Love to Believe: Fireflies ~ Book 2 (7 page)

“Mom!” Vern pushed around Rebecca and dropped to the floor next to his mother. “I thought you passed out!”

“Blood makes me queasy.” Etta managed a rueful smile through white lips. “I’m not sure how bad it is. I’m afraid to look.”

Rebecca dropped to a squat next to Etta, noted the woman’s pale skin and the beads of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. “Close your eyes, Etta, and let me take a look, okay?”

Etta obeyed, and Rebecca eased the bloody paper towel away. Two of Etta’s fingertips gushed blood. They weren’t severed, but the blood camouflaged the wounds too much for Rebecca to ascertain the depth of the gashes. She swallowed back her queasiness, wrapped the bloody paper towel around Etta’s fingers again, elevated the woman’s arm, and applied gentle pressure in an effort to staunch the flow of blood. “Vern, get a couple of clean hand towels, and then an ice pack. And hurry up.”

“We don’t have an ice pack,” Etta said.

“A bag of frozen veggies then. Go, Vern,” Rebecca urged. “Be speedy.” She regarded Etta with a serious gaze. “I’m taking you to the ER, and no arguments. It looks like you just caught the tips of your fingers--I didn’t see any bone--but it’s hard to tell because of the blood. Vern and I will help you to the car and then he’ll apply pressure like I’m doing right now, okay? Just keep your arm elevated. It will help slow the bleeding.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Rebecca. God, I can’t even feel my fingers. Everything’s numb.”

“You really did a number on yourself. You’ll get stitches for sure, and probably some really good drugs.” Rebecca flashed Etta a sympathetic grin. “And Vern will be responsible for cooking for a while, so I see a lot of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in your future.”

Etta’s lips curved in a weak smile. “He’s not much of a chef, but he knows how to dial Caravicci’s delivery.”

Vern reappeared with the towels and, while Rebecca used them to wrap up Etta’s fingers and hand, he rummaged through the freezer until he came up with a bag of frozen mixed vegetables to use in place of an ice pack.

“That’ll do,” Rebecca told him. “Now go change into some long pants and shoes, because the hospital will be cold, and put your jacket on, grab your mom’s jacket and purse, and let’s hit the road.”

Because of the traumatic nature of Etta’s injury, the triage staff hustled her without preamble to one of the examining rooms while Rebecca stayed in the waiting room and helped Vern fill out paperwork. She tried several times to phone Nate--no way around being late now--and when her call went to his voice mail for a fourth time she left a detailed voice message explaining her delay and promised to leave for the restaurant as soon as Vern’s grandmother arrived at the hospital.

“Thanks for helping. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t home.” Vern pushed his glasses up his nose. “How’d you know what to do?”

“I’ve taken a lot of first aid workshops. Knowing what to do for something like this comes in handy at the construction sites.”

“Do your workers get hurt a lot?”

“Not a lot, no, because we’re super strict about adhering to safety rules and regulations, but accidents still happen now and then.” She laid her arm around Vern’s skinny shoulders and drew him into a quick hug. “Your mom’s going to be fine. I promise.”

“Do you think she’ll get stitches?”

“Probably. It was tough to see how deep the wounds were because of the blood.”

Vern frowned. “There was a ton of blood. It was gross. I got a bunch on me. You’ve got blood all over you, too.”

Rebecca looked down and grimaced at the sticky splotches of red smeared on her sweater and jeans. So much for her plan to go straight to the restaurant after Vern’s grandmother arrived.

She dialed Nate’s number again to let him know she had to go home to change her clothes, but his voice mail picked up. She left another quick message and clicked off the call.

***

The cab pulled up in front of Chez Eloise, the swanky restaurant Nate had chosen for their date, and Rebecca opened the door to get out before the vehicle even came to a stop. She handed bills to the cabbie, a handsome Latino with bedroom eyes and a quick wit, who had spent the thirty-minute car ride flirting and making her laugh. She hurried into the restaurant, heart pounding. She wondered if Nate would still be here, and wouldn’t blame him if he wasn’t.

After leaving Vern at the hospital in the capable hands of his grandmother, a steel magnolia by the name of Lorna-Sue who possessed a strong resemblance to Dolly Parton circa 1980s, Rebecca returned home and stuffed ninety minutes of primping into a thirty-minute time frame. With no time to fuss with her hair, she twirled it into something resembling a messy chignon, slid into a dress and heels, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door. Two miles down the road she heard the familiar
thwump-thwump-thwump
of a flat tire, screamed every curse word she knew and made up a few, eased onto the shoulder of the road, left Nate yet another message--“Hey, you’re not going to believe this!”--and called a cab.

While waiting for the taxi to arrive she peered through the car windows into the darkness where at any minute a homicidal maniac might appear--she really had to stop watching those crime show marathons--checked every few minutes to be sure the car doors were locked, and cursed the Fates and the gods of all things automotive. Hadn’t she replaced last night’s flat tire just this morning?

How could this happen to the same person twice in two days?

Well, at least she’d made it to the restaurant. Whether Nate waited for her was another matter altogether.

He’s still here. Of course he’s here. And ten minutes from now we’ll be sipping wine and laughing about all this.

“Hello. How many in your party this evening?” asked the hostess, a sloe-eyed blonde whose nametag read
Roxanne
.

“I’m actually meeting someone,” Rebecca said. “I don’t know if he got a table or if he’s waiting in the bar. He may have asked you to watch for me.”

Roxanne tapped the computer on the maître d’ lectern once, twice, and scanned the screen. “Nate Humphrey?”

Rebecca nodded “Yes, that’s right.”

“Right this way.”

Rebecca followed Roxanne’s swaying hips to a booth near the back of the restaurant. She saw Nate and smiled, offered a little wave, relieved when he stood as she drew near.

“I’m so glad you’re still here.” She did her best to sound contrite. “I worried you’d leave before I got here.” She kissed his cheek and her throat tightened when he made no move to kiss her back. He offered no comment, just helped her remove her coat. His eyes flicked over her from head to toe before he sat down.

Uh-oh
. She knew she was rocking the little black dress--her push-up bra was doing its job, hard at work like the Little Engine That Could--and she had taken as much time as she dared with her makeup. She knew her hair had a mind of its own, but surely it didn’t look that bad. She was pretty certain a “Wow!” was in order due to the form-fitting dress alone if nothing else, but Nate regarded her with a stony stare as she slid into the booth opposite him.

“Okay, you’re mad. I don’t blame you. But it really isn’t my fault this time.” Rebecca wrapped her hands around the water goblet and ran her thumbs through the condensate beaded on the glass. “Did you get my messages?”

“I always do,” Nate said.

“So you know this was beyond my control, right?”

Nate regarded her without blinking, his gaze Arctic. He picked up his whiskey glass and downed the remaining amber liquid. With his elbow resting on the table, he held the empty glass in front of him and stared into it as if the alphabet might climb out and form his words for him. After a few moments, he set it upside down and watched drops of residual liquid slide down the sides of the glass to form a spotty ring on the white linen. “I’ve had about ten of these.” His words slurred together. “Not nearly enough, though.”

Rebecca reached her hand across the table and laid it over his. “I’m so sorry, Nate. But there really wasn’t anything I could do about being late. You got my messages, so you know what happened. I’m here now. Let’s just enjoy our date.”

He yanked his hand from under hers with force. The back of his hand slammed against his water goblet. The glass flew off the table and shattered on the hardwood floor.

“Enjoy our date? You think that will fix this?” Nate slammed his hands down on the table, knocking over an empty wineglass and upsetting Rebecca’s water goblet. She steadied the glass to prevent another spill and mumbled an apology to the waiter who hurried over to clean up the broken glass.

“Causing a scene won’t fix it either,” Rebecca told him through clenched teeth, doing her best to keep her voice calm while her cheeks burned. “Settle down, Nate, and we’ll talk. Or we can leave and deal with it elsewhere. Whatever you want.”

“I was going to fucking propose to you tonight!” His declaration reverberated through the restaurant, brought all other conversation to an immediate halt, and shocked Rebecca into stunned silence. “Instead, I’ve been sitting here for three hours--
three fucking hours!
--waiting for you to show, and all you have is some bullshit story about a trip to the ER and your car breaking down. You expect me to believe that
again
?”

Rebecca felt dozens of eyes on her and knew the heat rippling along her chest, throat, and face translated to bright red splotches mottling her skin. Not her best look.

Nate pushed himself from the booth, stumbled, and righted himself. He pointed a finger at Rebecca who continued to stare straight ahead at the spot where he had been sitting. “You don’t care about anything but the stupid business, and you know what? You’re wasting your time. Your father doesn’t even want you involved. He said so last night. Hey!” He leaned down and his whiskey breath blew hot across her face. “Are you listening? He told everybody. He doesn’t think you can cut it. And I’m tired of waiting around for you to figure that out, tired of always being last on your list. You’re just not fucking worth it.”

Rebecca sat still as the Rock of Gibraltar and felt every bit as battered. She didn’t watch Nate leave, didn’t look around at the faces of the curious onlookers, and didn’t give in to the tears of humiliation that welled behind her eyes. Instead, she drew a shaky breath and met the sympathetic gaze of the waiter. “I’d like a Grey Goose martini, please. Double and dirty, with extra olives.” Nervous laughter brewed in her chest and she managed a halfhearted smile. “Put a rush on it...” She dropped her eyes to his name tag. “...Jonathan.”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. You got it.”

Ten long minutes later, during which Rebecca fiddled with her phone to avoid meeting the eyes of anyone around her, Jonathan returned to her table with a plate of sautéed shrimp, a mini-loaf of multigrain bread still warm from the oven, and two martinis prepared as instructed. Rebecca glanced up, surprised. “I didn’t order food. And when I said double I didn’t mean two, I meant--”

“Compliments of Mr. Kinkaid.” He nodded to a table across the restaurant.

Cheeks burning, Rebecca peeked around the waiter and saw Sean in deep conversation with a woman who Rebecca guessed to be about twenty years his senior. The woman qualified as
older
, the way Sharon Stone might. In a word--gorgeous, sophisticated. Okay, that was two words. Sexy. Damn it, that was three words, and if she added classy, that made it four.

“He said he’ll join you in a little while.”

“Okay.” Rebecca drained the first glass. Jonathan’s brows arched high over eyes the color of chestnuts. “Don’t judge me.” She slid an olive into her mouth. “It’s been a really long day.”

“Right. Well, can I get you anything else?”

“Like a stretcher?” she asked and made him laugh.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a dinner menu.”

“No, thanks. This will do for now.”

“Okay. Well, if you think of anything, just let me know. Mr. Kinkaid is taking care of your check this evening, and he asked me to bring you anything you’d like.”

“That’s generous of him, but not necessary.” Rebecca cursed the bristling heat crawling up her neck and into her face. “I can handle my own check.”

“Uh, well...” Jonathan glanced in Sean’s direction. “Why don’t you hash it out with Mr. Kinkaid? It looks like he’ll be heading your way in a few.”

Under her lashes, she watched Sean play the gentleman, helping his companion from her chair and with her coat, and escorting her through the restaurant toward the lobby. The woman’s hair gleamed as rich a sable as the coat she wore, and if her purse and shoes weren’t Jimmy Choos, Rebecca would eat her martini glass. Both items together cost more than Rebecca made in a month. No wonder the woman looked so good. With that kind of money to burn, who wouldn’t? And Sean looked damn near edible in a tailored suit of charcoal gray--Tom Ford, she’d bet a week’s salary--crisp white shirt and conservative silk tie the deep burgundy of crushed pomegranate.

She couldn’t keep watching Sean and his woman friend without turning around in the booth, so she sipped her second martini, nibbled the shrimp, and watched the minutes tick by on her cell phone.

Rebecca smelled him before she saw him, but only because he appeared from behind the booth and leaned down to brush a chaste kiss against her cheek before sliding into the seat opposite her. She breathed him in, something spicy and light, because he was classy enough not to overdo it. Just a hint, enough to shoot a woman’s pulse up and make her remember him after he walked away.

Sean stabbed one of her martini olives with the olive pick and popped it into his mouth.

“I’m surprised you like these things.” He nodded toward the glass. “I pegged you for a margarita girl.”

“Margaritas are my go-to celebration drink, but after a day like today, only a martini would do. And not one of those fruity posers, either.” So saying, she picked up the glass and took a sip. “Where’d your date go?”

“Not a date, a business dinner. She’s a client.”

Rebecca waited for more information, but Sean offered none, just kept his eyes steady on hers. “Thanks for the drinks and the food. I’m not too proud to appreciate the gesture, even though it was a pity ploy.” She chomped on another olive. “I guess you heard the whole thing.”