The Comeback Girl (3 page)

His eyes showed concern. Could he see how close she was to the edge? How little sleep she’d gotten the past few months, fretting that she’d screwed up the lives of everyone she loved? “Gotta run. I’ll see you later this afternoon, then. I’ll give you a discount coupon for a massage.”

Not that she figured he’d ever use it. The memories between them—both the good and the bad—would probably get in the way of her therapeutic touch.

She bumped into three deputies on her way out the door—two strangers and Edgar Olson, who’d been the arresting officer the night of her disgrace. She faked a breezy hello, then dashed to her car.

If she’d been in Ashland, she would have handed each one of them her business card and talked about the benefits of massage for people who worked in stressful jobs like law enforcement. But something about Gold Creek robbed her of the confidence she’d fought so hard to acquire. And that scared her even more than the thought of facing Tyler Harrison—her son’s father.

E
VERYTHING ABOUT
this sucky town sucks, Zach Sullivan decided as he looked out the window of the cheesy little house his aunt Jenny had given them to live in.

The rooms were small and the backyard was so
tiny he felt guilty making Sarge stay there. Yesterday he’d walked Sarge over to the bordello so the dog could play with Andi’s sheepdog puppy, Harley. The bordello had a huge backyard.

Sarge was the only good part about this move, Zach thought. And Ida Jane wasn’t too bad.

His mother’s great-aunt was almost as old as the bordello. He liked her. He liked the building, too. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe its history. He enjoyed listening to Ida Jane tell stories about the place.

Not that he’d ever admit that to his mother. No way. She’d lied to him for almost his entire life. He wasn’t going to just forgive her for that.

Hell, no.

He shook his head. His blond bangs brushed against his eyelashes. His mom had never allowed him to grow his hair this long before, but he figured she was on such a heavy guilt trip he could probably murder somebody and she’d still forgive him.

She hadn’t even given him any crap about his nose ring. Which was sort of disappointing. The damn thing hurt like hell to have put in. The least she could have done was faint or yell or something when she saw it.

Zach muttered the long string of epithets he and his cousins had spent weeks perfecting. Then he walked to the refrigerator and took out a Coke. Sarge, who’d been sleeping by the door, lifted his head.

Zach walked to where the old hound was lying
and sat down. He leaned back against the cabinet and closed his eyes.

School would start on Monday, and Sunday was the twins’ first birthday party. A part of him had always dreamed of this kind of life—hanging out with family in a place where you felt kinda safe.

But if his mother thought he was going to let this stupid town and its stupid people—including his a-hole father—into his life, she was crazy.

He’d run away first. Maybe he’d stay with Moira and her family for a while in Chicago. He’d work the docks and save enough money to go back to Ireland where he was born. Zach had no memory of the place, but it had to be better than Gold Creek, California. Hadn’t his mother left the first chance she got? Why should he stay?

If she made him meet his
father,
he’d do it. The guy was supposed to be rich.
I’ll meet him, steal something valuable, then hock it for a ticket east.

He stroked Sarge’s long, silky ear and took a swallow of his soda.
Two tickets.
He wasn’t going to leave Sarge behind. He’d missed the dog the whole time he was in Chicago.

The tightness in his chest eased a bit. A plan, Zach thought. It always helped to have a plan.

D
ONNIE CHECKED
his watch before making the call. Since Sandy’s life revolved around staying beautiful for her new husband, Boyd Baker, her mornings were devoted to a personal trainer. She seldom picked up the phone before two in the afternoon.

There were six rings before she answered. “The Baker residence.”

Her tone was haughty and stiff. Donnie called it her English-butler voice. Sandy used it to discourage telemarketers—one of the jobs she’d held when she and Donnie were first married.

“It’s me. Returning your call. What’s up?”

Her hesitation made his nerves skitter with apprehension. Normally, she’d launch into some complaint about his lack of parenting skills or float a lengthy rationale about why she was going to arrive late to see their son. This felt different.

“I hate to sound overly dramatic, but are you sitting down?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sandy. Just spit it out. I was leaving to run a few errands before I pick up Lucas. I know you said not to pack a lot of clothes, but he needs some new shoes and I—”

She made a huffing sound then snapped, “Things have changed, Donnie.”

Not unusual. Happened all the time with her. Since her marriage to the wealthy set designer from L.A., her contribution to Lucas’s
shared custody
had dropped dramatically. More often than not, a plane ticket showed up in her place. Donnie sometimes joked that Lucas had logged more frequent-flier miles than many executives could claim.

Unfortunately, air safety wasn’t a joking matter. Another reason why Donnie had applied to become a Federal Air Marshal.

He knew that being an air marshal was a demanding job. Donnie wouldn’t have even considered applying if Lucas hadn’t been scheduled to move to Los Angeles to live with Sandy. This new custody agreement was a result of Sandy’s determination to prove that Lucas was a prodigy on the guitar. The fancy school she’d picked out didn’t start its new term until October first. And although Lucas had lobbied for a longer summer, Donnie thought it best to start him in school in Gold Creek to help facilitate the transition to a new curriculum. Lucas was a smart kid, but his grades didn’t show it.

A chill passed through him. “What’s going on, Sandy? Don’t tell me you’re backing out of our deal.”

“Boyd just got the green light on the new Chris Columbus movie. I don’t have all the details, but
the location work is in South Africa. Boyd expects to be there for eight months. And I’m going.”

The last was added as a definite. “South Africa?”

“Yes. I’m not sure where exactly—they’re scouting locations this week, but the movie is a period piece and I have a feeling we’re going to be someplace rather remote.”

“For eight months? How long does it take to build a movie set?” He didn’t hide his disgust. As far as he was concerned, Sandy had abdicated her parental duties the minute Boyd came into the picture.

“Boyd is very much in demand, and it’s a tribute to the director’s trust in him that he wants Boyd on-site the whole time they’re filming,” she said haughtily. “If they blow something up and they need a second take—oh, why do I bother trying to explain things to you? The bottom line is I’m not going to be able to take Lucas after all.”

Normally Donnie accepted Sandy’s self-involvement as a fact of life, but it really irked him when Lucas wound up shortchanged. He knew his son had not only been looking forward to the move, but he’d been bragging about it. Donnie had advised him not to burn any bridges, but lately, nothing Donnie said seemed to count for more than wasted breath.

“I’m sure they have schools in South Africa. Lucas will have one helluva learning experience,” he said, then added pointedly, “You agreed to take
him, Sandy, and I’ve made plans to be out of town for an extended period, so he’ll have to go with you.”

Instead of flying off the handle, she sighed. “I suggested that. But this is going to be a complicated job, and we’ll be moving between sites. There’s no way to provide a steady home life for a young boy. I’m afraid he’d fall further behind in his studies.”

Donnie’s anger bubbled just below the surface. “Oh, please,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Don’t pretend this is about Lucas’s well-being. You and I both know your only concern is making sure Boyd isn’t screwing some wardrobe girl behind your back. That’s what comes from a guilty conscience, Sandy.”

“You’re being a jerk, Donnie. I can’t help it, but this is the way things are,” she said with finality. “I have two weeks before we leave, and I’d like to pick Lucas up on Thursday and keep him a few days. It’s Labor Day weekend. He won’t miss much school, and I thought he and I could run to Redding to visit my mom.”

“But that Monday is his birthday,” Donnie said inanely, unable to formulate any kind of rebuttal.

“I know. I thought we’d stop at the outlets and buy school clothes. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Would it make a difference if I did?” His brain was scrambling to try to come up with a plan B. As long as his mother was willing to take over while he was away at training, he could still pull
this off. Once he had his permanent assignment, he could move them both to wherever he was stationed.

“Well,” Sandy said, her tone surprisingly mild, “it would be nice for Lucas’s sake if we could be civil.”

Rather than get into all old hurts, verbal fights and open hostility, he shook his head. “I’ve got to go. Fax me your itinerary, and I want a copy of your Africa plans, too. Americans are targets all over the world, you know.” Because of his interest in becoming an air marshal, he’d been researching air-travel safety on a global basis.

“Boyd mentioned that, too, when I suggested taking Lucas with us. You should be thankful he cares enough to put his foot down.”

If he hadn’t been in the office, Donnie would have employed one of his son’s favorite gestures—two fingers in a gagging motion. “I’ll talk to you later. Goodbye.”

After he replaced the receiver, Donnie scrubbed his face with both hands. His long day had just gotten longer. Bad enough he’d had his morning disrupted when Kristin popped in—an encounter that had left him feeling slightly off-kilter.

Ed Olson and Margie had commented on Donnie’s absentmindedness. Ed, the officer who’d been first on the scene the night of Donnie’s high-school altercation with Tyler Harrison, had muttered something about “old home week.”

Margie, who’d apparently talked to Bethany, had
scolded Donnie for “entertaining lady friends in her booking room.” Margie’s tough bluster was actually a form of mothering.

“Who are you calling a lady?” he’d teased in return, but his heart hadn’t been in it. Kristin had changed. Gone was her carefree attitude. She seemed more serious, focused.

“Kris was always my favorite triplet,” Margie had added. It didn’t surprise Donnie that Margie knew the Sullivan sisters—everyone did. “She was always so bright and pretty.”

Pretty? That was one thing about her that hadn’t changed. “Our Kris is fair, fey and sweet as a sugar cookie,” her aunt once had said in Donnie’s presence. The description had stuck with him, even though he’d had to look up the meaning of
fey.

He picked up his car keys and left the office. His Toyota Forerunner sat at the far end of the lot behind the sheriff’s office.

As he drove through town, Donnie thought about the night of the triplets’ eighteenth birthday party. Late February. Chilly enough to keep two burn barrels busy in the backyard of the old bordello. Although he and Kris had formally broken up three months earlier, Donnie knew she wasn’t seeing anyone, and he’d expected to find her there. Alone. Maybe missing him.

Donnie had enjoyed playing big man on campus for a while, but the glamour had worn off. And he’d found himself looking forward to seeing Kristin. He’d hoped they could make up. Get back together.

Only, she wasn’t there. She’d gone off somewhere with Tyler Harrison. A guy Donnie couldn’t stand.

Donnie had had a couple of run-ins with Harrison the previous July. To fulfill a community-service obligation after some prank he’d pulled on the last day of school, Tyler had been assigned to the Search and Rescue team Donnie led each summer. Tyler’s belligerent attitude and smart mouth had left Donnie itching to teach him a lesson.

Fired up with beer, Donnie and a couple of his buddies had set out to find Kristin. And they did—in the back seat of her great-aunt’s Cadillac. Half-naked. Flushed with passion or embarrassment. Donnie hadn’t bothered to determine which. A blind rage had come over him—a fury so great he might have killed Tyler if his friends hadn’t pulled him off. The incident had earned him a formal reprimand from the sheriff, three months in an anger-management course and the friendship and respect of the girl he loved.

He saw Kristin only twice in the weeks that followed. Once when he’d pleaded with her to support his version of the story—that Tyler had raped her—and second, at a meeting with the sheriff when she’d stated quite clearly that she and Ty had been engaged in consensual sex when Donnie attacked them.

At the time, he’d felt blindsided by her “betrayal.” It wasn’t until he found out about Sandy’s
extramarital affair that Donnie had understood what a true breach of faith was all about.

He owed Kristin an apology. And he needed to get it off his chest before he left to begin his new life as an air marshal.

K
RISTIN RESTED
her elbow on the counter and plopped her free ear into her cupped palm. Her head ached and the conversation with her former landlord wasn’t helping in the least.

“He put what where?” she croaked into the phone. “I’ll kill him.”

The last came out as an impotent threat—at least in her mind. But the uniformed man entering the antique store might take it differently, she thought.

“I’ll take the cleanup costs out of Zach’s allowance for the next twenty-five years, Mr. Baxter,” she amended loudly as Donnie Grimaldo approached the desk. “I was sure I scrubbed every inch of his room, but it never occurred to me to look on the ceiling of his closet.”

She listened to the retired air force pilot explain in detail about her son’s fertile imagination. Apparently the graffiti included some explicit drawings of her landlord’s anatomy and included a ditty about the man’s ability to please his wife—and donkeys—in bed. Her face went from mildly burning to chili-pepper hot.

“I promise this will not go unpunished,” she vowed. “You’ll be receiving a letter of apology in the mail from Zach, and please feel free to keep my
deposit. I’m sure it will take several coats of paint and maybe even therapy to remedy this.”

Kris kowtowed another few minutes before hanging up. Instead of facing Donnie, she dropped her head to the glass-topped sales counter.

“My son has been possessed by some freakishly obnoxious poltergeist,” she mumbled.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you,” Donnie said, amusement thick in his husky male voice, “but it’s called hormones. Welcome to the adolescent years.”

She looked up.
Damn. Still as handsome as he was this morning.

Why couldn’t he have a beer gut and receding hairline like most of the men she met? Donnie had been a hunk in high school—the homecoming jock everyone idolized—and he’d improved since then.

“We
used
to have such a good relationship.”

Donnie’s sympathetic smile made her wish they were the kind of friends who hugged each other. A hug would have been nice. “Zach has a lot on his plate right now,” Donnie said. “But, even without that, puberty makes kids think their parents are mindless morons.”

Could Zach’s age be contributing to the problem? she wondered. Donnie was not only a man but also a father. Maybe that made him an expert. “What can I do?”

He shook his head. “I took Lucas to a counselor after Sandy and I split up. I’ll never forget his part
ing advice. ‘No matter how ugly things get, stick by his side. Someday he’ll thank you for it.’”

“If he ever forgives me,” she muttered, not intending to share the thought aloud. Embarrassed, she reached under the counter for her purse. “I have that check for you.”

When she looked up, he was leaning on the counter, arms folded in front of him. Kristin fought the urge to run. It wasn’t his fault he generated crazy feelings.

He straightened and took a step back. “Do you have any flyers or cards with your business number? I’d be happy to put them in the break room. I don’t know a deputy on the force who wouldn’t throw himself at your feet for a good massage.”

Kris ripped the check along the perforated line. “How do you know I’m any good?”

Before he could reply, a shrill squeal of delight filled the air. “Bless my soul, it’s Donnie Grimaldo. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Come here and give an old woman a hug.”

Donnie’s face changed. The lines bracketing his mouth formed shallow C-shapes and his hazel eyes lit up with joy. He strode purposefully to the doorway leading to the residence and swept Kristin’s eighty-three-year-old great-aunt into a bear hug. “Miss Ida, I’ve missed seeing you at the office—no more bad checks coming in these days?”

Ida’s lined cheeks blushed with pleasure, and Kris felt a funny catch in her chest. At times like
this, she wanted to kick herself for letting so many years pass without visiting her great-aunt.

“Andi handles all that stuff now,” Ida said, shaking her cane. “Took all the fun out of it when she subscribed to some kind of check-cashing service. What’s the point of being in business if you can’t nail a shirker now and then?”

The two chatted about inconsequential matters—the weather and mutual friends—for a couple of minutes, and then Ida said, “So, what’s become of my car, young man?”

Kristin froze. Some days her aunt seemed to understand that Andi had totaled Ida Jane’s old Caddie in an accident six months earlier. At other times, the older woman fretted about the fate of Rosemarie, Ida’s name for the thirty-year-old, faded pink car.

Donnie glanced at Kristin before answering, then he said, “Miss Ida, cars like that are rare as hen’s teeth, as my daddy used to say. I’m sorry to say there’s a chance Rosemarie might be gone for good.”