Her Fifth Husband? (6 page)

In exchange, she had screwed up any chance of catching Jamison and his side dish in a compromising situation. He'd tried to call his client, missed her and left a message. He would have liked to have good news—or at least
some
news to report—but as long as that red car was parked outside the cottage, the game was on hold.

 

Marty and Faylene converged on the lavender house early the next morning. Sasha hobbled to the door to
meet them after seeing Marty's white minivan and Faylene's pink Caddie pull up in front of her house.

The night before, she had finally told them about her temporary indisposition, assuring both women that she was on her way to bed and the last thing she wanted was to have to get up and answer the door. That had staved off the visitation until this morning.

“You look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed considering you're just back from your honeymoon,” Sasha said, greeting Marty, then laughing, she held up a hand. “No details, please! Just tell me this much—was this one an improvement over the last two?”

Faylene snorted as she strode directly to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. “Tell you one thing, she's not stopped humming since she got home. 'Nuff to drive a person batty.” But her faded blue eyes, set in a bed of wrinkles and frosted turquoise eye shadow, twinkled with amusement.

Five minutes later all three women were seated in the living room with coffee and doughnuts, ready to sift through the local gossip for any snippets that might be useful in their matchmaking games.

Sasha said slyly, “You're obviously getting plenty of sleep.” Marty was infamous for her early-morning grumpiness. It was still not quite nine o'clock.

“Quality sleep,” the new bride said smugly. “Makes a big difference. And before you take out your crowbar and start prying, that's all I'm saying. So—what's this about a new man for Lily?”

Sasha stirred a second spoonful of sugar into her cup. “He's only perfect, that's all. Like I told you over the phone, he's at least an eleven.”

“And that's his shoe size, right?” Marty asked, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

“Uh-uh. His shoes are at least size twelve.”

Faylene cackled and Sasha stretched out on the sofa and kicked a pillow under her ankle with her good foot. “Look, I'm just guessing, okay? Lily's tall, right? Jake's taller. He's big, but not too big—attractive without being blatant about it.”

“What's wrong with blatant?” asked Faylene, whose Bob Ed was gray-bearded and beer-bellied, and according to the housekeeper, the sweetest man you'd ever hope to meet.

“Well, at least he's not vain. Remember that lawyer we introduced Lily to at the Christmas party? The one who couldn't pass his reflection in any shiny surface without preening?”

“Ask me, I think he used more wax on his hair than he did on his fancy car.” Faylene snorted. “And how 'bout the guy that gave her that cheap box of candy that still had the sale sticker on it?”

“Hey, we tried. A good man is hard to find,” Sasha said.

“Ain't the way I heard it,” Faylene remarked dryly.

“Okay, so the thing is, how are we going to get them together? The box suppers won't start again for another few weeks, and I already asked him about his taxes.”

“And?”

“And I botched it. He thought I was being nosy.”

“You were, but you're usually slick enough to get away with it,” Marty said with a laugh. “You're slipping, honey.”

“You try being crafty when your ankle looks like a stuffed sausage and you've got three broken nails on one hand.”

“Why don't you go natural? Nobody wears long red nails now. It's not even considered retro. Besides, think of all you'd save in maintenance alone.” Marty admired her own French manicure.

“Terrific. Next you'll be wanting me to start wearing gingham.”

“I can see it now. A ruffled gingham apron worn over a matching garter belt and bikini top.” Marty giggled.

Marty never giggled. Now she not only giggled, she glowed.

Sasha studied her frosted cherry nails—the ones she had left. “Do acrylic nails come in short natural? I told you about my shoe, didn't I? The pink ankle-straps?”

Marty shook her head. “I warned you about those things. This time it was only a sprain, but next time you might break your neck. Shoes like that weren't even meant for walking, much less climbing stairs. And we're talking sun-warped, outdoor stairs with cracks between the boards, right?”

Faylene offered her own advice. “Be like me. I know how to dress sensible for work.”

For as long as anyone could remember, the housekeeper's summer uniform had been white sneakers, white shorts and suntan support hose worn, more often than not, with a pink shirt.

“We all have to make the most of our natural attributes. Mine just happen to be small feet, nice ankles and good hair,” Sasha said.

“Natural?” Marty jeered. “Yeah, like Mount Rushmore is natural.”

“Besides,” Sasha continued, ignoring the interruption, “I don't climb all that many stairs. I just had a few
more of those three-story cottages this season on account of all the storm damage. And who'd trust a shabby-looking interior designer?”

“We're talking sensible, not shabby. White jeans and a halter, flip-flops and maybe a Hermes do-rag and you've got instant chic.”

“Right, and I'd look like every other woman on the beach. Well…maybe not the Hermes scarf.” Sasha sighed.

For as long as she could remember she'd loved playing dress-up, her imagination turning her mother's faded cotton dresses into fancy ballgowns. Having been accused more than once of never having met an artifice she didn't like, she'd never bothered to deny it. After dozens of makeovers she had found a style she really liked and stuck to it ever since. And while she might draw the line at silicon and botox, if dewlaps or wattles or cellulite ever seriously threatened, she would definitely go for liposuction—maybe even plastic surgery.

Faylene said, “Long's I'm here, I'll just put in a load of laundry. Be back later this evening to put it in the dryer, so don't you go messin' around in my utility room, y'hear?”

“When did I ever?” Sasha replied.

Marty said, “You know, I've been thinking…that fund-raising yard sale that's coming up? You reckon we could get them together there? There'll be food stands and tables, almost like the box suppers.”

“Jake lives in Manteo. He'd hardly come all this way for a local fund-raiser.”

“Manteo's not all that far. Besides, it's for an underprivileged kids' summer camp. Betcha he'll go for it if he's as good a guy as you say he is.”

“Did I say that?”

In the background, the washing machine began churning.

“You sort of implied,” Marty said with a lift of one eyebrow.

“I don't know how you do that.” Sasha shook her head. “That one-eyebrow thing.”

“It's easy. You could do it, too, if yours were real instead of penciled on.”

“Bless her heart,” Faylene said, drying her hands on the seat of her shorts as she rejoined them, “It comes from all that waxing she gets done. Last time they slipped up and did her eyebrows along with her legs and I don't know what-all. You get you one o' them Brazilian jobs?”

Sasha tossed a teal-and-orange linen pillow at her. All three women began to giggle, and then the phone rang. Faylene was closest. “Want me to get that?”

“Would you please?”

“Lasiter residence, Faylene speaking.”

“Who is it?” Sasha whispered. No matter how many quit-bothering-me lists she signed up for, she still got calls from tour groups, resort salesmen and political surveys.

Faylene held the phone against her pink sequined chest. “Man says his name's Smith. I think it's
him
,” she whispered loudly. “He says he's coming this afternoon to take you to get your car.” When she hung up, her smirk said it all. “Didn't you say that guy's name was Smith? The one you got picked out for Lily? He sure sounded like a twelve to me. I better go add the softener, I forgot to fill the cup.”

“Way to go, gal!” Marty jabbed a fist in the air. “While you've got him here you can tell him about the kids' day-camp fund-raiser and get him on the hook.” She gave her a knowing smirk. “Some folks believe in catch-and-release. Me, I never did.”

 

Jake brushed a hand over his newly trimmed hair as he left the barbershop. His client, when he'd finally been able to reach her, had called off the dogs. All a big misunderstanding, according to Ms. J.

Yeah. Sure it was.

All the same, with the holiday weekend bearing down on them, the car wasn't safe where it was.

Which was how Jake came to be driving to Muddy Landing for the second day in a row, neglecting two new commissions, not to mention keeping up with the paint crew that was finishing up work on his side of the duplex. He put it down to a natural talent for procrastination, along with worrying about his son, who was shipping out any day now, and worrying about the Jamison case. Something didn't feel right about it, but at this point it was out of his hands.

He made a mental note to have Miss Martha return the retainer, and then his thoughts veered back along a familiar path.

The phrase, “Out of the frying pan, into the fire,” came to mind. He switched on a Molasses Creek CD and tried to focus on the lament of a crabber's woman.

M
arty had brought a cold pasta dish earlier and put it in the refrigerator. A size six, Marty had never met a carb she didn't adore. Faylene had brought a can of corned beef hash and a bunch of loose-leaf lettuce from Bob Ed's garden. Her culinary skills were notorious.

So there was no real reason for Sasha to accept Jake's offer of lunch at a seafood restaurant on the way to Kitty Hawk. “I had breakfast early,” he said. “Are you sure your ankle's good to go?”

Ignoring the question, she said, “So did I. I'm an early riser.”

The truth was, her ankle still bothered her. As for her sleep patterns, those had been crazy for the past three days. Yesterday she had dozed on the sofa during the day, then lain awake half the night. When she finally fell asleep she dreamed.

Oh, how she dreamed…!

Jake had looked her over when she'd first let him in, his gaze moving slowly down her body to settle on her feet. She could have swatted him. For a change, she was wearing one of her few pairs of sensible shoes. Her three-inch cork platforms with flowered straps were the only shoes she could get on over her bandage.

From the way he'd looked at her, she might as well have been wearing stilts.

It had to be her imagination. Too much time on her hands.

After carefully helping her into his SUV, his hands lingered on her arm. He said, “Listen, if you're not up to this, just say so. Like I said, I can get Hack to drive your car to Muddy Landing. It's practically on his way home since he lives in Moyock. The logistics might take some arranging, but we can work it out.”

Sasha assured him she was feeling loads better. Actually, she was, until she'd overdone it. Just climbing up and down the stairs was exhausting enough without plowing through the spare room that doubled as a warehouse, looking for the set of framed patent medicine advertisements from a 1920s magazine she'd bought at a yard sale last year. Matted and reframed, they'd be perfect for the suite of doctors' offices she was doing.

They talked shop on the way to Kitty Hawk. Her shop, not his. As it turned out, Jake was a private investigator as well as a security expert. Evidently, private investigators discussed their work only on a need-to-know basis.

It wasn't his work she needed to know about as much as it was the man himself. For all her experience with the opposite sex, she had never met any man who af
fected her the way this one did. He was sweet, but not smarmy sweet. Sexy without even trying. She could hardly look at him without wondering what he would be like as a lover.

The curse of an inquiring mind!

By the time they were shown to a table in the beachfront restaurant, Sasha was practically salivating, which wasn't like her at all. It must be a lingering side effect of the painkillers she'd taken the first day and then dumped.

Once seated, she announced to the waitress, “I'll start with dessert. Then, if I'm still hungry, I might have something healthy. Lemon chess pie, please.”

Jake looked at her across the table, scattering her feeble defenses with a lazy grin. “Why am I not surprised?”

Judging from the looks the waitress was giving him, Sasha wasn't the only one who'd like a large serving of Jake.

Without even glancing at the menu he ordered the fried oyster basket. She opened her mouth to ask if it was true what they said about oysters, then closed it before she could make a fool of herself. Any more of a fool, that was.

“You were serious,” he said after the waitress left. “About having dessert first.”

She fluttered a battery of false lashes. “I'm always serious.”

He stared at her. She fluttered again. And then they both started laughing. “Don't make me wrinkle my eyes,” she protested, “these things aren't foolproof.”

“You mean those centipedes circling your eyes aren't real?”

“Absolutely, they're real. They're the best money can buy, but the glue's not guaranteed against squinting or crying.”

Jake shook his head admiringly and Sasha preened. Flirtation was a game she always won, even though the prize was rarely worth the effort.

“Coffee with the pie, Miss?” Plopping the plate down in front of her, the waitress addressed Sasha while she looked ready to melt all over Jake. Sasha found it irritating in the extreme. With all the bronzed, sun-bleached surfers running around with their trunks at half-mast, what was so hot about a fully dressed guy with laugh lines, squint lines, and a sparkling of gray?

Sasha sighed. Jake nodded. “Bring her a decaf.”

She waited until the girl left and then said, “I never drink decaf.”

“You need to decompress. About your car—it's a little soon, so if you're not up to driving yet, we could—”

“I'm perfectly capable of driving.” She was a big girl now; she could stand a little pain.

“Do you have an alarm?”

“A car alarm? I had one, but it got to be such an annoyance I had it disabled.”

“An annoyance how?”

“It went off every time I forgot to click the little whoosie.”

Jake sighed. And then he grinned. “Lady, you need a keeper.”

“Thanks, but I already tried that. Four times, in fact.”

He choked on a swallow of ice water. “Four times you did
what?
”

“Four times I thought I'd found a keeper, only I ended up having to throw him back.”

He took a few seconds to process her claim. “You mean you had four, uh—relationships? That's not too surprising, I guess. Be more surprising if you hadn't.” All the same, he looked as if he'd bitten into a particularly sour pickle.

“Not relationships. Husbands.”

He shook his head slowly, but said nothing. The waitress brought Jake's oysters and looked questioningly at Sasha, who was only half finished with her pie. “I should have ordered it à la mode. Anything this sweet needs to be diluted with ice cream.” When the girl continued to hover uncertainly, she said, “Oh, I guess you can bring me a salad. Any kind—just something disgustingly healthy.”

She should have known Jake wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily. Once the waitress left, he leaned forward, forcing Sasha to look at him. “Now repeat what you just said. You've had four
husbands?
”

She did the eyelash thing again, trying for a look of innocence, but he was on to her now. “You make me sound like Lizzie Borden, or that Borgia woman. I didn't kill anybody, I just divorced them.” She tilted her head to one side. “Why are you looking at me like that? I made four mistakes, okay? What's wrong, haven't you ever made a mistake?”

“More than my share, I just never married 'em.”

“Then you're not married?”

“I was once, but it was no mistake. Rosemary was the best thing that ever happened to me. If it weren't for her, I wouldn't have my son.”

She looked at him wistfully. “You have a son. You're incredibly lucky, but I guess you know that. I've always wanted one.”

Jake accepted the remark with a nod. Then he started to ask her why she'd never had kids with any of her four husbands, but decided it was none of his business. Besides, it was hardly the sort of question a man asked of a woman he'd known casually for only a few days. A woman he had no intention of getting to know any better.

“Tell me about him—your son.” She touched her lips with the napkin and crumpled it beside her plate.

Why not? Jake thought. It was safer than talking about what really interested him, such as why none of the men she'd married had been able to hang on to her. “I could start by saying he's everything any man could want in a son.” His gaze moved past her shoulder to a wide, salt-filmed window, where a glimpse of the ocean could be seen between the dunes. “I just wish he weren't heading overseas.”

Knowing she was staring at him, he tried to erase any hint of what he was thinking, but it was probably already too late.

“I told you about my brother,” she reminded him quietly.

Jake nodded. For some crazy reason he found himself wanting to confide in her. To share not only his pride, but his very real worries. He'd never been the kind of guy who opened up to every stranger who came along. Besides, they weren't even friends. His mother would probably have labeled her fast, any woman who'd been married and divorced four times.

His grandmother would have called her a hussy, a painted lady—maybe even a scarlet woman.

The trouble was, Jake had a feeling that under all that paint and polish there lurked a very different kind of woman. A woman with weaknesses and vulnerabilities she tried a little too hard to conceal. One his mother and even his grandmother would probably like if they ever got to know her.

“You want more coffee?” he asked, reaching for any safe topic.

“Did I mention that I have twin sisters, too? Annette and Jeanette. They're almost ten years younger than I am and both happily married, with children.” She waited a beat and added, “One husband apiece, in case you were wondering. We don't all run to multiple unions. Mama remarried after Daddy died, but then, she was barely fifty at the time. Her new husband raises llamas out in Colorado. He's gentle as a lamb.”

All of which was far more than he needed to know, Jake mused, but judging from the way it had come out, like a faucet turned on full-blast, she'd needed to tell him. Odd comment, though—that part about her stepfather being gentle as a lamb.

“The only trouble is, they all live so far away,” she said with a sigh. “Anne lives in Birmingham, Jeanie in Tampa. I haven't seen either of them in more than a year.” She toyed with her fork, making tiny squares in the sticky stuff on her pie plate. “And you know what's so funny? Now that I'm finally in a position to help, they don't need me anymore.” She rolled her eyes, a look of disgust on her face. “That sounded so awful. Can I please take back my whine?”

Jake started to laugh, but didn't. He started to say something—God knows what—when his cell phone vi
brated at his waist. One glance at the number and he swallowed hard. Timmy was probably calling to say goodbye. His unit had been day-to-day ever since their orders came down.

“Excuse me, will you?” he murmured.

Meaning to go the ladies' room and allow him some privacy, Sasha started to stand, grabbed the chair back when her ankle protested, and plopped down again. Instead, she reached for her half-eaten pie, pretending a fascination with the too-sweet confection while she tried not to listen.

A long pause and then, “Jesus, son, this is—”

Son? This was Timmy, then, not a business call. And Jake was frowning. Sasha's mind immediately manufactured a dozen possibilities, all of them tragic. At least the boy was able to call—that was a good sign. But if Jake's brows lowered any more, he wouldn't be able to see.

Her pie was suddenly tasteless, the crust leathery. She took a sip of her tasteless coffee only to find it was barely warm. Murmuring an excuse, she started to rise again just as he said, “What if I talk to your commanding officer?”

Oh, God, this was serious! Could the boy have been arrested? Had he deserted? Going AWOL—that was a court-martial offense, wasn't it?

“All right, give me her name and tell me how to get in touch with her. I'll call you back as soon as I know something positive. Within the hour if I'm lucky—I'm on the beach, not too far away.”

His commanding officer was a woman. Did that help or hurt? Sasha was undecided whether to disappear, ignore the call or ask if there was anything she could do
to help. She knew two county commissioners personally, but they probably didn't have a whole lot of clout with the military.

“Don't worry, son, I'll handle it. You just keep your head down and your mind on what you're supposed to be doing. Leave everything else to me.”

He shut off the cell phone, laid it on the table and stared blindly at a salt shaker for a full minute—a minute during which Sasha ran through every possible way in which a teenage boy, even if he was a soldier, could get in trouble. “Can I help?” she finally asked.

“I should have given him a refresher course, like maybe about nine months ago.” Rising, he pulled out his wallet and tossed several bills on the table.

Sasha wasn't about to mention her car, which happened to be in the opposite direction, nor was she about to ask any questions. From the look on his face, he had enough on his mind without adding her tiny problems.

Not until they turned off the bypass and headed toward one of the older soundside villages did Jake break the silence. Dropping back to the slower speed limit, he drove past several small houses, a few of which looked as if they hadn't been repaired since Hurricane Isabel. “She says she needs the money because she hasn't been able to work for the past few months.”

She? Who was
she?
And what did she have to do with Jake's son? More to the point, what did she have to do with Jake?

Questions swarmed like a school of minnows, but as much as she wanted to help, she hesitated to pry into his personal business.

Jake slowed down to check a street marker. “Here's
what I don't get,” he said as if they were in the middle of a conversation. “She didn't ask him for money. Didn't ask for a damn thing, she just said she wanted to let him know what happened and what she planned to do about it.” He turned right and cruised down a narrow blacktop street at about five miles an hour.

Looking as pale as a perennially suntanned man could possibly look, he swore softly under his breath. “She waited five and a half weeks to call him—five and a half damned weeks! Tim said he told her that as long as she'd waited that long, to hold off until he talked to me. I just hope to God she did—that she's still there.”

He obviously didn't expect a response. In fact, Sasha wasn't certain he realized she was even here. If he was working things out in his own mind, the last thing he needed was questions—although sometimes a sounding board could help.