Stranger (18 page)

In another box I found the albums. A long time ago I’d decorated the plain vinyl covers with stickers, most of which had lost their glue and fallen off. The inside pages were the sticky kind with plastic laid overtop, and many of the pictures had faded. I flipped through them, marveling at the fashions and hairstyles we’d once considered so “in,” then put them aside.

Tucked just inside the top flap of one of the boxes was a newer photo album, the kind with slots for the pictures.

I pulled it out and touched the photos in it. Me and Ben. We looked so young. Happy, too.

We had been happy.

I put the album aside. I didn’t have time for memories right now. I’d take them with me.

Who knew when I might suffer some insane desire to read old notes from old boyfriends at three in the morning?

I carried the boxes downstairs and put them by the back door, then called for my niece and nephew. They left off tormenting the dog and ran to me. I had my hands, cupping the bounty of Smurfs, behind my back.

“Pick one,” I told them. They of course both picked the same one. Before a struggle could ensue, I held out the hand holding Smurfette to Melanie and the other to Simon, who furrowed his brow.

“What’re these?”

“They’re nerfs,” said his sister with the utmost scorn.

“Smurfs,” I corrected.

Simon laughed and held his up. “They’re weird.”

Since Simon said everything was weird, I didn’t take offense. In the next moment, two pairs of small hands grabbed me for hugs and two small faces beamed as they thanked me.

“Mama! Look what Aunt Grace gave us!” Melanie held out her new treasures.

Hannah looked. “Oh, God. Where’d you get those?”

“Out of the cubbyhole.”

My sister made a face. “I hope you washed them first.”

Of course I hadn’t, and both kids were gleeful to inform her of that. More struggles ensued as the Smurfs were deemed unfit for use until they’d been sanitized. Simon didn’t want to give his up until Hannah told him they could pretend the sink was a swimming pool. Then he was more than happy to spend the next twenty minutes dipping the small figures in and out of the soapy water even after his sister lost interest.

“Are you sure you want to give them those?” Hannah asked.

“Sure. Why not?” I lifted the boxes. “Get the door for me, would you?”

She did and followed me out into the carport while I settled them into the trunk of my car.

“Well, you might want to keep them. They might be worth money or something.”

“I doubt they’re worth that much, even on eBay. Besides, the kids will like them.” I closed the trunk.

“But you might want to keep them for your kids someday.”

I turned to face my sister, who still looked tired. She hadn’t said much during dinner, a slack picked up neatly by my mother, but I’d noticed. “I’m not worried about that, Hannah.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I’m sure.”

We stared at each other. She fidgeted. I recognized the half-defiant look in her eyes, but the reason for it escaped me.

“Well. When you do have kids, we’ll give them back.”

“Holy hell, Hannah, will you give it a rest? I’m not going to have kids for a long time, if ever!” The words snapped too loudly in the carport.

Hannah frowned. “What do you mean, ‘if ever’?”

I tried to shrug away the conversation. “Nothing. I mean, maybe I should get married first, you know? Let me find a guy first.”

“You have lots of guys, I thought.”

We stared at each other. I couldn’t figure her out. Was she disapproving? Was she angling for more information?

“Yeah, but I’m not marrying any of them.”

Hannah’s jaw set. “Obviously.”

“What do you care?” I cried, hands on my hips. “What business is it of yours, anyway?”

“Obviously none!”

“That’s right,” I told her. “None.”

We glared. The back door opened and Jerry stuck his head out. Neither of us turned to look at him.

“You ready to go?” He sounded bored. Then again, he usually did.

Hannah looked, then, and her frown straightened to neutrality. “Sure. Are the kids ready?”

Jerry shrugged. “Dunno.”

Every line of her body stiffened. “Could you help them get ready to go, then? Simon needs his socks and they both need to find their shoes.”

Jerry didn’t move. “Where are they?”

“I don’t know,” my sister said. “That’s why you have to find them.”

Jerry didn’t move for a moment longer, and with a disgusted sigh Hannah pushed past him. “Never mind. I’ll do it.”

She disappeared into the house and he followed a moment later. My dad appeared in the doorway no more than a few seconds later. He gestured at my car.

“Your car needs to be inspected.”

“I know, Dad. I have an appointment next week.”

“Next week? And what are you going to do before then? What if you get pulled over?”

“I’ll try not to.” I hated defending myself to my dad, especially when he was right. “I wanted to take it to Reager’s, and next week was the soonest they could get me in.”

“Why not take it to Joe’s place?”

“Because Reager’s gives me a discount,” I told him flatly. “And Joe doesn’t.”

My dad huffed. “I’ll call him.”

“No, Dad! You won’t.” I held up my hand. “I’ve got it under control.”

“You need new tires, too.” My dad came down the couple steps from the house into the carport and started circling my car. “When’s the last time you checked the oil? You put a lot of miles on this car, Gracie.”

I bit my tongue against a smart retort. “It’s fine. Okay?”

“Lookit there.” My dad reached down to run a finger along the grooves in my right front tire. “You’re going bald.”

“So are you,” I said.

He straightened and patted his head without looking offended. He didn’t laugh, either.

“You need to take care of stuff like that for yourself. Be responsible.”

I gritted my teeth. This was working my very last nerve on several different but interconnected levels. “You mean because I’m not responsible or because I don’t have a man to do it for me?”

My dad didn’t bother to look ashamed. I’m sure because he wasn’t. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes, Dad. You are. Absolutely.” I pointed to my car. “My car has a lot of miles on it, yes, but those tires were just rotated two months ago and the guy told me they’d last another few thousand miles.”

“Maybe if you spent less money on silly things, you wouldn’t have to worry.”

He had absolutely no idea where I spent most of my discretionary income, and there was no way I was going to clue him in. “That’s my business.”

“The home is still my business, too, Grace, and it will be until the day I’m laid out in it.”

“Dad!”

God, he was stubborn. My dad just glared, arms crossed. Mine were crossed, too, and though I had no mirror I was sure my face was set into the same expression.

“The home’s doing fine. I’m doing fine, too.”

“I had a wife and three kids and none of us lacked for anything when I was running the business,” my dad said. “There’s no reason you shouldn’t be making ends meet.”

If real-life conversation was like the Internet, I’d have said OMFG. I settled for, “I am more than making ends meet.”

We stared each other down. My dad wanted more details, and I wasn’t going to give them.

While I might concede that the business was still his business, my money wasn’t.

“You see the books,” I told him. “You know I’m running in the black, no problem. And I’ll do what I have to in order to keep it that way. Renovations and upgrades take money.

Keeping on top of things takes money. But we’re doing fine, and you know we are. Don’t worry about me, Dad.”

“I’m your father. It’s my job to worry.”

“I’m fine. I promise.”

My dad didn’t look convinced, which made me less inclined to forgive him his fatherly right to be concerned. “You have to trust me, Dad.”

He looked again at my tires. “I’ll pay for new tires.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He glared again. “Gracie—”

I tossed up my hands, beaten. “Fine. Fine, okay? You can buy me new tires. Great.”

“Happy birthday and Merry Christmas,” my dad said.

“Gee, thanks.”

He ignored my sarcasm. “You’re welcome. Don’t forget to say goodbye to your mother,”

he added as he went back into the house.

OMFG.

Kicking myself because my dad’s scrutiny had made me paranoid, I opened up my accounting program as soon as I got home. I had all my accounts listed on my laptop, while downstairs in my office I only listed the business accounts.

Frawley and Sons was indeed running in the black as it had done for nearly every year but a few bad ones here and there. I remembered those as the years of scant Christmases and birthdays. The first year I’d taken over from my dad had threatened to be a bad one, too, but I’d made it work by sacrificing my apartment off grounds and moving into the home and finagling some tax breaks like a “company” car. Having a best friend who was an expert accountant had helped a lot.

My personal bank account wasn’t overflowing, but looking at it didn’t make me want to scream, either. With no rent and sundries like electricity, Internet and car payments filtered through the business, my monthly living expenses were extremely low. I paid my staff well but not extravagantly, in the midrange of recommended salaries. I paid myself the same, and they knew it. They also knew I’d be the first to take a pay cut should the need arise.

Even with the moderate pay scale, the perks of sharing my expenses with my business meant I had more discretionary income than many of my friends. Yet unlike them I didn’t stock up on clothes or expensive toys like TVs or stereos. I didn’t go on vacation. I bought my groceries from the Amish-run Bangs, Bumps and Bargains store. I wasn’t a big spender…except for my excursions with Mrs. Smith’s gentlemen.

I looked over the last year’s entries. Even though my dad had hinted I wasn’t responsible or organized, I kept careful track of all my income and expenses. I had entries for every date including the cost of my companion’s time and the fees covering where we’d gone or what we’d done. The least I’d spend in one month was twenty dollars for an initial meeting over coffee to see if the escort I wanted to hire would suit, to a few hundred for a series of dates with a guy named Armando who was particularly skilled with his hands.

I blinked at the screen and sat back against the couch I’d bought in college from the Salvation Army. Nine hundred and seventy-nine dollars and forty-three cents. We’d gone to dinner, the movies, dancing, the museum. I’d paid for four nights in the Dukum Inn. Four nights in one month. It seemed like nothing if you compared it to how many times a dating couple might make love. I’d seen him once a week, and it had cost me less than if I’d had rent and utilities and a car payment.

That had been the most, and even now I considered it money well spent. I studied the numbers. Women paid what I considered outrageous sums of money for someone to cut their hair, or do their nails, to buy the latest clothes and face creams. Hell, a good massage cost nearly as much as an hour with Jack and with him, at least, I was guaranteed a happy ending of the sort not found in Disney cartoons.

I looked around my bare apartment. It could use some paint and pictures. Some real, grown-up furniture. I looked again at the screen. Framed art and throw pillows didn’t have quite the same appeal as being fucked up against a wall until I screamed.

Then again, I thought with a grin as I dialed a now-familiar number, not much did.

M
y beeper went off two minutes after Jack buried his face between my thighs. I groaned, reaching for it. He paused and looked up at me as I looked at the number on the screen. My voice mail, the after-hours call line. For the first time ever, I wished I’d put Jared on first call.

Naked, Jack crouched between my legs with one hand on his cock. I sat on the motel’s straight-back chair with my skirt hiked up to my hips and my panties in a crumpled pile on the floor.

“Do you need to get that?”

“In a minute.” I was so close already, it would take only a few minutes more. Even if I hadn’t been already primed by half an hour of dirty talk on the cell phone while I drove to meet him, Jack’s tongue would have sent me over the edge pretty fast.

He smiled and kissed my thigh. He jerked himself as he licked me. I touched the top of his head, that silky dark hair that tickled, and watched the motion of his shoulder as he stroked his cock. Fast, then faster as my hips pushed forward and I fisted my fingers into his hair.

We came at the same time. I bit the heel of my hand to muffle my cry, but Jack groaned without holding back. I smelled the musky scent of his come and it urged another small yelp from me. Using condoms was necessary and not negotiable for sex, but he wasn’t wearing one now. It had made my own orgasm harder, imagining how it had felt for him to pump his bare flesh without the barrier.

Jack kissed my cunt, surprising me with the tender gesture, and sat back. His prick had softened, lying across his thigh. His hand gleamed, wet. I sat up, head a little woozy, and pulled my skirt down.

“I have to answer this,” I told him.

Jack nodded and got up, ambling to the bathroom. I dialed my voice mail. From inside the bathroom I heard the whoosh of the shower turning on. I typed in my password.

By the time I hung up, Jack had emerged from a cloud of steam rapidly dissipating in the bathroom. He wore a towel slung low over his hips and had slicked his hair off his face. He gave me a curious look as I shut my phone.

“I have to go.” I stood and shook my skirt down, then grabbed my panties. When I straightened, he was there, still flushed and warm and damp.

“Okay.” He held my arm to help me balance as I stood on one foot to pull on my undies.

I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror over the dresser. He watched over my shoulder. I turned to face him.

“Thanks, Jack.”

“You’re welcome.” His lips curved a little. “So much for cuddling.”

I laughed. “Yeah. Another time.”