Season of Sisters (23 page)

Justin glanced at her. "I care, too."

Sensing that this was his way of leading into the subject of the previous night, Holly waited rather than responding.

"I've never been a quitter. Whenever I've encountered roadblocks in my path, I've figured a way to go around them. But I've never encountered a roadblock quite like you before."

"How flattering," she said dryly.

"It's meant to be. I'm foundering here, Holly. I've never wanted anyone or anything as much as I want you."

"You have a strange way of showing it," she muttered, recalling the way Jenna had slipped her arm through Justin's the night before.

Justin shot her a quick scowl, then checked his rearview mirror, changed lanes, and took the next exit off the freeway. He pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot, threw the car into park, and shut off the engine. "I'm angry that you'd quit on us."

"That's not fair."

"Fair? You have the nerve to talk to me about fair? Of all the—" He bit off his words and yanked open the car door. "Excuse me a minute."

He stalked around the car twice before climbing back inside. "I swore I wouldn't get mad. We never get anything settled because I get angry and end up storming off. I'm not going to do that today. We're going to talk quietly and rationally and sensibly, like adults."

Holly stifled the urge to stick out her tongue.

"You threw me with your news about graduate school. Not that you'd want to go to graduate school, but that you'd leave Fort Worth to do it. That you'd leave me. Up until then, I figured we were simply going through a rough spot. I didn't... I don't want to accept that you could throw what we have away."

Me throw it away? Hah.
She wasn't the one entertaining overnight-bag-bearing guests. With that thought uppermost in her mind, Holly couldn't stop her tongue. "So you threw it away instead? Is that what the date with Jenna was about?"

He had the grace to look abashed. "Maybe. I was hurt and reacting rather than acting. We both planned to attend the retirement party for a mutual friend, and when she asked me to escort her, I saw no reason to tell her no."

Of course he didn't. When did a man ever say no to sex?

"You hurt me, Holly. After you turned me down and then wouldn't answer the phone, I was hurt and angry and frustrated and generally pissed off at the world. So when you came by my house and saw Jenna, I let you think it was something other than what it was. I wasn't going to sleep with her, Holly. Even before you showed up."

Yeah, right. Women always carry an overnight bag on their dates just in case they get lucky. Kinda like a mm with a condom in his wallet.

"It offends me that you think I would."

He'd crossed the believability line with that one. She shot him a skeptical look.

"I'm not eighteen anymore," he said, offense ringing in his tone. "I don't want to nail every female that comes near."

Hah.
She had him there. He'd tried to get her into bed from the first time they met. Holly folded her arms and turned her head away, staring out the window toward the outdoor lawn furniture on display in front of the store. Justin muttered a curse, got out of the car, and marched around it twice more.

"I offered her a bed—the guest bed—because she had an early flight out of D/FW this morning. Her new apartment is in Plano. It would have been silly for her to drive from my house, past the airport all the way to Plano, then back again."

Holly lifted her chin. "It's none of my business. We've broken up. You have the right to see anyone you want to see."

Justin grabbed the steering wheel in both hands, then banged his head on it as a truck pulled up beside them. A barrel-chested, beer-bellied man got out, shot a curious look their way, then barked out a command. "Stay, George. Keep an eye on things."

George proved to be an old, overweight boxer dog who hung his head out the driver's-side window and fastened his gaze on Holly, long strings of slobber dribbling from his mouth.

"Dammit, Holly. I love you."

A Wal-Mart parking lot. A drooling dog. The romance of the moment was beyond compare.

"I'm not quitting on this relationship. I won't quit."

In the truck, George started barking, loudly. He added a couple of howls for good measure. Holly looked Justin straight in the eyes. "You don't have a choice. I'm moving away."

"Then I'll find a way to work around that. The only way you'll get me to quit on us, Holly, is if you give me a reason to believe I can't fix whatever's wrong. Of course, for you to do that, you'll need to tell me what's wrong."

Jeeze Louise, the man is stubborn.
"Justin, we've gone over and over this."

"No, we haven't. You've never given me a straight answer."

This time, Holly got out and marched around the car, careful not to step too close to the pickup and barking, slobbering George.

On the first circuit, she stared down at her feet as she walked. On the second, she lifted her gaze and it was then, as she made the turn around the back of the car, that she spied the figure crumpled on the asphalt a dozen paces toward the store. George's owner. "Justin," she cried, rushing toward the fallen man. "Come quick. He's hurt."

He lay on his left side. His right hand clutched his chest. Holly knelt beside him. A heart attack, she guessed. She wondered if he carried nitroglycerine tablets. "Sir? Do you have medication I can give you? Nitroglycerine?"

"No," he panted. "George."

"We'll take care of him," Holly promised as Justin ran toward them, speaking into his cell phone.

"Paramedics are on the way."

As Justin arrived, the man slipped into unconsciousness. Justin immediately grabbed a box from the bed of a nearby truck and used it to elevate the patient's legs. With Holly's assistance, Justin started CPR.

The ambulance arrived quickly and within minutes departed with the patient. The small crowd that had congregated around them while they performed CPR dispersed, leaving Justin and Holly alone with the Gray Swan, a red Ford pickup, and George.

Holly leaned against the passenger door of her father's car, gazing at the anxious dog in dismay. Upon learning the patient's name and address from the driver's license in his wallet, Holly had tracked down his phone number and tried to reach his family. But no one answered and the message on the machine—"Hey, this is Ray. Leave a message."—didn't offer much hope that someone would be waiting at the suburban address to care for George.

Instinctively, she turned to Justin. "What are we going to do?"

"The city animal shelter will take him. You can call back and leave the message on the machine. I'm sure he has family or friends who will check on things once they learn what's happened."

Holly was horrified at the thought of a beloved pet, accustomed to his home and owner, confused and alone in a cage. "No. We can't. I promised I'd take care of him."

Justin frowned and spoke in a familiar disapproving, stuffy tone. "You're not going to take him home."

Holly looked at the puddle on the parking lot beneath the truck's window. "No. I can't. I have to. Oh, no."

She closed her eyes. "But not in the Gray Swan. Dad would kill you."

"Me? Why would he kill me? You're the one wanting to rescue the dog."

"But you're the one he gave his keys to."

Justin winced. "You're not taking that dog home in this car."

"I know. I just said that. What we need to do is find someone who will... Maggie!"

Justin arched a brow.

"She doesn't live too far from here. Let me borrow your phone, Justin." Holly dialed the number, then said, "Maggie? I need your help."

Twenty minutes later, as Maggie whipped into the Wal-Mart parking lot driving her Lexus, Justin looked at Holly aghast. "This is a better solution? That's a sixty-five-thousand-dollar car, Holly. Better we had hot-wired the truck."

Justin made a soft, choking sound as Maggie climbed from the car. One glance at her friend told Holly why. She wore a bathrobe, furry pink slippers, and she had hot rollers in her hair. "My God, Maggie. What is on your face?"

"Mud mask. I've got a date tonight, remember? Now, I don't have much time. Where's that poor baby? Where's that sweet puppy George?" She spied him, knelt down in front of him, and cooed, "Oh, look at you. Aren't you a pretty boy."

George took a long lap at her mud mask.

"No, no, no," Maggie said, giggling. "You ornery boxer boy." To Holly, she said, "I put a sheet down in the backseat. Help me get him loaded?"

George climbed into the backseat of the Lexus, made a circle around the buttery leather upholstery, then promptly jumped over the front seat to ride shotgun. Recognizing a lost cause, Holly sat in back. Waving at an unhappy Justin, she called, "Tell Dad I'll see him tomorrow."

Halfway to Maggie's house, she realized she'd successfully dodged Justin's question again. She wondered how many more reprieves she'd get. Reaching forward, she petted George's head. "Good dog."

Then George let loose with a particularly foul-smelling fart.

"Oh, you bad boy," Maggie moaned, hitting the electric window buttons. "Now I'll have to take another bath."

* * *

Her date was due to arrive in an hour.

Maggie suspected in an hour she'd be borderline certifiable.

"Why in heaven's name did I ever think this was a good idea?" she wailed as she stood in front of her lingerie chest, flinging a rainbow of panties and bras, slips and camisoles over her shoulder. Somewhere in one of the chest's eight drawers was a pair of pantyhose that did not have a run in them. Had to be.

"I'm certain I don't know," Holly drawled from her seat in one of the pair of wingback chairs that sat in front of the master bedroom fireplace. George sprawled in the other. "I've said this was a bad idea all along."

"I disagree," Grace observed. She reclined in Maggie's reading chair, a chaise lounge set in the bow window opposite the fireplace. With a cup of tea in her lap and an afghan draped across her legs, she'd been happy as a clam since Ben dropped her off in response to Maggie's request half an hour ago. "Maggie needs to do this right now. A bit of gentlemanly attention will help repair the damage done by seeing her husband with another woman."

"That's right," Maggie reminded herself. "If he's gonna date, I'm gonna date."

She needed the moral support. She needed the feminine advice. She couldn't make up her mind about what dress to wear, what shoes, what jewelry. The big question was her wedding ring. It didn't feel right to go out with another man while Mike's ring was on her finger, but she couldn't very well take it off. She and Mike were separated, not divorced. The ring belonged on her finger until the day her marriage officially ended. Then and only then would it be proper to take it off.

"What do people do with their rings from failed marriages?" she asked as she discovered a run in yet another pair of hose.

Holly shrugged. "I'll bet men throw their rings into their underwear drawer and never think of them again."

Grace sipped her tea. "I think it depends on a person's level of sentimentality. For some people, a diamond is a diamond is a diamond. They have no qualms about having stones reset in another piece of jewelry. For others, a wedding ring is a symbol of broken promises, and they're the ones who throw their rings off a bridge. I expect Holly is right where most people are concerned. I imagine most people tuck their rings away to collect dust in a jewelry box or drawer or bank vault."

"Half of all marriages end in divorce these days," Maggie mused. She discovered an unopened package of black pantyhose deep in the recesses of her slip drawer and held it aloft triumphantly. "Think of all those rocks lying around unused. It's a shame."

"What is a shame is the fact that George is drooling on your furniture. Do you have a bigger towel to lay across your chair, Maggie? You're going to regret it if your chair is ruined because you wouldn't put him outside."

"He's in a strange place and he's had a difficult day, seeing his master carried off in an ambulance. He needs company so he doesn't get depressed." Maggie brought out a bath sheet and rearranged George. "When was the last time you called the hospital, Holly?"

"Ten minutes ago while you were lost in the depths of your closet. I spoke with Mr. Hargrove's wife. He's still in intensive care but the doctors are cautiously optimistic. Her brother expects to be by here to collect George in half an hour. Twenty minutes, now."

Maggie glanced at the clock. "Oh, my. Look at the time."

She sat on the edge of her bed and ripped open the package of pantyhose. "Okay, I must make a final decision. Which dress?"

"The black one," Holly said.

"Gee, thanks. They're all black."

"Glad to help."

Grace said, "Actually, I'd like to see you in that red number you pulled out of your closet first. It has a certain flair."

"It's a slut dress." Holly shook her head. "Not appropriate for the symphony."

"Hmm..." Maggie tapped a hot red fingernail against her lip. "I would stand out in the crowd."

Holly gave an exasperated sigh. "It's a dress made to stand out on a street corner. You can't wear it, Maggie. Your date will take it as an invitation."

"Invitation?"

"For sex."

"No." Maggie's eyes rounded. "On the first date?"

"Surely not," Grace added.

Holly nodded sagely. "Trust me on this one, ladies. Maggie, you'd look like a million dollars in that red dress, but unless you want to personally check out the pool man's hose, you'd better stick to basic black."

Wow. Things had certainly changed since the last time she went through this process. Back then, boys were lucky to get a kiss at the end of the evening; forget anything more. Of course, back then she wore sweaters, high-rise pants, and penny loafers rather than a siren red dress.

Come to think of it, she had looked pretty good in those sweaters. Also, she did remember one instance where she'd let her date get past first base on the first date.

But she wasn't going out with Mike Prescott tonight.