Vegas to Varanasi (Fortytude Series Book 1) (2 page)

Three

It’s the morning after our dinner with Tessa, which Hayden cooked and did an admirable job. It’s kind of hard to screw up spaghetti, but he may have scored some points.

I meander to the kitchen for my dose of caffeine. Carly is already sitting at the bar, waiting on the Keurig machine. “Mom, we need to talk.”

I grimace. She knows I can’t stand any kind of conversation when I first wake up. I feel like a prune. My eyes are dry, my throat is dry. The joys of living in the desert. I’m a person who needs to ease into my morning, but Carly’s expression is all business. She’s always been serious and analytical, and her blue eyes reveal her impatience for my lagging transition from slumber to consciousness.

The coffee machine makes its last few sputtering gurgles, and I grab Carly’s mug and hand it to her with a forced smile. “Thank you,” she says. She waits, then raises her eyebrows at me, like I’m the one that’s supposed to start this conversation.

“What?” I whine, and put my hand on my hip. I have no idea where this is going, but apparently she thinks I do. “If you’ve got something to say, then say it.”

She sighs and pulls on one of her coppery curls. Carly has the most gorgeous, perfectly formed spirals, and I’m actually jealous of how naturally pretty she is in the morning.

“It’s David. Did you happen to see the half empty bottle of bourbon in the office? He just opened it last night, and it’s a pretty damn big bottle.”

David moved in two years ago, when Carly was eighteen. Hayden was nineteen. When Luke and I split up and eventually moved into separate homes, I had made up my mind that no man would live under the same roof with my children until they were adults. I know that sounds really paranoid, but I didn’t want to subject my kids to some potential child molester. You hear those kinds of stories all the time, and I wasn’t going to be one of them.

Plus, if I were to live with someone while the kids were young, it would only be fair that he be able to discipline them, and I wasn’t sure how I would deal with that. So I just avoided the headache all together.

I turn the Keurig carousel to make my selection, then pop a cup into the machine.

“Mom, aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I don’t think it’s such a big deal.” How did I get stuck in this conversation first thing in the morning? It’s already making me uneasy. “He says alcohol gets his creative juices flowing when he writes.”

Carly takes another swallow of coffee. “If he needs to drink half a bottle of whiskey to get his creative juices flowing, then maybe he shouldn’t be writing.”

Of course she’s right, but it isn’t something I want to discuss with her. I’ve been trying to figure out how to talk to him about it, but I am horrible with confrontations.

Carly steps down from her barstool, walks over to me and puts her hand on my arm. “You know I love David, but he’s got a problem. Talk to him, okay? I gotta get ready for class.”

She leaves me standing in the kitchen, waiting for my coffee, and I get a sick feeling in my stomach. After dinner last night, he went straight to the office. I don’t know what time he came to bed, but it was late, and now he’ll probably sleep half the day.

***

David and I met on my fortieth birthday, when he came into my physical therapy practice after having knee surgery. While I was going through various exercises with him, one of my assistants wished me a happy birthday.

“Today’s your birthday?” he asked.

“The big 4-0,” my assistant, Teresa, volunteered.

“No way. You don’t look a day over thirty-two.”

I turned to Teresa. “I like this guy. He’s definitely a schmoozer, but I like him just the same.” I faced him again. “Are you working on a discount?”

He laughed. “No, I mean it. You look really good.”

“Hmmmm.” I could feel my face getting hot. “Thank you. Now lie back on the table and slowly bend your knee.”

He did as I instructed, but didn’t miss a beat as he looked up at me. “You should let me take you out for a birthday dinner. I mean, I know you probably already have plans tonight, but maybe this weekend?”

Holy crap, this guy moved fast!

“I don’t think so. I don’t date clients. But thank you for the offer.”

“Why not?”

He
was
kind of cute. A little short. In fact, at five foot seven, I’m nearly as tall as he is. He had this disheveled look about him, like maybe he pulled his clothes from the bottom of the unfolded laundry pile. An open, friendly face, with sincere brown eyes.

“So, we’ll see you again in a couple of days,” I said, trying to wrap up the session. “Do the exercises I showed you each night, the number of repetitions on this paper. Oh, and here are your exercise bands to take with you.”

“Okay. Thanks, Anna.” He grinned at me, and something in that grin told me he wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

Teresa waited until he was out the door before she started teasing in a sing-song voice. “Anna’s got a boyfriend. Anna’s got a boyfriend.”

“Shut up, you little busybody,” I said with a smile, before whipping a towel at her backside.

“Hey, you should call him and invite him to have drinks with us tonight.”

“Are you crazy? I just met the guy, and I don’t date clients.”

“Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is,” Teresa said as she loaded some fresh towels into the heater.

“The big deal is that if he turns out to be a flake, I still have to treat him for weeks on end.”

She shrugged. “So you pawn him off on one of your other therapists.”

As anticipated, David returned with a mission that Friday during his appointment. “Okay, so, if not dinner, how about a drink when you get off work? Or some coffee? You’re right next to a Starbucks.”

His unwillingness to surrender was kind of endearing. “Look, you’re very charming. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” I scrunched my nose to emphasize my point.

Hands on his hips, he nodded. “Okay. Fair enough.”

He didn’t go down without a fight, and the following week we met at Olive Garden for dinner. He was waiting for me at the bar, and he cleaned up pretty nicely. No longer rumpled, he wore a crisp white shirt and jacket. I felt a little underdressed next to him, in my jeans and t-shirt, but it was Olive Garden. That’s the thing about Vegas, though; you see a wide variety of attire while dining. At one table, there might be a woman in sparkly evening wear, and at the next there’s someone wearing a bikini top underneath a cover-up.

Once we were seated, he held out the bread basket to me. “So tell me about your life.”

“Well, uh...”

He folded his hands on the table, waiting patiently.

“I’ve already told you quite a bit about myself during your visits,” I said. “What about you? How do you like being a literature professor?”

“Meh.” He shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“Just okay?”

“You’re constantly competing with cell phones, texting, etcetera.” He sipped his wine.

“Oh. I see.” I leaned back and racked my brain for something to say, and my eyes wandered to what looked to be a man and his daughter sitting across from us. Their meals hadn’t arrived yet, and the father was clearly bored out of his mind as the teenage girl completely ignored him while texting. That wouldn’t fly in my family. Cell phones are not allowed at the table, whether in a restaurant or at home.

The father noticed me observing and gave me a roll of the eyes, like
can you believe this?
I just responded with a sympathetic smile.

“So, what do you like to watch on TV?” David asked.

Oh, this wasn’t going so well. We were already resorting to a discussion of favorite TV shows. That’s how Hayden used to strike up conversation when he was little, only it was movies. “So Mom, what movie have you been wanting to see?”

I looked up, considering David’s question. “Well,
Big Bang Theory
, of course.”

“Of course.” David nodded.

“And... Promise you won’t laugh?”

He made the little cross sign over his heart.

“
Glee
. I love
Glee
.”

“I watch
Glee!
” he said, smiling brightly.

“You most certainly do not watch
Glee
.”

He raised his right hand. “Swear to God.”

I peered at him suspiciously. “Okay. Who’s the really dumb character?”

“Oh! I, uh... I can’t think of his name at—”

“His?” I made a buzzer sound. “Disqualified. And you swore to God.” I shook my head as if deeply disappointed in him.

“Wait. Wait.” He held up his hand. “I know that tall, blonde lady is the mean one.”

“So what? All you have to do is watch the commercials to figure that out.”

He dropped his shoulders and hung his head. “Okay, you got me. I don’t watch
Glee
.”

I held up my finger. “Never,
ever
be a Gleek imposter.” We both laughed, and it seemed the ice was broken.

“You know? You have really gorgeous hair,” he said.

“Thank you.” My hair is my best feature. Given my average looks, I was at least blessed with thick, wavy locks.

“Do you ever wear it in a ponytail?”

“Not really. It gives me a headache. Why?”

“Oh, you know why guys like ponytails.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

The color must have drained from my face as I set down my glass of wine. Did he really just make that reference on a first date?

David brought his fist to his forehead and winced. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I do that when I’m nervous. I say inappropriate things.”

I let out a low chuckle and nodded in agreement. “Okay. Maybe we could move on to something else.”

“Yes. What next?” he asked, apparently eager to put his remark behind us.

“Um... Did you always want to teach? Or was it something you just fell into?”

The waiter appeared with our plates and offered us more wine. David held out his glass for more, then glanced at me. “How about you?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

“C’mon. Have another with me.” He turned to the waiter. “She’ll have another.”

I raised my eyebrow at the young waiter to indicate my mild irritation with David’s persistence. “Looks like someone’s trying to loosen you up,” the waiter joked as he fulfilled David’s request.

“I’m sorry,” David said after the server retreated. “What did you ask me? If I always wanted to be a teacher?” I took a bite of my baked ziti and nodded. “Not exactly. I’ve always loved to read, so I just figured if I could share my love of literature with other people, that would be the way to go. Teaching seemed to be the best route.”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan.”

“It wasn’t exactly a noble plan.” He paused and sprinkled some parmesan on his lasagna. “Now it’s my turn to ask you not to laugh, but it’s been a dream of mine to write a best-selling novel, and I thought teaching would give me more time to write.”

“Why would I laugh?” I asked. “I think that’s very cool! Personally, I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you do. And I bet you have all kinds of interesting stories about patients you’ve had over the years.”

“Mmm, yeah, I guess.” I shrugged. “So what are you working on now? Could I read some of it?”

“Nah.” He waved his hand. “I appreciate your interest, but it’s not fit for human consumption, so to speak.”

“C’mon, I doubt that.” Realizing I’d nearly finished my second glass of wine, I made a mental note that I still had to drive myself home. “What are you writing about?”

“I’m shooting for a spy slash action slash thriller thing. Think Jason Bourne.”

“Wow! Impressive. I could never pull off something like that.”

“Save your praise.” Even though I barely knew him, his smile and the levity in his voice didn’t quite conceal an inner discontent. “It’s not even close to seeing the light of day.”

***

Looking back, I never would have dreamed that damned novel, or should I say his obsession with that damned novel, might be the beginning of his demise. I stand in the doorway of our bedroom. David’s dead to the world, lying on his stomach with his arm hanging off the bed, fingers nearly touching the floor. The blankets are a tangled mess, and his boxer shorts are twisted on his hips, exposing part of a butt cheek.

“David.” He doesn’t stir. Is he even breathing? I take the few steps over to him and gently nudge his shoulder. “David.”

“Hmmm...” he mumbles into the pillow, not moving.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Mmm.” He dozes off.

I walk to the other side of the bed and sit down beside him, the half empty bottle of bourbon in my lap. “David!”

He rolls over to face me, but his eyes are still closed. “What, babe?”

I touch his arm with the bottle and the coolness of the glass startles him. He recoils, opening his eyes. “What the...”