“No, of course not.” Sunny started to sweat, right at the small of her back. “It’s a gift.”
He handed it back. “You know I like Scotch.” The detective leaned in the window, close enough Sunny could smell his aftershave. “Especially the expensive kind.”
“Well.” Sunny took the champagne and rested it in her lap. “You know where the expensive Scotch is. Feel free to come by, anytime.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Sure. I’ll keep it warm for you.”
Callahan considered the ridiculous suggestion of warm Scotch with a sly smile. He rose up and regarded her. “All right, Sunny. You enjoy your day. And drive safe.”
Sunny smiled over the heavy beating of her heart. “Thank you, Detective.”
“Sean.”
“Sean.” She watched him go back to his car, get inside and take off, well over the speed limit. Only once he was out of sight did she start her engine, raise her window and chuckle under her breath.
* * *
The dining room table had been draped in white linen and decorated with leafy centerpieces of yellow and crimson. A roast turkey sat in the center, surrounded by myriad colorful dishes, like waiting footmen. Green beans, cranberries, oyster stuffing, mashed potatoes and parsnips, corn pudding and at least three different kinds of bread—buttery rolls, high-domed white loaves and some kind of rustic baguette, still crackling. On the serving board near the bay window rested an assortment of pies, each one colorful and flaky and sporting intricate latticework. Everything you could possibly want to eat was on or around Constance’s Thanksgiving table.
Roger, closest to the stacks of plates, stared impatiently at the spread. He still wore his jeans and blue hoodie, but he’d shaved his face clean for the occasion.
“You know it’s just four of us, right?” Sunny set the two bottles of champagne—her excuse for going to check out the rottweiler—on the counter.
Constance shrugged. “I don’t know how to do less.”
Sunny felt a twinge in her gut. “Daddy would’ve loved it.”
“Roger loves it,” Roger said, and didn’t even crack a smile. “If that helps.”
Sunny sputtered a laugh. “Dude. You are not disguising your eagerness very well.”
“Oh, let the kid eat,” Constance chided. She nodded at the plates. “Take as much as you want.”
Just as Roger scrambled for a plate, Pete came in the back door, brushing off the cold. “That German shepherd you got is smart as a whip. Taught him a few basic commands in about an hour.” His sparkling eyes settled on Sunny. “You’re back.”
“Champagne.” Sunny waved toward the unopened bottles.
“Even though we have wine.” Constance narrowed her eyes in suspicion.
“Some of us would like champagne with their turkey,” Sunny protested. “And yes—” she changed the subject “—Buster is smart. He’s got an application on him. I’ll do a home visit tomorrow and he’ll probably be all settled. Nice couple. No kids.”
“Good deal. I’ll open the wine.” Pete dug the corkscrew out of the correct drawer, first time. He knew Sunny’s house and grounds as well as she did.
Once they were all seated, Roger, as hungry as he was, asked to say a blessing. Constance dropped her phone and bowed her head to join in. She’d been cooking up a storm all morning, but now that the creative process was over, she looked deflated and worn out. Sunny almost asked her what was up; usually Cici was all about the food when a meal was on the table. She worked too hard to have people act distracted and ungrateful. But once the pleasant sound of forks clinking plates filled the air, she decided to let it go. This was their first holiday season celebrating without Daddy, and Constance’s first in three years without Josh.
Sunny’s gaze connected with the two empty chairs the men would usually occupy. She glanced at Constance and saw that her sister had been doing the exact same thing. Sunny offered a smile.
Constance just looked away.
* * *
“What’s that dinging sound?” Mel’s voice came from across the room, where Rhett had her on speakerphone. “Please tell me that’s not the microwave.”
“Okay.” Rhett pulled out his platter of turkey cutlets and mashed potato buds. “It’s not the microwave.” He threw a handful of kale, which he kept in the fridge for smoothies, on the plate.
“You skip coming home for your father’s beautiful Thanksgiving meal so you can microwave some trash?” Mama’s voice soared over Mel’s like a rocket launcher.
“You know how I love trash.” Rhett had learned long ago not to argue with Mama. You just couldn’t win. He drizzled some olive oil and vinegar on top of his kale. There. That should do it.
“Don’t you get smart with me. You’re not too old for me to go fetch the belt.”
Rhett sat at the table and faced his Thanksgiving dinner. “That’d be one hell of a long belt, Mama.” Not to mention, Rhett couldn’t recall one single time in his life being hit by that belt. He was convinced that Mama used it as a tool to get her children to run like crazy. Not only would they get exercise, they’d get out of her hair and stay far away for hours. At least until the streetlights came on.
“Don’t listen to her, mijo.” Papa’s soft tone managed to ride over the women. His calm voice and gentle personality had always provided an anchor of stability for Mama’s storms. “If you want microwave food for Thanksgiving, that is your right. I’ll freeze some of what I make for you.”
Rhett had always wanted the softly accented English of his father, but no such luck. He could sound like Papa if he wanted to, but he had to fake it. Only when he spoke Spanish did they share that lyrical quality. Just listening to his father speak made his pulse slow. He was probably the only person Rhett could tell, “I woke this morning to the sound of Katyusha rockets, Papa,” and have him not react with shock and concern and orders to get into therapy.
“Did you, mijo?” Papa would say, his voice a salve on the old wounds. “Digame.”
But Rhett didn’t tell him that. They were on speakerphone, and everyone was listening. “How are you feeling, Papa? How’s the back?”
Papa made a dismissive noise. “It’s good.”
“It’s tight,” Mama chimed in. “More than usual. I told him he needs to retire, but you know how he is about his plants.”
“I’m not going to retire, Meara,” Papa said. “Not yet.”
Mama started a new protest but Rhett cut her off. “He doesn’t want to retire, Mama.” They had to stick up for each other. It was the only way to survive Mama’s determination to control everything. “And neither do I. Which is why I’m here for Thanksgiving. Christmas, too. I’ve spent my whole life in the marine corps and now I’m doing something else. I can’t get away.”
“Good for you, Rhett,” Papa said. “You do what you have to do. We support you.”
“But you’re keeping the reservation,” Mama said quickly. “At the cabin. I told you, your father and I stayed there one night last time we visited? Three years ago? It’s fabulous. Just fabulous. You go and enjoy.”
Rhett made a noncommittal noise that was neither agreement nor a lie. He was not keeping the Christmas reservation his mother had made for him at some random local cabin, which was her way of punishing him for not coming home. But Mama didn’t need to know that. Let her think he was going.
“I already made a donation to the dog rescue,” Mama said, as though she saw right through him. “You donate to the rescue and you get to attend the Christmas Eve banquet. There’s food and music. You can mingle with other people.”
Just the word mingle sent a crawling sensation up Rhett’s spine as he imagined having to spend Christmas Eve talking politics and religion with drunk strangers.
“Oh, and a massage! You get a free massage, too.”
Rhett groaned. He couldn’t think of anything wo
rse than being alone, in a dark room, naked on a table, at the whim of a stranger. At least the massages in physical therapy had been clothed, in a chair, under a bright light, the only body part bared his wrecked thigh.
“You’re going to love it.”
Love it? First, a party. Then, a massage. He’d rather be back in Fallujah.
Mama made a suspicious hmm sound, but was quickly overshadowed by the clanging and banging of Rhett’s nieces. Brittany and Josephina were a wild pair. Rhett loved to rile them up when he visited, not only satisfying his need for physical activity by getting the girls running, jumping, screaming and being as obnoxious as possible, but also irritating his baby sister as much as he could in the process. They dominated the conversation after that, saving Rhett from any more argument over holidays and food. By the time he hung up, he faced his pathetic Thanksgiving dinner with a sigh.
He really wanted to go into the gym now. He’d wanted to since he woke, but had convinced himself to stay home and enjoy a rest day, despite the stir-crazy feeling and the stiffness in his thigh. “You can do this,” he told himself. “You can sit here and enjoy a relaxing day, and some food, like a normal person.”
He took a bite. Mama hadn’t been far off when she’d called it trash. The kale was good, but he knew it would be bland. Rhett checked his email while he chewed a bit of dry turkey, his laptop open in front of him. There were a bunch of work emails he could check, but only one caught his eye. Stanzi had emailed him about an hour ago. Inside was a polite and professional email asking him to recommend a light bodyweight workout she could do at home, since the gym was closed for the holiday.
Rhett laughed to himself. Stanzi was something else. Yes, there was a certain type that got hooked on his gym’s brand of fitness: the constant variation, high energy, loud music and community atmosphere. But Stanzi took it to another level entirely. She’d come faithfully, to either the weight-lifting program or a cardio workout—once even to the Spanish class—all week long, with no breaking or slowing in sight. She’d show up in her oversize, outdated T-shirts, black leggings and zero bling (no makeup, nails or drama) and put in whatever hard work Rhett threw her way. He constantly pitched her curveballs, just to see how she’d respond. During the Spanish class, he refused to clarify himself in English. “Why did you come to the Spanish class if you wanted to speak English?” he’d whispered. Stanzi had bit down on her lower lip, then simply rolled up her sleeves, pinned down the most experienced lady in the class and shadowed her for the rest of the workout.
Yesterday, they’d run out of barbells and he’d told Stanzi to give hers to one of the other women, who could lift more weight. Stanzi hadn’t argued, and had looked around the gym for about twenty seconds before she solved her own problem and grabbed a set of dumbbells.
Rhett emailed back that he admired her dedication, but she should be resting today. He’d barely taken a bite of his coarse, bland kale salad when she replied, insisting she just needed something to Get her heart rate up.
Sounded familiar. Rhett emailed back. Can I text you instead? He had her phone number, but didn’t want to overstep, even though he texted many of his clients.
Stanzi emailed back one word. Sure.
Why aren’t you resting? he texted. It’s Thanksgiving.
I know. Sorry to bother you. I’m not much into holidays. Feeling stir-crazy. Just want a distraction.
Me, either. Rhett smiled to himself. Why was he not surprised Stanzi wasn’t much of a holiday person? Do you have a jump rope?
Yes.
Ten rounds of 20 jumps, 10 push-ups and 15 air squats.
Thanks! I’ll hit that after the turkey digests.
Turkey? Thought you weren’t much of a holiday person. Rhett shook his head at himself after he hit Send. He should have just said, “Great. Enjoy.” Why was he getting personal?
I’m not. Socially, I mean. I’m still very much into the food. I’ve got a turkey, stuffing, potatoes and the works. Don’t be mad. You told me not to worry about the scale.
Mad? It was like he couldn’t stop himself. I’m jealous.
A longer amount of time passed before her next text, almost as if to register surprise. Why jealous? What are you eating today?
Rhett looked down at his shitty plate of food. Just some stuff from the microwave.
What? No. She added some shocked and sad emojis. You’re welcome to share my feast.
Rhett took a deep breath and quelled the urge to satisfy both his hunger pangs for real, home-cooked food and that part of his personality that he kept stowed away as best as possible—the one that wanted to do things he knew he shouldn’t do. The one that craved excitement and things that made his heart pound out of his chest. But who was he kidding? Stanzi had those magic hands, and his thigh was starting to act up again.
So you’re saying that if I meet you at the gym in an hour and run you through a quick workout, you’ll bring me some of your home cooking?
Stanzi texted back, Deal.
A long time passed. Long enough, Stanzi probably thought Rhett had blown her off or fallen asleep. Finally, as if someone else were choosing his words for him, he texted back, See you in an hour.
Just as long passed on her end. When his phone dinged, her text made him laugh out loud: Just went and got changed. See you soon.
twelve
The gym was unlocked. Loud hip-hop music boomed from the speakers, which Constance could hear even before she stepped inside. She found Rhett, alone, on his back, lying in a pool of sweat next to the rig. “What’d you just do?” She stood over him, her hands full of the bags Sunny had helped her pack.
Rhett’s long, dark lashes blinked until his brown-green eyes shone up at her. “Twenty minutes of twenty-five burpees and fifteen bodyweight back squats.”
“Holy cow.” Constance eyed the barbell in the rack. “How much weight is that for you?”
“Two forty.”
“Holy cow,” she repeated. “I guess we’re not working out together?”
“Thought I’d get it done. No worries. I have good stuff planned for you.”
More like, you couldn’t stop yourself, Constance thought. She was beginning to understand how Rhett Santos’s brain worked. “I can’t wait.”
After Rhett had peeled himself off the floor, they made their way into the office. He leaned in close to the bags of food, drew a deep breath and let out a dreamy exhale. “Are you sure you want to work out? Can’t we just eat?”
She caught a whiff of the soap, shampoo or deodorant that was coming off his sweaty shirt—something spicy and masculine. It surprised her to realize that he smelled better to her than the roast turkey and side dishes. He also got better looking every time she saw him. Rhett was striking to begin with, but as Constance got familiar with his movements and habits, his gestures and quirks and all the little things that helped create the contours of his face and lines of his body, the better he got.
“C’mon.” Rhett waved her into the gym and pointed to the PVC he’d laid on the lifting platform. “This’ll be fun. I’m going to show you how to snatch.”
Constance’s eyebrows rose.
“The most technical lift,” Rhett went on. “The more places there are to mess up, the harder a movement is. We’ll spend half an hour on it, just to wet your feet. And then we’ll eat.” She might’ve looked hesitant because Rhett added, “It’s that, or we do a beep test.”
“What’s a beep test?”
“Running,” Rhett said. “You have a set distance to sprint, and the beeps keep getting shorter, which means you have to keep running faster, as time goes on.”
Constance stepped onto the platform and lifted the PVC. “Snatch, it is.”
Rhett laughed. “You really don’t want to run, do you?” He narrowed his eyes. “Come spring, there’ll be a lot more running in the workouts. Just to give you a heads-up.”
Rhett stared down at her. “Free week’s up. We’ll get you a contract before you leave today.”
“Maybe.”
He grinned a little bit, then grabbed his own PVC pipe and said, “The object of the snatch is to get the bar from the ground to overhead in one fluid motion.” He demonstrated once, slowly, then a little faster, then really fast, getting the PVC from down near his feet to over his head. “So let’s break it down. Set up position. Feet are just under the hips. Wide grip on the bar.”
Once her hands were right, Rhett instructed her to retract her shoulder blades and bend her knees, hips going straight down. “From here, we’re going to roll that bar down to midshin. Keep the tension in your hamstrings. Keep your shoulders forward of the bar.”
Constance got to midshin. Rhett came beside her and, touching her only with his fingertips, had her raise her hips a little. Just keeping correct form in a still position was hard work. She felt sweat trickle down her back, despite the chilliness of the gym.
Instruction after that was a blur of commands and tiny pieces—flat back, elbows out, chest up, engage the lats, squeeze, extend, shrug, pull under—all of which ended up getting Constance’s bar from the ground to over her head. Never in her life would she have thought something so simple could be so complicated.
Rhett’s eyebrows rose. “Not bad. Keep the bar closer, though. It should be able to lift your shirt.”
Constance tried again, and was rewarded with, “Not horrible,” which she had learned was Rhett’s way of saying she was improving.
“You’re pulling a little early, though, which is common.” Rhett went through the movement again. “Delay the second pull. Then the arms look a little like a scarecrow.”
Constance thought of Daddy’s scarecrow, still out in front of the house, with its bent elbows, forearms hanging down and creepy grin. I’ve got to become Daddy’s scarecrow, she thought, and rather than reflecting on the irony she imitated Rhett’s movements, going slowly and getting quicker by her fifth try.
Rescue You Page 11