and childless the rest of my life.

I stopped at the bushel of wilted roses.

But what if I said yes to David and everything turned out all right? What if we had lots of wonderful years together? Things always worked out in my gothic romance novels. Arranged marriages, forced unions, all began with a measure of loathing. Maybe the couples weren’t on fire for each other at the beginning, but deep love and respect always grew over the years.

Besides, with David’s financial backing, I could finish the Victorian. The profit from the sale would help get our marriage off to a good start. We would even be able to afford to have kids right away.

I plucked the bouquet of roses from the paint can and laid it on the counter. I took the red ribbon and tied it around the stems. Then I hung the whole batch to dry, upside down from a nail over my kitchen window.

I knew how to make the best of things. I’d been doing it all my life. And David could definitely be the best of things.

Tomorrow I would tell him yes. Yes, I loved him. Yes, I would marry him. Yes, we would be happy together.

I finished cleaning up my paint mess, lost in a swirl of contentment.

Brad would be surprised at the announcement. Disappointed, even. I hoped the news wouldn’t come between our budding friendship. I thought of his beautiful, smiling sister, and I hoped she and I could still become friends one day.

I wondered about Tammy. How would she react? Would she be upset that David was off the market almost as soon as he’d gotten back on?

I thought about Dorothy across the street. She wouldn’t be pleased. She’d be certain I could do better than a member of the jet-set crowd, as she’d called David. She’d have been thrilled if I’d told her Brad would be my groom.

But I couldn’t worry about what everyone else thought. I was entitled to my own life, as Brad had pointed out. And my own life meant my own choices.

Tonight, I chose David, and all the happiness that choice would bring me.

I drifted asleep on my cot, dreaming of wedding decorations and dresses and invitation styles and cake patterns and bridesmaids and guests.