Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda

Title Page

Copyright

Other novels

Acknowledgements

 Author’s Note

 Dedication

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by

Nina Wright

WHISKEY AND SODA Nina Wright © 2012

All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspapers, magazines, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying and recording or by any information retrieval system, may be copied without written permission from the publisher.

This novel in its entirety is a work of fiction. Though it may contain references to places, products or people living or dead, these references are merely to add realism to the product of the author’s imagination. Any references within this work to people living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art © 2012 Sharene Martin-Brown

Published in the United States of America by

Ampichellis Ebooks, an imprint of

Martin Brown Publishers, LLC

1138 South Webster Street

Kokomo, Indiana 46902

ISBN:
978-1-937070-18-2

in Nina Wright’s Whiskey Mattimoe and Homefree series can be found at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo bookstores world-wide:

Whiskey on the Rocks

Whiskey Straight Up

Whiskey and Tonic

Whiskey and Water

Whiskey with a Twist

Homefree

Sensitive

I thank the following individuals for their unique and vital assistance during the creation of this novel: Richard Pahl, alpha reader and writers’ advocate; Nancy J. Potter, real estate guru and savvy early reader; and Charles O. Yoakum, wise advisor in many matters.

 Also, I curtsy to my personal role model, Rose Hemstreet—born and bred in New Orleans—a witty and gracious southern lady
.

I send hugs to Linda Jo Bugbee and her beloved Afghan hounds, and sweet memories of Bailey the toy poodle to his human, my pal Bernie Paul.

 Finally, here’s to every reader who asked for more Whiskey:
Cheers!

My own experience in private schools has been with teachers, staff and parents who consistently put children’s needs firsts.

For Holly Weaver Gardner, the true heart of Texas

“Whiskey, repeat after me. ‘I am a nurturing person.’”

“But I’m not. Really. I’m no good at it, and I don’t like doing it.”

Noonan Starr narrowed her eyes in a way that suggested she was losing patience with me. That’s saying a lot because Noonan was probably the most patient person on the planet.

Today I was paying her to be patient. In desperation, I had hired Noonan as my personal counselor. She wasn’t licensed, except in massage therapy, but lots of people paid her to help them sort out their lives.

“Contemplate this, Whiskey. You’ve provided care for Avery’s twins, and you still take care of Chester.”

“I don’t think I should take credit for Chester. He crawls in through my kitchen window when he gets locked out of The Castle. And he earns his keep by being Abra’s keeper.”

“Okay,” Noonan said slowly. “But you’ve nurtured Avery’s twins.”

“They’re Leo’s grandchildren which makes them my step-grandchildren. Leo would have done the same if I’d died and my lazy, estranged daughter showed up nine months pregnant. Anyway, the nanny did the nurturing; I just signed the checks.”

Noonan ran a hand through her spiky white-blonde hair. I understood her frustration. We’d been at this for over an hour and any real therapist would have stopped after fifty minutes.

“You have maternal instincts,” she insisted. “Why else would you attract children and dogs?”

“Bad karma?” I suggested.

Noonan glowered at me. “Attracting life forms is good karma.”

“But I’ve never wanted children. Or dogs. And yet they keep showing up.”

“The Universe knows what you need.”

“How about what I want? Does the Universe know what I want?”

“The Universe is about growth and opportunity.”

“Opportunity to get what I want?”

“Opportunity to grow. Opportunity to develop the talents and insights that will define you.”

“I’m thirty-four. I’m defined already. Realtor, divorcee, widow, though not necessarily in that

order—” Noonan’s complexion was taking on the color of annoyance.

“Whiskey, those words define the external you. Not the real you. The Universe is in the process of revealing the real you to you. Let’s work with that. Repeat after me, ‘I love children. I am a nurturer.’”

“But—”

“Repeat after me.”

That was the closest I’d ever heard Noonan come to yelling. It reduced me to whispering.

“But I’m not. I never have been. Sorry. I’m no good at this.”

“Of course you’re good at this. This is your life.”

“But—”

“Look at the facts, Whiskey. Chester loves you. The twins love you. And, whether you admit it today or not, you love them.”

That much was probably true although, as Noonan well knew, I wasn’t inclined to use the “L” word. So help me, I wasn’t raised that way. In my family, we tried to do the right thing, mainly, but we never discussed deep feelings.

She dabbed at her brow with a towel usually reserved for her massage clients.

“Your capacity for denial is profound, Whiskey. Everyone in Magnet Springs knows that. Even so, taking care of those you love is as natural to you as breathing.”

“Taking care of others is something I mostly forget to do. Sipping wine with Odette after work is as natural to me as breathing.”

Noonan gasped. “Don’t tell me you drink alcohol in your condition.”

“Of course not. I only drink soda now. I have no booze, no caffeine, not much salt, very little sugar, and virtually no fun at all.”

“Wonderful.” She beamed at me. “The Universe rewards us for our choices.”

“Really?” I patted my obviously rounded belly.

“Oh yes,” she said. “There is no darkness in the Universe except that which we create for ourselves. Life is light, Whiskey. Go forward and illuminate the world.”

“I thought that’s what streetlamps were for.”

With a graceful flourish, Noonan indicated the rear exit. “I have a massage client in the lobby and I don’t want her to pick up your negativity.”

On that note I rose less than gracefully from the sagging vinyl couch. Though not a member of our local animal rights advocacy, Noonan was too invested in the Universe to use leather. As usual, I tried in vain to pay her for our session.

“My payment is good karma,” she protested.

That was one way to put it. If Noonan didn’t take cash from me now, she would take it later, in the form of a rent kickback, as I was landlord for both her massage studio and her small house on the north side of town.

The studio’s rear exit was technically the delivery door, although I couldn’t imagine what Noonan would ever need delivered. Her business was almost entirely intangible except for towels, which I was pretty sure she laundered at home. As I closed the metal door, a stiff wind almost knocked me sideways. I glanced up at scuttling clouds in a gunmetal-gray sky framed by tall leafless trees, typical of December in west Michigan. The issue was the temperature, which was bizarrely mild. Downright balmy. Ten days before Christmas and it was nearly 60 degrees. It had been every day for a week.

Ordinarily, I didn’t complain about the weather, whatever it was. A proud Magnet Springs native, I took our bitter winters, wet springs, humid summers and crisp autumns in stride. As a Realtor, I did more than that. I sold each season for its specific scenic and sports-related benefits. By December, I should have been selling Winter Wonderland, as in knee-deep snow and the pleasures that accompany it—sledding, skiing, skating and snowmobiling. Plus shopping for fleecy clothes in our quaint shops and drinking too much hot buttered rum in our pubs. Who wouldn’t want to rent a cozy cabin here? Or, better yet, buy one?

And it wasn’t merely wintertime, it was Christmastime. Nobody, but nobody, does seasonal spirit better than Magnet Springs. Pine boughs, red velvet bows and clusters of mistletoe adorned every shop window. Signs and lamp posts held discreetly placed loudspeakers filling our downtown streets with classic carols. Our mostly empty downtown streets. I had to admit, didn’t feel like December without the threat of frostbite. Nothing in nature glittered and nobody even needed a sweater.

Except me. I needed a big sweater. At six months pregnant, I couldn’t find anything else in my closets that fit. Never a slave to fashion, I was now a certifiable slob. I couldn’t zip up my slacks or skirts and I couldn’t button my blouses. I depended instead on stretched-out pullovers to cover everything. As was my habit, I still wore beige. But now it was old, lame, baggy beige. I knew I looked bad not because anybody had said so exactly, but because Odette Mutombo, my best sales agent, wouldn’t let me see clients or prospects anymore. To be accurate, she wouldn’t let clients or prospects see me. My role was now limited to phone contact.

Technically, since I owned Mattimoe Realty and was the broker, Odette wasn’t my boss. Realistically, since Odette made most of our sales and brought in most of our revenue, she might as well have been. I listened to her. I respected her. I deeply feared losing her to a competing agency.

I had just yanked open the driver’s side door of my SUV when my cell phone rang. Since the howling wind made identifying the tune difficult, I clambered into my seat, closed the door and listened. My blood ran cold. I would have to take this call as it was almost Christmas.

“Hello, Mom,” I said.

“Hello, Whitney. How are you, dear?”

I winced, as I always did, at the sound of my legal name. As far back as middle school, I’d hated the name I was born with—Whitney Houston. I wasn’t black or beautiful and I sure as hell couldn’t sing. Whitney Houston wasn’t yet a celebrity when I was born. My mother read about a heroine named Whitney in a romance novel, and my fate was sealed.

Leave it to Jeb Halloran to give me my nickname. He told our sixth-grade classmates that I sounded like someone who smoked and drank every day. Coming from a family who liked their liquor, Jeb knew a whiskey voice when he heard one.

“I’m okay, Mom. How are you?”

“I’m fine, dear. How’s Jeb?”

“How would I know? I haven’t seen him.”

“Oh, Whitney,” my mother moaned. “Why must you be so stubborn?”

Jeb—my first boyfriend, my first husband, my ex-husband, and then after my second husband Leo Mattimoe died, my boyfriend again. Now Jeb was my estranged boyfriend or maybe my ex-boyfriend. In any case, he was the father of my unborn child. But I wasn’t sure I should commit to him. Jeb loved me, but he loved all women at least a little.

“I’m not stubborn,” I said.

“Are you pregnant?” Mom said.

“You know I am.”

“Does Jeb want to marry you?”

“You know he does.”

“Then why must you be so stubborn? You’re going to have a baby. Jeb is the father, he wants to be your husband, you’ve always loved him—