Sleeping Alone (7 page)

They’d tried to ace him out of what was rightfully his, but one day soon Brian would have the last laugh.

The Sea Gate exit loomed a mile ahead. Another thirty minutes and he’d pull up in front of Dee’s house. The driveway would be clogged with cars, most of them aging clunkers with bad exhaust systems and enough rust damage from salt air to choke a horse. His garaged Porsche would stand out like a victory flag.

They’d never been behind him. Right from the start, they’d made it clear whose side they were on, and it wasn’t his. They’d wanted him to give up his future and settle down right there with Dee, but he couldn’t do it. He’d wanted her, but he hadn’t wanted the complications that came along with her. He would have lost his scholarship—hell, his entire future would have gone down the toilet.

So he made his choices and now he was trying his damnedest to live with them. He had the cushy job in a prestigious law firm. He had the apartment and the cars and the two little girls and the trophy wife who had never quite managed to creep inside his heart.

Only one woman had ever done that, and he’d lost her a long time ago.

Last thanksgiving Alex and Griffin had attended an intimate supper at the home of a British lord who happened to be married to a homesick American woman. Fifteen couples, none of whom knew each other well at all, gathered around an ornate cherrywood table to celebrate a holiday that had absolutely no meaning for most of the people in the room. Instead of turkey, they served squab. Wild rice replaced sweet potatoes with marshmallow topping. And, to Alex’s utter disbelief, there wasn’t a pie in sight.

She had wanted to bake an all-American apple pie and bring it with them as a Thanksgiving offering, but Griffin had been horrified at the thought.

“Leave the cooking to the help, darling,” he’d said, dismissing her the way one would a backward child. “A magnum of Dom and flowers is more the thing.”

She never argued points of etiquette with Griffin. He was older and more sophisticated and knew how to navigate the shark-infested waters of London society. An apple pie wasn’t much in the scheme of things, but it had represented a basic difference between herself and Griffin, in the way they looked at the world. She’d thought about that miserable Thanksgiving many times in the twelve months since and wished she’d had the guts to listen to her own instincts.

What a difference a year made.

The timer dinged, and she jumped up from the kitchen table to take a pair of apple pies from the oven. The latticework top crusts were baked to a perfect golden brown and the juices bubbled merrily in the cinnamon-sugar syrup. Her two years of gourmet cooking classes hadn’t been wasted, she thought as she admired her handiwork. She might not be turning out tournedos of beef in a morel sauce, but she’d bet her spatula these pies could hold their own anywhere.

She’d also bet her VW that the Gallagher men wouldn’t have anything like this on their Thanksgiving table—not unless there were some Gallagher women on the premises. No one had mentioned any Gallagher women. Eddie had the rudderless look older men often got when their wives were no longer around to guide them. And John—there was an almost visible barrier around him, as if he’d been hurt once and wasn’t about to let it happen again. The two men probably lived alone in a house that was even more in need of repair than her own, eating frozen dinners and forgetting to take out the trash.

She sank down onto a kitchen chair and rested her chin in her hands. She didn’t even know these people, and she was trying to analyze them like some sleazy pop psychologist.

Get a life, Alex,
she thought as she stared at her perfect pies.
Preferably one of your own.

* * *

Alex told herself she was changing her clothes to celebrate the occasion, not because she was going anywhere. It was Thanksgiving Day, after all, and the holiday deserved some respect. She peeled off her jeans and T-shirt, took a quick shower, then dressed in dark charcoal gray trousers, a cream-colored silk shirt, and a cardigan in a heathery shade of pink. She brushed her hair until it shone, then carefully French-braided it until it swung between her shoulder blades like a heavy golden rope.

A woman owed it to herself to look her best, even if there was no one around to see her. It was part of maintaining discipline. Which was all well and good, but it didn’t explain why she redid her eye makeup twice or changed her shoes three times, struggling to find the perfect pair of flats to go with the straight-leg trousers. Her naked lobes begged for adornment, but all she had was the pair of earrings she’d tucked away for a rainy day. She glanced out the window at the soggy landscape. It
was
raining. And it wasn’t as if she was planning to go anywhere. Besides, even if she did and someone happened to notice her earrings, who would believe they were real.

She puttered around the kitchen, wiping down the sink, dusting off the top of the fridge, staring at the pies. What a shame for two such perfect specimens to go to waste. Maybe she would drop them off at John and Eddie’s house.

The broker had given her a small map of the village that showed all the inlets and cross streets. She rummaged around in the shoe box she used as a makeshift filing cabinet. There it was, tucked under the stack of legal documents that said she was the proud owner of the Winslow place. Her house was highlighted in yellow. Ocean Avenue, the marina, the triple inlets just beyond—there it was. Lighthouse Way. How strange, she thought. It wasn’t even near the water. Lighthouse Way was at the far end of town, tucked in the middle of what looked to be a small residential housing development. It shouldn’t take her more than fifteen minutes round-trip to zip over there, wish the Gallagher men a happy Thanksgiving, then drive home.

* * *

Number 10 Lighthouse Way was a small Cape Cod with raised dormers, a chain link fence around the backyard, and a bright red mailbox decorated with shamrocks. The shamrocks puzzled her. Try as she might, she couldn’t quite imagine either John or his father painting shamrocks on their mailbox. Maybe there was a Mrs. Eddie after all.

John’s truck was parked in the driveway, surrounded by a half-dozen vehicles in varying states of disrepair. Either he was running a freelance used-car lot, or she was just one of many guests invited to share turkey and cranberry sauce chez Gallagher. Good, she thought as she turned off the ignition and gathered up her things. This way there would be no hard feelings when she told Eddie she wasn’t staying.

She dashed through the rain to the front door, juggling two pies, one umbrella, and a slim black clutch bag. “First and ten...” she heard a TV announcer say from inside the house. “Ball on the forty-yard line.” A chorus of loud male commentary erupted in response. She pushed the bell with her elbow, then waited. Maybe they couldn’t hear her over the blare of football and male laughter. She pushed the bell again, two short blasts this time. She knew an omen when she saw one. If someone didn’t open the door by the time she counted to three, she and her pies were going home.

She was about to leave when the door swung open.

“Dee!” The waitress at the Starlight was the last person she’d expected to see. She quickly recovered her composure. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving to you, too,” Dee. said. “Hang your coat in the closet and make yourself at home.”

Make herself at home? She might as well have told Alex to click her heels three times and fly off to Oz. “I brought pies,” she said, limiting herself to words of one syllable. “I thought I would just drop them off and—”

“Great.” Dee pushed her heavy red hair off her face with a quick gesture. “The more the merrier. The way this crowd eats, there won’t be any leftovers.” She cocked her head. “The phone. I’ll be right back.” She darted down the hallway.

Alex didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she peered into the coat closet. Eddie said John wasn’t married, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t living with someone. Plastic storage boxes were lined up on the top shelf, neatly marked
Hats, Gloves,
and
Scarves.
No man on the face of the earth would even think of doing such a thing. And there was more. The scent of Shalimar rose above the mingled smells of cherry pipe tobacco and Old Spice. She didn’t have to ask who wore the Shalimar.

She started toward the rear of the house, where she assumed the kitchen was located. The hallway was papered in a pale blue shell pattern and lit by a pair of electric sconces hung on either side of an oval mirror. Someone cared a great deal about how this small house looked, and that someone probably was missing the Y chromosome.

“Need some help?” John Gallagher popped up at her elbow.

“Where on earth did you come from?” She’d been so busy analyzing the wallpaper she hadn’t heard footsteps. In truth, she was surprised she hadn’t sensed his presence.

He aimed a thumb over his right shoulder. She peered into a dimly lit room that was shrouded in a thick haze of cigar smoke.

“It’s halftime,” he said. “I’m on a beer run.”

“I see.”

He took the pies from her arms. “Did you bake these yourself?”

“Absolutely.” She tried to be modest, but it was impossible to keep the pride from her voice.

He peered under the aluminum foil. “I’m impressed. My mother used to make them like that, with that criss-cross stuff on top.”

“Latticework,” she said.

“It looks hard to do.”

“Actually it’s pretty easy.”

“You should be telling me it’s the hardest thing since splitting the atom.”

She met his eyes. “It’s the hardest thing since splitting the atom.”

He grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

They found Dee perched on top of the kitchen counter, her entire body curled around the telephone. She looked about sixteen.

“Sam?” John mouthed.

Dee shot him a fierce look, turned bright red, then turned away.

“Sam,” John said as he put the pies down on the already crowded kitchen table.

“Who’s Sam?” Alex asked.

“The guy she pretends she isn’t going with.”

“Oh.” She looked over at Dee, then back at John. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Sam’s a great guy,” John said. “Hell of a lot better than Tony.”

“Tony?”

“Her ex-husband.”

Alex’s head was spinning as she followed John back out of the room. “Are you two related?” she asked.

“Tony and me?”

“No,” she said, growing more puzzled by the second. “You and Dee.”

“Where’d you get that idea?”

“I—what I mean is, you all live here together, and I just thought—”

“This isn’t my house.”

“You and Eddie don’t live with Dee?”

“Dee lives with Mark.”

“Who’s Mark?”

“Her son.” They paused in the doorway to the family room. “This is their house. He’s the one sitting on the floor near Eddie.”

The boy’s face was illuminated by the television’s glow. There was no mistaking the resemblance. He had a thick head of dark red hair like his mother and the same proud set to his jaw, but the rest of him was pure Gallagher. His eyes were dark and deep-set over chiseled cheekbones. His mouth was wide and well-shaped. He looked exactly the way she imagined John had looked sixteen or seventeen years ago.

John, however, betrayed nothing. If he recognized the weirdness of the situation he didn’t let on. “Shove over and make room for Alex, Pop.”

Eddie’s smile warmed her heart. “Take a load off your feet, Alex, and watch the game with us.”

She recognized a number of the men in the room from the diner. They greeted her warmly, and some of her nervousness ebbed. Dee’s son looked up at her with a combination of curiosity and annoyance.

“Alex bought the Winslow place,” Eddie told the boy by way of explanation.

The boy shrugged and turned back to the football game. She didn’t blame him. When she was a girl, there had been nothing more deadly dull than her parents’ friends. Even if the friend wasn’t all that much older than she was.

“Where’s the Michelob?” one of the men demanded of John. “You weren’t supposed to come back empty-handed.”

“He didn’t come back empty-handed, Davey,” Eddie said with a broad wink to the room at large. “He brought back Alex.”

“Holy shit,” Davey said, pointing toward the television screen. “Did you see that interception?”

To a man they forgot she was standing there, and she used the opportunity to escape to the kitchen. Dee was off the phone and had turned her attention to a large ceramic bowl piled high with flour.

Alex hesitated in the doorway. Why hadn’t she just walked out the front door? She didn’t belong here at all.

“You’re still wearing your coat,” Dee said, looking over at her.

“I’m not staying,” Alex said. “Would you tell John and Eddie I said good-bye?”

“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

“They’re watching football. I don’t want to interrupt.”

“Interrupt,” Dee said. “They’ll be watching football nonstop until the Super Bowl.”

Alex smiled to hide her unease. “Really,” she said. “All I wanted to do was drop off the pies and wish everyone a happy Thanksgiving.”

“I don’t suppose you know anything about making biscuits.” Dee scratched her nose with the back of her arm, leaving a floury streak along the side of her face.

She felt her resolve weakening. “I make a mean croissant.”

Dee rolled her eyes comically. “This crowd wouldn’t know a croissant from a crescent wrench, honey. I’m talking plain, ordinary biscuits.”

Alex slipped out of her coat and draped it over the back of a chair. “I can do plain and ordinary with the best of them.”

“Sure you can,” Dee said. “That’s why you look the way you do and I look the way I do.”

“You look great,” Alex said.

Dee wore a long kelly green sweater over tight black leggings. An enormous Maltese cross hung from a black velvet ribbon and dangling gypsy gold earrings jingled with every movement. There was nothing subtle about the outfit, but then there was nothing subtle about the woman who wore it.

Alex began measuring flour into a large mixing bowl. “I think I owe you an apology.”

“I knew it. You’re the one who broke my Ming vase.”

“There’s that,” Alex said, “and the fact that you probably had no idea I was coming to dinner.”