Double Trouble (16 page)

“It’s very simple,” I said in my most pedantic tone. “You have to pick something that they don’t sell. There has to be no chance of them giving you an exchange or a credit slip or a gift certificate. And department stores have so much unexpected merchandise now—you have to go right out there to Weirdland.”

“Are there such things as Bolivian cockatiels?”

“I have no idea. But on the off chance that they do indeed sell cockatiels, dollars to donuts no one will know whether they’re Bolivian or not. You can pretend that you do know.” I mimicked James being disappointed by a clerk’s paltry offering, doing his upscale accent to perfection. “‘Oh no, the
genuine
Bolivian cockatiel is distinguished by a fiery red spot upon its tail. Clearly this is not such a bird. I’m sorry but this simply will not do.’”

“I can’t lie just to get a few bucks back.” James gave me a disparaging look. “I’m not you, Maralys.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That I wouldn’t be able to pull it off.”

“Right!” I propped one hand on my hip. “As if lying would be something new. As if you’ve never lied before or persuaded oh maybe twelve citizens that the truth is somewhat different than they had thought.”

“I don’t lie.”

“Bull! You’ve made a career out of it.”

His eyes flashed. “I have not!”

“Oh, every single person you’ve ever defended has been utterly innocent? My, my. Who would have guessed?”

James had the grace to look a bit sheepish. “Well, it’s all in the way you present the information.”

“Exactly! You’re a natural for this.”

James grudgingly pulled out a receipt from a bag with a new purse and scrutinized it. His tone was matter-of-fact. “It’s not going to work, Maralys. This is Marcia’s number from the joint platinum card. They won’t put a credit on my card. They’ll need her card to do the return.”

I wasn’t nearly that ready to admit defeat. I examined at the purse and found the store price tag on it. I waggled it under his nose. “Look at that. Store, price and SKU#.” I plucked the receipt out of his hand, crumpled it and chucked it over my shoulder. He looked alarmed and I widened my own eyes in dismay. “What a shame you lost the receipt. At least you know where it came from and how much it was since the tag is still on it. Phew! That’s a relief.”

That smile made a valiant attempt to curve his lips again, but lost one more time. “But I can’t say it was a gift then, because any idiot would have taken off the price tag.”

“As if. Lots of men wouldn’t have because they
are
idiots.”

“So now I have to be a lying idiot who misunderstands his wife. Thanks a lot.”

“Okay, you can say that she changed her mind about her own purchase. Or that she’s gained ten pounds, or maybe had a bad nose job, and won’t come out of the house. Be inventive! You’re a defense lawyer—you must make shit up all the time.”

“But...”

I turned on him, exasperated with his determination to find fault. “If you need to look good, say that she’s had surgery, poor peachie, and you’re running her errands. What a swell guy.” I patted his cheek while he glowered at me. “Remember that the customer is always right, ooze some of that charm that you’re keeping in reserve, and you’ll do pretty well.”

One brow arched. “You’re acknowledging that I have charm?”

“Well, you keep it stashed away, but I’ve seen you in action. Butter wouldn’t melt and all that.”

“Don’t make it sound so attractive.”

“Sorry, but I’m immune to charm.” I shrugged and smiled. “Your loss, I guess.”

I shouldn’t have said that. I should have known that it would just tempt him to prove me wrong. “You’re all talk, Maralys,” he said quietly.

“In your dreams.”

“How did you know about that?”

I blinked, momentarily at a loss, but it was enough.

James took a step closer. “I can tell just how immune you are.” His fingertip landed on my shoulder and I swallowed as I stared up at him. He probably felt me shiver because he smiled ever so slightly. That damn dimple was back.

I realized then that the funnel neck was a mistake. It was far too easy for him to touch my cheek, then let his finger wander south as he had the other night. Goose pimples awakened at his touch and I knew, I just knew, that Mr. Keen Observation had noticed.

“Nice sweater,” he mused, then bent and brushed his lips against my jaw. I was melting. It felt so good that I didn’t want to step away, even though I knew I should.

“Should I be flattered that you broke out of the black?”

“Black’s a city thing. I didn’t want to frighten the locals.”

He flicked a glance down the sweater neckline. “Is
that
also for the benefit of the locals?”

Clearly, he could see the industrial allure bra. Big trouble, Maralys. BigMistake.com was coming up in my browser. Who knew it was on my list of favorites?

I stepped away, but fast, and nearly tripped when my stiletto snagged in the carpeting. I talked just as fast and one glance told me that James wasn’t fooled. “Look, you’ve got a chance to seriously undo a lot of the damage Marcia has done. Unless, of course, you’re chicken...”

He watched me, having way too much fun. “Now, let me get this straight. Who’s the chicken here?”

I flipped open another box, ready for a diversion. “Oh look, these shoes cost $469. Imagine that, for a pair of quite average looking black sling backs. And look, they’re in pristine condition and the original packaging. Not a scratch. Isn’t that funny. I doubt Marcia even tried them on.” I waggled them under his nose. “I bet she just bought them because of how much they cost. I bet she just bought them to piss you off.”

“A family talent, obviously.”

“Does it work?”

“You’re better at it than she was.”

I was perversely delighted by this. “Is that a compliment?”

“Don’t count on it.” James snatched up the shoe and carefully snuggled it back into its box. He fitted the lid on top and set the box against one wall. “All right, we make a pile for each store and I’ll get rid of it all this week.”

I was aghast. “You can’t take everything back at once.”

Now he was really exasperated. “Why not? How many rules does this have? How complicated can this be?”

I sat on the puffy chintz chair and shook my head at him. “Think! You can’t say that you bought her five thousand dollars worth of gifts and she hates them all. They won’t believe you. They’ll think it’s hot and call in all sorts of managers. They’ll think you’re a shoplifter. A particularly well-dressed thief, perhaps, but not a very trustworthy individual.”

James sat down, shoved a hand through his hair, and fought for strength. “This is too complicated. It can’t be worth it.” He fired a lethal glance my way and I’m not entirely sure he was talking about the returns.

“It won’t be that bad. You just want to do this quietly, one or two items at a time.”

“You could help me.”

“Not on your life. Lots of department store clerks work four hour shifts, so you could make maybe three returns a day to the same department without attracting attention.”

James looked at the bulging closet. “This will take forever.”

I laughed, determined to give him a prod when he needed it. “You’re unemployed, sport. You’ve got nothing but time.”

“Isn’t that a stroke of luck?” he muttered, eying the lot of it.

“And fear not, whatever you can’t return, you can take to a consignment shop. A pal of mine runs a good one in the North End: Twice Loved.”

James watched me for a long moment. He didn’t look angry, though I certainly deserved a snarl for that shot about being unemployed. “Does anything get to you, Maralys?” he finally asked.

“Lots of things, but I do my damnedest not to let it show.”

“You do a good job.” James shoved to his feet and came back to the closet. He sighed and considered the stack, before glancing quickly my way. “That’s one of the things I admire about you.”

My heart skipped a beat and I acknowledge that what might be going on here was genuine attraction, not any kind of surrogate nookie.

Truth was, I was becoming less adverse to the idea of a little action from James. But I’d be damn sure that he was in the clear emotionally before I stepped over the line. I’ve got enough emotional baggage of my own to lug around.

“You’re losing your edge, Coxwell. Keep talking like that and someone might think you liked me.” James laughed, then I laughed, then we got down to work.

* * *

We were having a beer in the kitchen, much pleased with our efforts, when someone flung open the front door. I assumed it was the realtor, back with another happy couple, and braced myself for her chipper greeting.

“So, when exactly were you planning to tell me?” a woman demanded imperiously, her tone so different from the realtor’s that I jumped. I turned from the table to see Beverly Coxwell sailing down the corridor.

I’d met the grande dame of the Coxwell clan once or twice before, but only briefly. My sister never got on with her, and was certain that was because she had never fit with expectations.

It made sense. Beverly’s a classic Old Money type, used to wealth and privilege, oozing perfect manners and poise. She’s gorgeous too, even though she’s been stinko most times I’ve seen her. Marcia’s issue was that Beverly never forgot or forgave that my sister wasn’t from one of the right families. I know that Marcia bitterly resented her sense that the Coxwells didn’t think her “good enough” for their prize boy.

On the other hand, I always got the sense that Beverly—unlike the old man—kept more of an open mind than most. I sensed that she was prepared to re-evaluate her assessment of anyone who gave her a good reason to do so. Guess Marcia never bothered.

Maybe she just had issues with Marcia, period, not with who Marcia’s daddy was.

“Tell you what?” James asked. His words were calmly spoken but his smile disappeared and that wariness was back in his eyes. I guessed immediately that he hadn’t told his mother either about my sister or about his job and that he wasn’t going to tell her more than he had to.

Beverly halted on the threshold of the kitchen, doing a double take when she saw me. Then she shook her head and waved me off with a flick of her fingertips. “Oh, you’re the other one.” She looked again. “You look younger than she does.”

“Thank you. You look pretty good yourself.” I had heard, of course, that she and the old man were getting divorced. The change seemed to suit her. I’d never seen her so perky.

Or clean sober.

Beverly smiled briefly at me, then glared at James. “I suppose this is Marcia’s doing?”

James was perfectly impassive. “What?”

“What do you mean,
what
? What else? That sign on the lawn! Didn’t you think I’d be interested in knowing that you were moving? And where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t looked yet.”

Because whatever James got for the house would determine how much was left and thus what he could afford. From the tightness of his expression, I figured that he wasn’t figuring on much.

How like him to solve one problem at a time.

Beverly dropped into another seat at the table and stared fixedly at her son, as though she would pry out his secrets and spread them out in front of us all. “What’s going on?” she asked in a quieter tone. “This isn’t like you.”

“Who’s to say what’s like me and what’s not like me?” James stood and collected the two beer bottles, setting them neatly by the back door.

Beverly glanced at me, maybe smelling easier prey. “What are you doing here? I’ve never seen you here.” She looked between the two of us. “What has happened?”

James stared fixedly out the window into the backyard. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about any of it. I thought his mother had a right to know about my sister’s departure. “Marcia’s gone. She ran up a lot of debt to try to persuade James to divorce her, then booked when it didn’t work.”

Beverly pivoted to stare at James’ back. “Surely you can still afford the house?” I found her priorities interesting—the status of the real estate, not my sister’s location, was what she wanted to confirm.

He shook his head. “House or tuition for the boys. That’s the choice.”

“Because you have to give her half.”

James almost laughed. “She’s already spent more than half.”

Beverly opened her mouth and closed it again. She looked around the kitchen as if it would supply her with comprehension, as if it would help her decide what to ask and what not to ask. The doorbell chimed and the realtor called from the foyer, as cheery as a sparrow.

I took the last swig of my beer. “If she keeps that up,” I muttered as footsteps sounded on the stairs and her patter began for the thousandth time, “I might have to hurt her.”

Beverly exhaled mightily. “Yes. I could use a drink.” She raised a brow at James, who didn’t move, then turned that look upon me.

I shrugged and started to get up. Another beer wouldn’t hurt me either. “Name your poison.”

“Sherry, please. And not in a small glass.”

“I thought you were quitting,” James said quietly when I was halfway across the kitchen to fetch a glass.

His mother looked a little embarrassed. “It’s not that easy.”

Oh, complications. I stopped to watch. James turned then and watched his mother as avidly as she had watched him just moments before. His skepticism was evident, though he didn’t speak as harshly to her as he might have. He just wanted the truth. “Have you tried?”

“I’m easing into it.” Beverly lifted her chin.

“How many have you had today?”

“Just two. Small ones.” She smiled a social smile at me. “But I’ve had a shock and need a restorative. Be quick about it, M-not-Marcia-girl.”

James gave me a look that stopped me cold. He then went to sit with his mother. “You promised,” he reminded her gently.

“People break promises all the time, James. I’m old, I’m surly, I’m getting divorced and I need encouragement.”

“Did you go to the AA meeting?”

“You must be joking.”

“That’s where you’re supposed to find encouragement.”

“From who? From average people? I don’t think so, James, I don’t think that’s appropriate at all.”