Can't Stand the Heat (15 page)

“W
here should I put these, Miss Gibbons?” the mousy-looking young woman asked.

Stephanie looked over her shoulder. She had been in the middle of sweeping the hardwood floors and doing some last-minute cleanup of her client's home when her new assistant, Carrie, came rushing into the dining room carrying a cardboard box filled with flyers that had just arrived from the printer. The flyers included professional photos of the house and all the important details related to today's showing. Stephanie liked to hand them out to visitors so that most of their questions could be answered simply by looking at the reference page.

Carrie teetered on her high heels anxiously, trying to balance the box in her hands. She blew a curly lock of chestnut-colored hair out of her eyes. It and several other curls had escaped out of her chignon. Her maze of freckles had disappeared completely now that her usually pale cheeks were bright red. The suit jacket she was wearing looked askew, as if it had been buttoned wrong.

Carrie had started the job a few months ago and was working out quite well, but she still looked frazzled whenever they had to do showings like these. Well, “frazzled” wasn't quite the word. She looked closer to absolutely terrified.

Stephanie smiled. “You can spread them out on the oak table in the foyer and put a stack of business cards next to them.”

Carrie nodded before scrambling toward the dining room's arched entryway.

“Oh, and Carrie . . .”

The young woman skidded to a halt, almost stumbling on the afghan rug near the dining room table and falling face-first to the hardwood floor. She whipped around and faced Stephanie.

“Yes, Miss Gibbons?”

“Honey, chill out, OK? You look like you're about to pass out. It's just a showing. You know . . . people walking through a house eating crackers and asking silly questions. They're not going to bite you.”

Carrie gave a nervous smile. “Yes, Miss Gibbons.” She then scampered out of the room again.

Stephanie shook her head.
That girl really needs to chill out. She looks like she's going to explode.

Speaking of impending explosions . . . Stephanie wondered if Cynthia had had her Hiroshima-worthy blast yet. Their eldest sister had been so furious at the family meeting today that Stephanie was sure steam was going to pour out of Cynthia's ears. Stephanie hadn't seen Cynthia yell that much since they were little girls and she and Dawn had stolen Cynthia's favorite Barbie and decided to hold it for ransom. Except now, Cynthia was pissed at Lauren because she believed Lauren had taken something else she
really
wanted. Their youngest sister had managed to seduce Cris Weaver right under Cynthia's pretty little nose.

Stephanie chuckled, sweeping the last of the dust bunnies into her plastic dustpan. She carried them and the broom back into her client's kitchen.

It was amusing to see Cynthia finally get her comeuppance. Stephanie hated that even when they were little girls, Cynthia had always believed she was entitled to first dibs on everything: toys and clothes, and later men and money.
Finally,
someone had put her in her place, though Stephanie was surprised that Lauren had been the one to do it. She also didn't get Lauren's whole claim about how she wasn't targeting Weaver for his wealth. She claimed to have actually fallen for the man.

Yeah, what the hell is that about,
Stephanie thought as she dumped the dust and trash into a plastic trash can underneath the sink. She opened the door to the pantry and placed the broom and dustpan inside.

Was Lauren saying that to try to smooth things over with Cynthia or was she telling the truth? Stephanie certainly hoped her little sister was lying. She couldn't think of a prospect more alarming than falling in love with someone. That was definitely a family no-no. Stephanie had never fallen for a man in her life and hoped she never would.

“Miss Gibbons!” Carrie shouted, snapping Stephanie from her thoughts.
“Miss Gibbons!
A few cars are pulling into the driveway! They're here!”

Stephanie sighed and strolled out of the kitchen. “That's all right, Carrie. We want them to come here. Remember? I told you: It's just a showing. Take a deep breath, honey.”

Stephanie adjusted the lapels on her suit jacket and pasted on a smile. She walked through the dining room, sitting room, and into the foyer—giving one last cursory inspection to each of the spaces. The doorbell rang and Carrie looked frantic. The young woman was arranging, then rearranging the flyers on the oak table in stacks and then straight lines like she had a bad case of OCD. She looked on the verge of hyperventilating.

“They're fine, Carrie.” Stephanie patted her assistant's shoulder. “Why don't you go into the kitchen and get a glass of water. I'll handle the first round of tours.”

Carrie nodded, then scurried away. Her high heels clomped at a staccato pace across the hardwood floors as she fled to the kitchen. Thank God Carrie was a good assistant overall, because today that girl was definitely playing on Stephanie's last nerve.

Stephanie waited a beat and opened the front door.

“Hey, Jacob!” She greeted the real-estate agent who stood in front of her. “Glad you could make it.”

“No problem. No problem,” the lumbering man replied as he stepped into the foyer. He shook Stephanie's hand. “I told you my clients were eager to see some properties today. I figured we'd start here.”

Stephanie peered over his broad shoulder. “Is that them?” she asked as the back car doors to a sea green Jaguar with dark-tinted windows flew open.

A boy and a girl, who both looked to be around nine years old, leaped out of the car and raced up the driveway toward the house, screaming at the top of their lungs. The boy was carrying a double-cannon water gun and started to shoot a blast of water at a blue jay that was docilely sunning in a birdbath near one of the azalea bushes. The girl twirled in a circle on the lawn, loudly singing off-key some vaguely familiar Disney tune. She was wearing a cubic zirconium crown and butterfly wings. She swung a glitter wand wildly in the air.

“Yes, it is,” Jacob answered resignedly. “They've got quite the little caravan and”—he leaned toward her ear—“frankly, those twins are a handful. I wanted to spare my ears and my leather interior so I suggested my clients follow me instead of riding in my car. You won't believe how glad I am that they agreed to drive on their
own.”

Stephanie laughed and glanced over Jacob's shoulder again. The woman who exited the car was light-skinned and had her hair pulled back into a bun. She gazed around her, looking at the house and the surrounding neighborhood. She seemed blissfully unaware of the fact that her children were raising holy hell in the front yard, to the point that one of the neighbors had stopped mowing his grass and was peering over the white picket fence to see who was making all the racket.

While the woman smiled and sauntered up the walkway, her husband raced to the other end of the lawn.

“Terrence!” he barked. “Damn it, boy, leave that bird alone! And Melanie, stop dancing around and get back here!”

Stephanie looked at the man more closely. Her mouth fell open in shock.

Jacob sighed. “Stephanie, let me introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery and their
lovely
children, Terrence and Melanie.”

“Move,” Hank said, giving his son a hard shove as they walked up the lawn toward the front door. He then looked up and locked eyes with Stephanie, who stood in the doorway. Hank's face shifted from surprise to alarm and then a masked reserve that almost made her laugh.

“Pleased . . . pleased to meet you,” he choked.

Stephanie nodded, keeping her cool. “And you.”

This wouldn't be the first time a man had lied to her about being married. In retrospect, the deacon had shown all the signs: going from hot to cold, abruptly ending their date, and then disappearing off the face of the earth for two weeks. But she had chalked it up to James scaring him off. Now it looked like she had been wrong. The deacon was leading two lives. She wondered if his wife knew he had a thing for whips and chains.

“Oh, this is a nice one, Hank,” his wife said, patting one of the Corinthian columns as she mounted the brick steps. “Not as nice as our home back in Georgia, but close enough. Then again,
nothing
could be as nice as that house.” She turned to Stephanie. “It was a renovated plantation . . . the
real
thing, not like the knockoffs you find so much around here.”

Stephanie's smile tightened. She decided it was best not to respond to that one.

“Jacob, why don't you have your clients look around the house? See if they like the layout. I can answer any questions you have along the way.”

Jacob nodded and ventured toward the living room. “Thanks, Steph. You can follow me, guys.”

Hank's wife walked in first with her nose raised into the air. She gazed around her, frowning at the decor.

“A little cheap for my taste, but . . . it can be fixed.” Princess Melanie came in after her, pirouetting on the parquet floors. “Watch me be a ballerina, Mommy!”

She did a leap toward a podium by the door where a very expensive vase sat—one of the owner's favorites—making Stephanie's heart leap into her throat. The vase teetered wildly on its base, then miraculously righted itself. Stephanie gave a sigh of relief.

Next was Terrence.

“Wet T-shirt contest!” Terrence yelled before raising the barrel of his water gun. He sprayed at Stephanie, and she had just enough time to put her leather-bound folder in front of her breasts. If she had been a second slower, Terrence would have gotten his wish. She'd be standing there in a soaking wet silk shirt. Instead, the water bounced off her folder and trickled to the floor.

“Boy!” Hank yelled, slapping his son on the back of the head.

Terrence screeched with laughter before rushing behind his mother and sister, who had followed Jacob into the living room.

Stephanie sincerely hoped Terrence wasn't going to hose down the place. She may have to confiscate that water gun until the end of the tour.

Hank stepped through the door last. He lowered his eyes and grimaced.

“Nice family,” she muttered sarcastically.

“I didn't know you were going to be here,” he whispered.

“Obviously. If you had, I'm guessing you wouldn't have brought the wife and kids. The wife and kids you failed to mention anything about on
our date
two weeks ago, I might add!”

“Look, Steph, I—”

She held up her hand, stopping him before he had the chance to make up another lie. “Save it, Hank. They're waiting for you. If you linger too long, Miss Georgia might get suspicious.”

As if on cue, his wife started to shout for him. “Hank! Hank, where are you? Come and look at the kitchen!”

“I'll be right there, sweetheart!” He turned to Stephanie one last time. “Steph, I'm sorry I lied to you. But I wasn't sure you'd—”

“Hank!” his wife shouted.

“Just go,” Stephanie said, waving him forward. Hank shuffled away with eyes downcast.

She closed the front door. “Men,” she muttered.

How her sister Lauren had managed to fall in love with one was completely beyond her.

“I
'll tell you one thing,” Jamal said as he dropped his putter into his golf bag and hopped onto the leather golf cart seat beside Cris. “You can definitely play some football, but you can't golf for shit!”

Cris laughed as he pressed down the gas pedal and the cart accelerated along the asphalt path.

The two men had spent most of the morning on Chesterton's pristine golf course, laboring over eighteen holes in the blazing hot sun. If there was one thing that managed to follow Cris from Texas, it was the daily swampy humidity during the summer that could make even walking a huge effort. His polo shirt was damp with sweat and clinging to his skin. His leather gloves felt soggy against his fingertips. He definitely looked forward to taking a shower and having a cool drink in the clubhouse later.

He wished he could blame his bad performance on the course in the searing August heat, but that wasn't the case. Even with his natural athletic ability, golf had never been his game. Despite Cris's handicap, Jamal still soundly beat him.

“I mean, you're
really
bad with a club, man,” Jamal said with a smile as Cris steered the cart. They climbed another hill. “It was like playing my eighty-year-old nana.”

“Rub it in just a little bit more, why don't you?”

“Oh, come on! I gotta rub it in! I beat the hell out of a Dallas Cowboy, a Heisman Trophy winner! I just thought because you had that whole sports and blasian thing going on, you'd be a lot better.”

“Blasian
thing? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know, blasian: short for black Asian. Like Tiger Woods! Now
that's
a dude who can golf!”

Cris cracked up with laughter as they drew near the clubhouse. He pulled into one of the free spaces and they both hopped out onto the black asphalt that radiated a hazy outline of heat. They sought the shade of the clubhouse's blue-and-white-striped awning, then the air-conditioned foyer.

An hour after they arrived, both men emerged from the clubhouse showers and grabbed towels from the shower-room attendant before strolling into the locker room.

“So I meant to ask you . . . what's up with you and Lauren Gibbons?” Jamal inquired.

Cris raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, what's up with us?”

“I mean, how's it going?”

“Good. Pretty damn good, in fact.”

Cris and Lauren had been dating for more than a month now, and he hadn't been this happy in quite a while. Perhaps it was the thrill that came with a new relationship. Or maybe retirement allowed him to have a new perspective on life, to take joy in the simple things. Whatever it was, he really liked being around her. He looked forward to their easygoing dates and long conversations, and gazing at her beautiful face was a bonus.

Lauren had a unique combination of kindness, honesty, and sexiness that was hard to find nowadays. She was open with him and intimate—to a point. Emotionally, she held nothing back, but sexually, she was still keeping him at arm's length. To say that it was wearing on him was putting it lightly. He wasn't a guy who assumed a woman would have sex with him after three or four dates, but he
had
expected to have progressed beyond a kiss and light caresses by now. Unfortunately, anytime their clothes started to come off, Lauren would put on the brakes and he'd be left with a hard-on straining against the zipper of his jeans and a sense of frustration that would leave him tangled in knots all night. He didn't want to confront her about it, though. Considering the last relationship she had, he didn't want to come off as a bully. He just kept his desires in check and hoped things would evolve eventually . . . whenever she was ready.

“Has she robbed you blind yet?” Jamal asked with a good-natured grin, wrapping a towel around his waist.

Cris's smile faded. He glared reproachfully at his friend and opened his locker. He should have known this was coming.

“No, she hasn't robbed me blind . . . and she never will.”

“Whatever you say, brothah.” Jamal opened the locker beside Cris's and pulled out a duffel bag, then deodorant from the locker shelf. “I already gave you a warning. You know how I feel about it. If you want to—”

“Yes, you've told me ten thousand times how you feel about it, Jamal. And I don't want to hear it anymore, OK?”

Jamal opened his mouth as if to speak again, to probably crack a joke. But Cris's stern gaze froze whatever words were waiting to escape his lips. For once, Jamal held his tongue.

The two men fell silent, busying themselves with drying off and getting dressed. Cris had just finished tying the laces of his shoes when he heard loud male laughter, making both him and Jamal look up. Their eyes were drawn to the doorway leading from the showers, where two men strode into the locker room wearing towels around their waists and draped around their necks.

One was dark-skinned, short, and wiry with light tufts of hair on his chest. He looked to be in his early to late fifties. The other was much lighter in complexion, much taller, with graying hair and green eyes. The lines in his face showed he was probably the same age as his companion, but his body seemed a lot younger. He had the muscle tone of someone in his early thirties.

Cris had never seen either man before, but Jamal instantly smiled as if he recognized them.

“James! How ya doin', man?”

Both men at the other end of the locker room slowed their pace. When they saw Jamal, the light-skinned one mumbled something to the other before patting him genially on the back. His friend nodded and walked to the other side of the locker room, leaving him to join Jamal and Cris.

“Jamal, I didn't know they let the likes of you in here!” James joked, wiping his damp forehead with the edge of his towel. “When did you become a member?” He extended his hand.

Jamal shook it. His cocky smile broadened. “I've been a member for a couple of years now. I bribed a few people.”

James chuckled.

“James, I want to introduce you to Cris Weaver. He's a longtime friend of mine. He just moved to Chesterton a few months ago.”

“Oh, Mr. Weaver needs no introduction. I'm a big fan.” James turned to Cris. “I watched you catch the pigskin for many years.”

“Probably too many,” Cris said humbly. “That's why I'm retired.”

“Oh, you're still a young man in my book. I'm sure you have quite a few good years left in you.” He extended his hand again. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Cris. You're probably partial to our friend Jamal over here. But if you ever need anything or any legal work on your behalf while in Chesterton, don't hesitate to contact the law offices of James Sayers, all right?”

Cris had been shaking James's hand, but froze when he heard his last name. His smile faded. His hold abruptly tightened to the point that James winced.

“You've . . . you've got quite a handshake there,” James joked. His smile barely masked his discomfort.

“You're
James Sayers?” Cris asked through clenched teeth, feeling his heart thud violently in his chest.

This
was the man who had hit Lauren.
This
was the man who left a small, defenseless woman battered and broken. Cris had never felt such an intense, overpowering fury at someone in his life.

James nodded. “Yes, I am. Have you heard of me? Good things, I hope.”

Jamal stared at his friend quizzically, sensing that something was wrong. Cris finally released James's hand.

“No, James. In fact, what I've heard about you isn't good at all. So you can save all the phony charming shit. I know
exactly
what you are.”

James's brows knitted together in confusion.

Jamal quickly stepped forward and stood between the two men. “James, he doesn't mean that.” He turned to Cris. “Come on, man, apologize. You didn't mean that. You barely know the man. You just met him. You can't—”

“I know enough! I know what Lauren told me! I know what he did to her!”

The buzz of voices and laughter in the locker room quickly died down to a low hush at Cris's outburst. Several curious gazes turned toward him.

“Lauren?”
James asked. “You . . . you know Lauren?” Cris saw something flicker in James's eyes then that let him know for sure that the stately-looking lawyer wasn't always as cool and pleasant as he pretended to be. A barely contained rage lingered in those irises, and it had only come to the forefront at the mention of Lauren's name. It burned intensely bright and then swiftly was snuffed out.

James slowly smiled. “Ah, I see we have a similar acquaintance. If we're talking about the same Lauren, take my advice: Anything she says should be taken with a grain of salt. The poor girl is a habitual liar, master manipulator, and an opportunist.” He sighed deeply and shook his salt-and-pepper-speckled head. “Unfortunately, I found out the truth too late. By then I was out more than four hundred thousand dollars' worth of gifts, clothing, and vacations. I should have gotten receipts,” he murmured, chuckling again.

“I've been trying to tell him,” Jamal interjected. “I already gave him the lowdown about the Gibbons family. He won't listen!”

“It's understandable.” James gazed at Cris. “You haven't lived here long. It's hard to believe a group of women could be so mercenary.”

“Mercenary?
Lauren isn't a mercenary! She's got too much pride for that. And stop grouping her in with her sisters! She's nothing like them! If you had—”

“Is that what she told you? She's more like her sisters than you know. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if Lauren hadn't tracked you down the instant she found out you were moving to Chesterton.” He tilted his head. “I kicked her out not too long before Thanksgiving. Did she tell you that, too? I would imagine she's in need of a new boyfriend—a new benefactor, shall we say. It seems you fit the bill, my friend.”

“I'm not your goddamn friend,” Cris said menacingly, making the flame of rage flicker in James's eyes again. “My friends are
real
men, and no real man would do what you did to her!”

Several eyes in the locker room widened in amazement. “Cris!” Jamal shouted. “Have you lost your damn mind? You can't—”

“Jamal, Cris is obviously under a
dangerous
female influence. Try to be more understanding. We've all fallen prey to it at some point in our lives.” James's voice sounded calm, but his strained polite smile said differently. “But I would advise you, Cris, to be careful. I wouldn't engage in any battles on Lauren's behalf. She's a good lay, but not
that
good. That gold-digging bitch really isn't worth it.”

At those words, Cris suddenly wanted to leap forward and pound James senseless. He took a menacing step toward James and Jamal instantly pressed his hand against his chest, shoving him back.

It was Jamal and the other eyes in the locker room that stopped him. Besides, what would be his defense for beating James to a mangled pulp? No one knew about the abuse Lauren had suffered. As far as everyone in town would think, Cris was some deranged outsider who got violent with a respected member of the community for no apparent reason. Or worse, his anger was foolishly based on the word of a woman who almost no one in Chesterton trusted.

No, despite his anger, despite the urge to make James feel what Lauren felt that night many months ago, Cris would have to tread carefully with this one.

“Look, stay away from her,” Cris said through clenched teeth, pointing at James. “Just stay the hell away from her! If I find out you even touched her again, I'll—”

“No need for threats.” James's smile widened into a Cheshire cat grin. “I don't intend to seek out Miss Gibbons. Believe me. She's
all
yours.”

He was lying. Cris could tell. This was a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted. He wouldn't give up that easily.

“Well, Jamal,” James said, “it was good seeing you again. I wish I could say it was a pleasure meeting you, too, Cris, but that would be disingenuous, now wouldn't it?”

Cris didn't respond. Instead he continued to glower at James, still fighting the urge to smash his face into a million pieces.

James slowly walked away and the mood in the locker room gradually lifted. Everyone no longer seemed to gaze at them with pent-up breath, anticipating something volatile. The buzz of conversation gradually returned. A few men across the room laughed at a joke. But Cris still felt his heart pounding rapidly in his chest and his fists were still clenched. He took a deep breath and slowly felt the tension inside of him ease.

As James turned a corner and disappeared behind a row of lockers, Jamal reached out and grabbed Cris's arm. He whipped his friend around to face him.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Jamal whispered.

“You don't know the full story, Jay. I know it seems like that came out of nowhere, but Lauren told me—”

“And you're going to take
her
word over his? See, this is why I didn't want you to hook up with that . . . that . . . scheming hooker! I knew this shit would happen!”

“Don't call her a hooker! I told you that you don't know all the details!”

“To hell with your details!” Jamal slammed his locker closed. He raised the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “I have a reputation around here, Cris! I introduce you to my friends and business associates and
that's
how you treat them?”