Authors: Christy Evans
Lead-Pipe Cinch (4 page)
He turned his back, dismissing me.
Anger flashed over me. Adrenaline shot through my system, sending my heart racing and spiking my body heat.
I would not allow him to dismiss me again.
Not here.
Not now.
“Blake, you lying, thieving low-life son of a—” I bit back the last word. I hadn’t completely forgotten where I was.
He turned back, eyebrows raised. “Do you have a problem, Gee? Your temper always was one of your least attractive features.”
I swallowed hard. I had spent many years of martial arts training learning to control that temper. Blake wasn’t worth surrendering to it again.
“No,” I said slowly. “No problem.” I turned and climbed down into the moat.
I didn’t look back.
I reached the bottom of the moat, picked up my shovel, and went back to work. Above me I heard the murmur of voices and the clank of tools as the crew returned to their jobs.
I focused on my movements, falling into the rhythm and repetition.
I let the adrenaline and emotion drain away, replaced with my hard-learned calm. It wasn’t easy. I still wanted to climb out of the moat and scream at Blake. I wanted to strike back, to wipe that self-satisfied smirk from his face.
I wouldn’t do it. Nothing would bring back the company I had built, or the life I had led.
And, really, did I even want that life back?
Despite my resolve, however, I listened for movement above. For a few minutes all I heard were the normal sounds of the crew at work. No one approached Blake, or spoke to him, and he didn’t speak to anyone.
I could picture him, standing where I had left him, looking down on the crew both figuratively and literally.
Blake was a couple inches over six feet and distance-runner slender. Combined with his posture and attitude, you always had the feeling he was looking at you from a great distance—strange that I had never noticed that before.
I waited.
Eventually, after several minutes that felt like hours, I heard his footsteps move across the gravel parking area. A car door slammed, and the engine of the luxury rental purred to life—only the best for Blake Weston.
Even when it was paid for by the company he stole from me.
chapter 5
A couple minutes later, Sean’s head appeared over the lip of the moat.
“Coast’s clear, Neverall.”
I handed him the shovel and climbed out of the trench.
“Sorry for the disruption.”
He shook his head. “No problem,” he said, unconsciously echoing my own words. He hesitated, then added, “Some men can be jerks, too.”
He walked away before I could answer.
It was as close as we had come to a friendly exchange. Sean had, as they say, issues with women. In an argument, he’d side with the man every time.
At first I had labeled him a
troglodyte
, and let it go at that. But Wade had explained it to me several months ago. Sean’s marriage had crumbled, and in a town the size of Pine Ridge there were no secrets. Everyone knew of the other woman—hers, not his.
troglodyte
, and let it go at that. But Wade had explained it to me several months ago. Sean’s marriage had crumbled, and in a town the size of Pine Ridge there were no secrets. Everyone knew of the other woman—hers, not his.
Coming from Sean, this exchange was practically admission to his boy’s club, and I was grateful for how far our relationship had come. We might never be buddies, but we could work together.
And I could trust Sean, unlike
some
people I had worked with.
some
people I had worked with.
I took a couple deep breaths. Let it go, Neverall.
By the time I climbed into the Bug and headed home, I had put the confrontation with Blake behind me. He was history, and I never wanted to see him again.
Be careful what you wish for.
I parked at the curb, leaving the driveway empty. I was expected at my mother’s for dinner in an hour, and I always took my other car when I visited my mother.
She hated my other car.
When I left San Francisco the Jimmy Choos went to a consignment shop along with the Fendi bags, and the Union Square wardrobe was donated to Dress to Succeed, a woman’s shelter program.
I shipped Daisy and Buddha north in comfort, gave away my furniture, and drove back to Portland with only what would fit in my “toy.”
I’d bought the candy-apple red vintage Corvette the day I cashed my first stock options. It was a visible symbol that I had made it. Eighteen months later I was broke and unemployed, but I stubbornly clung to the Corvette.
The Bug had been a graduation gift from my dad, and I’d left it stored in his garage—a triumph of sentiment over logic for many years—until I moved back to Pine Ridge.
Now the Bug was much more practical than the convertible, and the roles were reversed. The ’Vette lived in the garage, taken out only for special occasions, such as a sunny afternoon drive on the sweeping mountain curves of Mount Hood.
Or to annoy my mother.
I rolled into her driveway with the rumble of 427 well-tuned cubic inches, and goosed the throttle just once before shutting off the engine.
She appeared at the door just as I emerged from the driver’s seat, her carefully lipsticked mouth set in a tight line. It was her what-will-the-neighbors-think expression. I didn’t need to tell her that I really didn’t much care what the neighbors thought.
But she cared.
I was early. The garage door stood open, Mom’s Escalade parked to one side. The other side stood empty. All my growing-up years it had held a late-model Chrysler, my father’s idea of the perfect car for the town doctor. A month after he died, the last Chrysler was repossessed by the bank.
My mother, his widow, discovered one reason the beloved Doctor Neverall was so beloved. It seems when the local economy turned sour, he stopped billing his uninsured patients, which included most of the town of Pine Ridge.
She held on to the house through a combination of insurance payments and a balancing act worthy of the Flying Wallendas. My meager savings were tied up in Samurai Security, and I couldn’t help her. By the time I could, she had discovered how to take care of herself.
The Escalade was both a business necessity and a status symbol. Sandra Neverall transformed herself from doctor’s widow to one of the top producers at Whitlock Estates Realty and a good friend of the owner, Gregory Whitlock.
A very good friend.
The empty space in the garage was for him.
Forcing my thoughts from the too-smooth Gregory, I locked the ’Vette and crossed the lawn to the front door.
I was spared the awkwardness that came every time I approached the house. I had once lived there and gone in and out at will. Now I was a guest and if mom wasn’t waiting at the door, I knocked and waited for an invitation to enter.
I wasn’t spared the disapproving frown that told me she had heard the throaty roar of the ’Vette’s engine. She pulled me in for an obligatory hug as I crossed the threshold. I knew she was scowling over my shoulder at my inappropriate car when her arms went around me.
“Georgiana,” she said, releasing me and holding me at arm’s length, “I’m so glad you didn’t dress up. This is just a quiet family dinner, after all.”
It wasn’t a compliment. Mom believed a woman should always look her best, and that included fresh makeup and every hair in place. My wool slacks and cashmere sweater made the grade, barely. As for the rest of me, below par.
“Come in the kitchen,” she said. “I’m just finishing up dinner.”
I followed obediently. After thirty-plus years I had given up trying to refuse her commands. Once upon a time I thought I would outgrow her power. Now I knew better.
I fell into my usual kitchen tasks, setting the table and arranging the vegetable tray, as Mom chattered on about her latest real estate triumphs, with regular references to Gregory.
Mom prided herself on serving a home-cooked meal every night. If she was home alone she had tidy containers of leftovers, each one calculated to be exactly the right amount for one person. They stacked neatly in her freezer and she was careful to use them in date order.
I wasn’t completely helpless in the food department myself. I had the best pizza place in town on my speed dial.
Mom placed deviled eggs in a specially designed plate. “You like deviled eggs, don’t you? They’re Gregory’s favorite, you know.”
I hated egg salad, and deviled eggs were just egg salad with less chopping, but I didn’t bother to contradict her. After all, they were Gregory’s favorite.
I heard Gregory’s Mercedes pull into the garage. The diesel engine rumbled for a moment, then quieted. In a minute the back door opened. Gregory let himself in without knocking.
“Something smells good,” he said, before wrapping one long arm around Mom and kissing her lightly on the cheek.
I kept my eyes on my work, careful not to actually look at the two of them. I heard Mom say something very quietly. Though I couldn’t make out the actual words, from the corner of my eye I saw Gregory pull away from her.
The message was clear. Not in front of her daughter.
I bit my tongue. It had become clear several months ago that Gregory was sleeping with my mother. I didn’t want to know then and I still didn’t want to know now, but I did.
I tried not to think about it.
Gregory came to look over my shoulder. “Veggie tray, huh?”
I held back the sarcastic response that waited on the tip of my tongue, and nodded. “Be ready in just a minute.”
We were all saved by the sound of the doorbell. I abandoned the veggies. “I’ll get it.”
Wade was right on time, his sensible hybrid a silent reproach parked next to my ’Vette. Wade grinned at me as he came through the door. “Annoying your mother again?” He glanced toward the driveway.
I laughed. Wade knew me better than I cared to admit. I gave him a quick hug of greeting. “Mom and Gregory are in the kitchen. Dinner should be just about ready.”
I took Wade’s Gore-Tex jacket and hung it in the hall closet. “Go sit down,” I said, pointing him toward the living room. “I’ll send Gregory in to keep you company.” >
I passed Gregory in the dining room on my way back to the kitchen. He carried the deviled-egg plate. Two depressions were already empty and there was a suspicious spot of yellow at the corner of his mouth.
He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sandy makes the best deviled eggs in the state. Want one before they’re gone?”
No one, even my father, ever called my mother Sandy—Sandra, or Mrs. Neverall, or Georgie’s mom, but not Sandy. It took some getting used to.
I shook my head. “No thanks.”
“Don’t know what you’re missing.”
I heard Wade greet Gregory as I went through the kitchen door. Although I wouldn’t exactly call the two men friends, they were cordial.
Wade’s political ambitions went well beyond the Pine Ridge City Council. Gregory had supported his campaign, and Wade expected his continued support as he moved up the local political ladder.
I steered the dinner conversation into neutral channels as much as possible. We chatted our way through the pork roast and baked potatoes, speculating on the high school football team’s chances this season (good), the new television season (poor), and whether the bond measure for the community center would pass (doubtful).
We made it to dessert before it all fell apart.
I was carrying in the apple pie—which I suspected Mom had bought from Dee’s Lunch even if she would never admit it—when Gregory dropped his bombshell.
“So, Georgiana, I hear there was some excitement out at the McComb site this morning.”
I managed to get the pie on the table without breaking the dish, my heart pounding.
He looked up at me, his face a study in innocence. But there was something in his eyes, a look that made me wonder just how much he knew about Blake Weston.
I kept my voice steady as I answered. “A pretty normal day—for that project. Nothing’s easy when you’re building a moat.”
“I’ll bet,” Wade chimed in. He obviously wasn’t getting the undercurrent between Gregory and me.
“I heard it was a little more than that.” Gregory’s voice reminded me of Blake’s—a little too smooth for me.
I shrugged.
“I heard you had a visitor,” he pressed. “Wondered what all the commotion was about.”
I refused to get upset as I had earlier in the day. Gregory was pushing, but I could control myself.
I passed Gregory a piece of pie, then handed one to Mother, and finally one to Wade. Wade’s expression showed his concern, but he waited, letting me handle the situation.
The boy was learning.
“Actually, Gregory,” I said as I sat back down, “it was just the security consultant McComb hired.”
“But he was someone you know?”
“
Used
to know,” I corrected. “A long time ago.”
Used
to know,” I corrected. “A long time ago.”
I shot Wade a smile I hoped was reassuring, and focused my attention on Mom. She looked uncomfortably aware of the touch of hostility in Gregory’s questioning.
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