by Fiona West
Ainsley. Ainsley had told her that. “I can’t remember now . . . but is it true? What did he say?”
“Later,” Lizzie said, waving away the question as she turned beet-red. “Is that true, Mrs. Carpenter? Did you go visit your son?” Lizzie peered into the vehicle.
“Yes, we just took a little trip. This one takes good care of me,” she said, reaching for her hand again, and Martina grasped it gratefully. She sent up a silent 'thank you' prayer that Willow was calm and lucid right now. Things could be going very differently for them if she didn't know Martina. It had never occurred to her that she could be put at risk like that, working with a patient whose memory was compromised. Slaps, bites, and kicks? Sure. But not getting pulled over on a kidnapping charge, unable to prove her innocence. Carter wouldn't have done this.
“Can I ask who reported the vehicle as stolen?”
“Harrison Carpenter called it in.”
“Probably just a mix-up, then,” Martina said, smiling, even though she was seething inside. “He just got back into town after being gone for some time. He probably didn't know that Carter gave me permission to use the car. I can show you the text he sent me, if you'd like.”
“Yeah, if you could forward me a copy of it, then I'll have that to show my superiors. Sorry to have to be so formal, but it's part of the job.”
“I totally understand,” Martina assured her. She fired off a screenshot to Lizzie's sheriff email address and cc'd herself for good measure. “And now you have my number in case you have any follow-up questions. I can give you Crash's number, too.”
“Great. Thanks, Martina. Sorry to bother you. You ladies have a nice evening.”
The deep relief that washed over her couldn't dull the sharp anger that rose up in its place. She signaled and powered them back onto the highway, mindful of her speed. She was going to kill Harrison Carpenter. In the hands of a different law enforcement officer, that little stunt could've ended very differently. A bitter part of her mind reminded her that he couldn't be expected to understand; an old white guy getting pulled over was only in danger of having his time wasted. There was little at stake for him. For Martina, he'd given a cop a reason to pull her over and for a select few, that would be enough to justify violence or imprisonment if they thought she was resisting. She didn't fear the officers in Timber Falls; her father had taken all his girls down to the police station when they turned sixteen and introduced them to all the officers there. It had seemed so stupid at the time. It reminded her of when they take little kids down to the fire station and show them what a fire fighter looks like with all his gear on so they don't burn to death under the bed, hiding from the big, yellow monster. She only realized in retrospect that he wasn't doing it for her benefit, but for theirs. He was marking her as “one of them,” a member of Timber Falls, a status that he hoped would give her some due consideration, should they ever find her behind the wheel, in the backseat, or anywhere else they might be shining their giant flashlights. It made her sad that it was necessary. When she pulled into the long driveway, she texted Carter.
Martina: Are you at the estate?
She literally wasn't going inside if he wasn't. She'd turn right around and take Willow out for really greasy fast food with milkshakes. She'd been doing great on her low-sugar diet, and let's face it, she was dying anyway.
Carter: Yes. Upstairs.
Martina: Your dad called the sheriff and told them I stole your car.
Carter: WHAT
Carter: Where are you
It wasn't physically possible, but she could've sworn she could hear him shouting from outside.
The front door banged open, and Carter flew down the front steps in bare feet. “What the hell? Are you okay?” She was pressed to his chest before she knew what was happening, his clean scent surrounding her, mixed with the smell of what he'd just been eating . . . chips and salsa, maybe? There was no time to dwell on it, because he was pulling back to look her over like she'd been in a car accident, not a traffic stop; his hands wandered into her hair, over her shoulders, down her arms to her fingertips.
“Martina, answer me. Are you okay?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered, “I'm fine. We're both fine. Lizzie Painter pulled us over; she was perfectly nice about it.”
“But it might've been someone else,” he said, pulling her back into a crushing hug, and his voice cracked on the last word. “Someone who would've just arrested you or . . . or . . .” Carter sniffled, and Martina's heart tried to beat its way closer to him through her chest. She wound her arms around him to return his embrace.
“Yes, it might've been. But it wasn't.”
“So you've returned to the scene of the crime.” At the sound of his father's voice, Carter turned his head without letting her go.
“You.” His voice was so cold, Martina shivered. “For your information, Ms. Lopez had my permission to take my car to Bend. How dare you—”
“She took my son's property from the estate; what else was I to assume?”
“You didn't need to assume anything! You could've just asked me!”
“You blew off our meeting. If you'd been here . . .”
“Are you kidding me, Harrison? I—” Carter stop abruptly and turned to his mother, who was standing in the driveway, wide-eyed and trembling. “I'm sorry, Mom. It's okay. You're safe here, I'm here now. I won't let anything happen to you.” He strode over to her, offering his arm like he was escorting her to a ball, and she gave him a shy smile as he escorted her up the stairs.
“I saw your brother today,” she said softly. “I don't know if it was Christopher or Chase, but he was happy to see me.”
“That's great. It was so nice of you to go visit him,” he said, matching her tone, ignoring his father completely as he took Willow inside. Martina stood in the driveway, trying to catch her breath emotionally, wishing she'd followed them inside. Her shift wasn't over for another half an hour, and the night nurse wasn't here yet, based on the absence of her car in the estate's parking area. Mr. Carpenter folded his arms across his chest, watching her from the top step.
She folded her arms and watched him right back. “Do we have a problem?”
He barked out a laugh. “We've had a problem since the first time Carter brought you home.”
“Well, this is my place of employment now.”
“Looked like more than that to me. I've never seen Carter embrace Mr. Fisher so ardently.” That comment had her wanting to bite her nails. Good thing they had a fresh coat of polish on them.
“Mr. Carpenter is my employer. Nothing more.”
“Not for long. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Fuming, Martina marched up the stairs, but he blocked her path into the house. “I'm warning you,” the man said softly. “You're not getting your claws back into my son. The smartest move he ever made was dumping you.” Oh, that's rich. She managed to keep a smile off her face, amused as she was about how little this man knew about his own family’s history.
“No,” she said, stepping into his personal space. “The smartest move he ever made was not working for you.” She let her shoulder bump his as she went inside, praying he wouldn't follow her into the kitchen. Mrs. Sánchez was there, pulling a slice out of a steaming lasagna.
“Oh,” Mrs. Sánchez said, and a cacophony of motherly emotion was poured into that one word. “Here, mi ángel. Eat something. Mr. Carter, he has his mother. Sit, sit. That man won't come in here. He fancies himself a king and rings the bell.”
Martina accepted the plate gratefully and sank onto the bar stool at the island. “Thank you,” she murmured.
“You're all right?” The older woman was twisting the dish towel she held, clearly distressed. “I heard him make the call. I wanted to warn you, but I didn't have your number.”
“I'm okay,” she assured her, reaching out to lay a hand on her arm. “It was Lizzie Painter who pulled me over. She's a friend. She knows I wouldn't steal a car.”
“It was wicked of hi
m to say so. He's a wicked man.” Martina had never seen Mrs. Sánchez's face that shade of maroon; she was shaking, too.
“Agreed,” Martina said, taking a small bite of the delicious Italian food. Her appetite seemed to have disappeared, despite not having eaten in hours. Mrs. Sánchez noticed, and her lips made a flat, displeased line.
“They're waiting. Let me go serve, then I'll be back. I'll make you pancakes and bacon. You love my pancakes.” Mrs. Sánchez gave her a one-armed hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, then hustled out, her arms full with the crystal salad bowl and an overflowing bread basket.
Martina sat in the silent kitchen, watching the timer tick down on whatever dessert Mrs. Sánchez had going. She wanted someone to hold her. No, she wanted Carter to hold her, like he had outside. It was the first time she'd felt right since she'd stepped back into this house . . . and now, maybe she'd be leaving it for good. Mr. Carpenter didn't make threats unless he could back them up with action. She imagined Willow separated from her and Carter and Mrs. Sánchez, confused, afraid, and she felt grief well up. It wasn't fair of Harrison to punish Willow for Carter's decisions; and really, since he left him de facto in charge, how could he come barging back into their lives and start giving orders? I should quit. If she asked Cindy to re-assign her, maybe that would assuage Harrison. It was only her he hated; he wasn't lying earlier when he said he'd had a problem with her since their first meeting. She didn't think he'd come right out and admit to being a racist, but then again, he probably felt safe here. Invincible, even.
“Tini.” Carter was watching her warily from the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. “Go home, honey. We'll talk on Friday.”
She shook her head slowly, her eyes filling with tears.
He crossed the kitchen and sat next to her on the adjacent stool. “I'm sorry, Martina. I'm so sorry for what he did. I can't get rid of him, or I would. The good news is that he rarely takes an interest in what we do, so most likely, he'll be gone again soon.”
“He's going to put your mother in a care facility. He hates me so much, he'd ruin your remaining time with her, just out of spite.”
His hand on her shoulder was warm and firm, and he pulled her against his side. “I'm not going to let him.”
“You can't stop him, Carter. I'll just ask Cindy to send someone else, it's not a big
deal . . .”
“It is a big deal.” He turned his face into her hair. “You walking out of our lives again would definitely be a big deal.” His gravelly voice had her turning to stare deep into his eyes, and the conflict she saw there didn't make her feel better. “It almost destroyed me last time,” he whispered. “I was so sure you'd be back. I was just positive . . . in a few days, I thought you'd flounce back in like nothing ever happened, and we could forget that I suggested something so stupid. I was such a colossal idiot.” His hard swallow made her stomach feel hollow. “I went to your house, and your dad told me it wasn't going to happen, getting back together with you. He advised me to move on, try to find someone new to love. And I tried. I tried to move on, but God, every woman, no matter how beautiful or smart or sexy or funny . . . she just wasn't you. So I partied harder and harder, tried everything under the sun, but it didn't help, because every time I sobered up, you were still gone. I don't think I was consciously trying to end my life, but I was sure as hell wasn't trying to preserve it. And then I flunked out, and my mom put me in counseling.”
“Why?” she whispered. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“In case I don't get another chance. I need you to know how deeply sorry I am, honey. I was so wrong to ask that of you. I was wrong to think it. I was scared; I didn't want to go so far away from home, I didn't want to leave you, but I felt trapped . . . my father had mapped out this life for me that didn't fit me at all, but I couldn't say no to him. I was so scared. I tried to talk to Christopher about it, but he told me I was being stupid.” He put his hands on her cheeks. “But Martina, I'm so much more scared now than I was back then. Nothing scares me like the thought of losing you again.”
“Carter,” she breathed, not knowing what else to say, blinking back tears again. It was all she'd wanted to hear for years. She hated hearing that he'd been so unhappy, but it wasn't like she'd ever managed another relationship half as deep as theirs either, as immature and screwed-up as it was. It's not like she'd ever fallen in love again.
“Please don't quit,” he said, dragging his thumbs over the sensitive skin of her cheeks. “Please. Give me time. I'll fix it. I won't let him send her away. Will you trust me? I don't deserve to ask for that, I know, but—”
She put a finger to his lips, if only to keep herself from kissing them. “I trust you. I won't talk to Cindy yet. I just don't want Willow to suffer because of me.” Because of us.
“I don't want that, either, believe me.” He tipped her head down and kissed her forehead. “Promise me.”
“I promise.” He let his hand drop slowly, like he didn't really want to. She didn't really want him to, either. It was on the tip of her tongue, a burning desire to have his lips on hers, to taste him again; it would be better than any meal anyone could offer her right now. The incident with the sheriff's office had shown his hand; he was definitely still in love. The question was whether he planned to do anything about it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“MARTINA, CAN YOU SET the table? Just the napkins and silverware, we'll serve from the kitchen.” She'd just finished putting together the ambrosia salad with marshmallows and cherries (gross), so she nodded and washed her hands again. The dining room was quieter than the rest of the house, comparatively. She found the good silverware in the drawer of the buffet and the plaid orange, green and brown napkins in the drawer next to those. Martina got all the way around the table, and she still had two sets of silverware left in her hand. Perplexed, she counted the chairs around the table.
“Mom?” she called. “We're two places short.”
“I know,” Linda called back. “You and Francesca are eating in here.”
What? She can’t be serious . . . Martina tried to stem her outrage by clarifying.
“In the kitchen?”
Her mom poked her head through the doorway, drying her hands on an apron with holly all over it. “Yeah, at the kids table. We didn't have room for you at the big table if we wanted to keep the couples together. Sorry, hon.” A timer went off, and it was fortunate for the sake of family unity that it did, because Martina thought she could feel the steam coming out of her ears. She was about to spend her favorite holiday trying to prevent food fights and policing whether her nieces and nephew ate enough vegetables to get a piece of pie, and they weren't even her kids. Arguing would do no good. Exhaling slowly, Martina slapped a smile on her face and went into the kitchen to set the rest of the table.
“Tia Tini,” said Daisy, once they’d all been served, “where's your husband?”
“I don't have one. Eat your green beans, please.”
The four-year-old picked at the delicious food on her plate, utterly unimpressed. “Why?”
“Because green beans are good for you.”
“No! Why you don't have a husband?” Daisy persisted.
George, his mouth overflowing, spoke before she could answer. “Because God didn't send her one, dummy.”
“Don't say 'dummy.' We don't call names.” Then privately, she leaned over to her niece. “Have you seen Snow White?”
The girl nodded, her light brown curls bobbing. Gus had given her pigtails, and she was looking just adorable. “Well, I'm just waiting for a kiss that wakes me up.” Martina expected the girl to ask more questions about how she didn't look asleep now. Instead, Daisy nodded sagely, opening obediently for the bite of turkey and stuffing that Martina offered her.
“I love you, but you're hopeless,” Francesca offered from across the table. The seventeen-year-old floated a spoon in front of their two-year-old niece like an airplane, and Émilia reached out and grabbed the spoo
n to feed herself.
“Gee, thanks, sis.”
George got up and began to head back toward the TV before Martina caught him by his collar. “Whoa there. You didn't finish your salad, you didn't clean your hands, and you didn't ask to be excused. Three strikes and you're out, bud. Have a seat back down.”
“I don't have to.”
“You do, actually,” Martina said, steering him back toward his chair by the shoulders. “Your mom said.” She could hear the adults in the other room laughing, heard the cork being popped on the wine bottle for a refill. She hadn't even gotten through her first glass. No time.
“You're not the boss of me.”
“Unfortunately for both of us, that's not true. Now sit your butt down and . . .”
“Butt!” gasped Daisy. “She used a bathroom word.”
Martina and Francesca exchanged twin looks of befuddlement. “Butt is a bad word?” Martina asked, and the kids nodded. “What are you supposed to call it, then?”
“Mommy says caboose,” Daisy offered.
“Okay, sorry. George, please sit your caboose back down on the chair.” She didn't dare ask how she'd labeled their other private parts; it was assuredly something equally ridiculous. She'd never understood what was wrong with the anatomical names for things herself.
“No!” he shouted, digging his heels into the carpet, and she heard the conversation in the dining room pause. George spun and delivered a swift kick to her shin, then tried to take off, but she still had him by the collar.
“Nice try, kid.” Catching him under the armpits, she scooped him up and plopped him back in the chair. Martina handed him a damp washcloth. “Grandma wants you to wash your hands before you leave the table.”
Ptooey. His spit landed squarely in her left eye. Martina flailed in surprise, knocking something to the ground that broke with a crash. Eyes squeezed shut, groping for a napkin, she could smell the spilled wine before she could see the broken crystal strewn around her feet.
“Here,” Francesca pressed something in her hand, and she took it gratefully, wiping her face gently.