Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (31 page)

Yeah, right.

Great. Now I was thinking of Nick again. Just when Brett and I were about to climb into bed. Damn.

I slid under the sheets. Brett turned off the lamp, flopped onto the bed, and rolled over to me, nuzzling and nipping playfully at my neck as he tugged my nightie upward and slid a hand under it. “I’ve missed the heck out of you,” he said, his fingers going straight for my breast.

My body responded as if on autopilot, my back arching to meet his touch, my leg curling up around his back. But while my body was going through the motions, my mind didn’t fuzz into oblivion like it normally did when we engaged in foreplay.

I was thinking. Thinking that maybe I’d been too hasty in reconciling the love spat we’d had, that maybe I should have given things more thought. Then he pulled my nightgown off and put his warm mouth to my breast and I thought that maybe I was thinking too much.

He wasted no time, removing my panties and his underwear and sliding on a condom in record time. If my mind had any hesitancies, it hadn’t sent the memo to my body. I wrapped both legs around him, taking him in hard and fast, not giving myself time for second thoughts.

The sex felt divine, but it felt desperate, too, the two of us going at each other like our lives depended on it, as if trying to prove something to each other—or perhaps to ourselves. Though Brett and I were sharing the most intimate of acts, a part of me was elsewhere, thinking of someone else, refusing, even then, to entirely let go.

An image of Nick played through my mind and I imagined what it might be like to make love to
him,
to have
his
hands on me, to have
him
inside me.

Nick, with his rock-hard pecs.

Nick, with his chipped-tooth smile.

Nick, with his whiskey-colored eyes.

Nick, with his take-charge style that both frustrated and titillated me.

I rose to meet Brett’s forceful thrust.
Nick.

Again.
Nick.

Once more.
Nick.

I cried out as a shudder built and exploded, rippling through me.

When I settled back against the pillows a moment later, Brett nuzzled my ear. “I was that good again, huh?”

“Mm-hm,” I moaned softly, though inside I mentally grimaced.

The cry hadn’t been for Brett.

It had been for Nick.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Dinner Date

First thing the next morning, I took a long shower, scrubbing my skin raw with my rough loofah.

I felt dirty. Silly, I know. I hadn’t actually cheated on Brett. But Nick had been in my mind the entire time Brett was making love to me. Though there’d been but two physical bodies in the bed, I’d engaged in a mental ménage à trois.

But thinking of another man during sex wasn’t anything unusual, was it? Of course not. People did it all the time to keep things fresh. Heck, I bet half of the women who’d had sex last night were picturing George Clooney when they’d climaxed. Some couples even engaged in role play, purposely pretending to be someone else when they did the deed. And then there were those people who dressed up like animals to have sex. Furries. How bizarre is that? There was nothing for me to feel dirty about, really.

Then why didn’t the shower help?

Brett and I curled up on the couch with two bowls of cereal. I picked up the remote and turned on the television, surfing through the channels until I found the station broadcasting the Ark’s service.

Pastor Walters stood at the altar today, dressed in a basic blue suit with a plain green tie. Though a spotlight shined on him, the colored lights and jumbo screens were turned off today. All that Vegas showiness wasn’t Walters’s style.

He delivered a simple sermon on the concept of giving to God through charitable service, the exact opposite of Fischer’s focus on tithing as an expression of faith. Walters had invited representatives of several local charities that were in need of helping hands. Each was given a few minutes to speak on their organization’s needs and volunteer opportunities. There was something for everyone, from painting over graffiti in the disadvantaged parts of town to visiting lonely elderly people in a nursing home.

Walters’s focus was one hundred eighty degrees different from Fischer’s. Walters didn’t feed the parishioners’ egos, though he didn’t condemn them, either. There was no fire, no brimstone, no threat of eternal damnation or locusts or scourges. He simply invited them to experience the joy of sharing God’s love by helping others.

I squinted at the screen. “Can you tell what kind of shoes the minister is wearing?”

“Black ones,” Brett said.

That wasn’t much help, though, really, what had I expected? My television was neither a big screen nor hi-def.

Brett looked puzzled. “Why’d you ask about the shoes?”

I told him what Pastor Beasley had said about phony preachers wearing expensive shoes.

Brett gestured to the screen. “You think this guy’s a phony?”

“Not him, necessarily,” I said, “but I suspect Noah Fischer may be just going through the motions.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Besides the fact that he hasn’t paid the taxes he owes?” Hmm, maybe the fact that he was playing blackjack and ogling bare breasts in Shreveport two nights ago? But I didn’t want to let Brett in on that information. He’d want to know all the details. It would be opening a can of worms I’d rather keep closed, at least for the time being. I settled for “Just a hunch, that’s all. Fischer seems much more fashion conscious than any minister I’ve ever met. And he’s got that limo and the big house. He seems self-absorbed.”

“I guess it’s a moot point, though, since the judge ruled in his favor.”

“Don’t remind me.” A thought crossed my mind then. “You’re not going to tell Trish that I asked you not to see her, are you?” It would be embarrassing if she knew I was jealous and I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I perceived her as a threat to my relationship with Brett.

“No,” he said. “But it’s going to be a little awkward. She’ll wonder why I’m ignoring her calls and texts and e-mails.”

Sheez. Was she in constant touch with him? “Just be slow to respond,” I said. “Tell her you’re busy. She’ll get the hint eventually.”

“She’s still got my key.”

Grr.
“Tell her I’ll be checking your mail and watering your plants now that the Ark case is over.” I had half a mind to change his locks, maybe rig a booby trap for her. Perhaps I could get some of that organic pig poop and put a bucket over the door in case she stopped by. The thought of Trish covered in pig manure caused me to snigger.

“Did I miss something?” Brett asked.

I rubbed my nose. “Just stifling a sneeze.” As if.

*   *   *

I drove Brett to the airport that afternoon. We lingered at the curb, holding each other until airport security grew suspicious and told me to move my car.

Brett gave me a kiss and put his forehead to mine. “Miss me,” he whispered.

“Miss me, too,” I whispered back.

He went through the glass doors and they slid closed behind him. He turned and gave me a final wave. A sense of emptiness descended on me as I waved back.

“Move it,” the security guard ordered. “Now!”

I held up my hands. “Okay, okay!”

*   *   *

At six o’clock, I arrived at Nick’s mother’s house. I’d been there once before, when I’d brought Nick home after his three-year forced exile in Mexico. But it had been late at night and dark and I hadn’t wanted to intrude on their reunion. I’d waited at the curb until she’d opened the door for him and then driven away.

Her house was a modest brown brick model, single story, with ivory shutters. Nick’s truck was in the driveway. I pulled in next to it, parked, and took a deep breath before climbing out and making my way to the porch.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt nervous again, the same way I’d felt when I’d met Brett’s parents for the first time. Of course my trepidation then was understandable. Brett and I were in a serious relationship. The Ellingtons could potentially be my future in-laws and our initial impressions of each other were thus significant.

Today, though, was nothing more than a friendly dinner, an expression of thanks from a grateful mother to someone who’d done a favor for her son. There was no reason for my pulse to be pounding and my hands to be sweating. Unfortunately, neither my heart nor my hands seemed to understand that.

A cheerful wreath of silk sunflowers decorated the front door. I wiped my hands on the skirt of my white sundress and lifted the knocker.
Clack. Clack.

A moment later, Nick’s mother opened the door. She wore a women’s western shirt in a navy, green, and tan Navajo print, along with jeans, boots, and a welcoming smile. She was tall like Nick, with the same shade of brown hair, though hers was pulled back in a braid and streaked through with hints of silver. Her eyes were blue. Nick’s whiskey-colored irises must have come from his father.

Nick stood behind her, Nutty to his side, tail wagging.
Woof! Woof-woof!

Mrs. Pratt stepped forward, offering her hand. “I’m Bonnie Pratt,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

When I gave her my hand, she used it to pull me toward her, wrapping her long arms around me and enveloping me in a bear hug, not bothering to ask permission first. I could see where Nick got his gumption.

“Oh, Tara!” she cried. “I could just squeeze you to death!”

Nick chuckled and pulled on his mother’s arm. “I think you are, Mom. Give her some room to breathe.”

She pulled back, holding me by the shoulders, still smiling a wide, bright smile. “I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am for what you did for my baby.”

Her baby?
Ha! So Nick was a mama’s boy. Who would’ve known? My gaze flicked to Nick. He rolled his eyes but let his mother slide. I had a feeling he’d fought a battle over the pet name before and lost.

I looked back to Mrs. Pratt. “I was happy to do it,” I said. “Besides, I needed Nick’s help on the case.”

She shook her head. “You’re being too modest. You took a lot of risks going down there and I darn well know it.” She waved a hand for us to follow her into the kitchen. “Come on in. I’ve made my chicken-fried steak. Best you’ll ever have.”

I raised a brow when Nick cut his eyes my way. “Don’t sell me down the river,” he whispered.

Mrs. Pratt glanced back. “What’d you say, baby?”

“Nothing,” Nick replied.

Dozens of framed photographs of Nick hung in the hallway, chronicling his life, beginning with him as a chubby infant lying bare assed on a fluffy white rug, to photos of him in his high school football uniform, to him in a cap and gown at college graduation.

“Only child?” I asked him.

“Yep.”

That fact must have made it all the harder for his mother when he was stuck in Mexico.

We stepped into the kitchen. Although she lived in the city now, it was clear Bonnie Pratt hadn’t left the country behind. The room was decorated in old-fashioned blue and white gingham. The cookie jar was shaped like a red barn, the salt and pepper shakers like black-and-white Holstein cows. The place settings included white china with blue forget-me-nots around the rim.

Nick pulled out a chair for me at the table and I took a seat. He sat down next to me.

Nick’s mother opened the refrigerator and removed a glass pitcher filled with a dark red liquid. Orange and lemon slices floated on top. “How about a glass of homemade sangria?”

“That sounds wonderful.”

Bonnie poured two tall glasses, setting one in front of me and the other on the table across from me. She took a bottle of beer from the fridge and plunked that down in front of Nick.

I took a sip of the sangria. Sweet, fruity, refreshing. “Mmm. Good stuff.”

She set a basket of dinner rolls on the table, as well as a heaping bowl of mashed potatoes and a gravy boat filled to the brim with cream gravy. The pièce de résistance was a platter of chicken-fried steaks covered in a thick, light-brown batter.

Once his mother had taken a seat, Nick handed me the serving fork. “Help yourself.”

I chose one of the smaller steaks, then scooped up a large spoonful of potatoes, smothering both of them with gravy. Nick and his mother served their plates, then seemed to watch me with anticipation.

“Try it,” Bonnie said, an expectant look on her face. “I can’t wait to see what you think.”

I picked up my steak knife and sawed off a bite-sized chunk of meat. I speared it with my fork and put it in my mouth.

I thought I’d never taste a chicken-fried steak better than my mother’s. But I’d been wrong. I savored the bite, closing my eyes and chewing slowly. Finally, I opened them. “This is fantastic.”

She smiled. “It was my grandmother’s recipe.”

“What’s in it?”

She wagged a finger in the air. “Nuh-uh-uh. Family recipes are top secret.”

“But I brought your baby back to you, remember?”

She crinkled up her nose. “Truth be told, he’s a pain in the ass.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

Nick stood. “I don’t have to put up with this.”

His mother gestured for him to sit back down. “Yeah, you do. Sit your butt down.”

I liked this woman. She was down-to-earth with a sense of humor.

I ate another bite of steak. “I’m guessing there’s some chili powder in your batter.”

Bonnie pointed her steak knife at me, but her good-natured grin told me she was all bark and no bite. “You best stop that guessing right now if you know what’s good for you.”

Nick’s mother and I chatted casually and comfortably during dinner. We discovered that we shared a love of gardening, though I grew flowers and she grew vegetables. I learned that she was the one who’d taught Nick how to dance, just in time for the high school prom. While she’d been jovial throughout our conversation, her face and voice grew somber when she talked about the years Nick was in Mexico.

“He’d call me every few days, but we had to be careful what we said. We never knew if our conversations were being monitored.” Her eyes grew misty but her jaw was firm. “I had to play along, pretend to believe that he’d taken a bribe and fled the country. As if my baby would do something like that. I didn’t raise any thieves!” Her voice rose in pitch. “I was worried sick the entire time. I feared that one day he’d just up and disappear and I’d never know what happened to him.” A short, involuntary sob broke from her chest.