Juliette and the Monday ManDates

by Becky Doughty

  "Yes," he nodded, his smile broadening. "But it's good to officially meet you, Ms. Gustafson."

  "It's good to officially meet you, too, Officer Jarrett."

  "I'm glad all is well here. If anything changes, please don't hesitate to call the station. Your neighborhood is part of my beat, by the way, so I'll be watching out for you."

  When he reached his car, he turned and saluted, flashing her a grin that made a ribbon of heat swirl up inside her. She slipped inside her home, closed the door gently, dropped the security chain back in place, and sighed rather femininely.

  VICTOR WORKED THE SWING shift because he preferred it. He liked the evening crowd of civilians; it seemed people were generally more relaxed and better-behaved than they were during working hours, or in the middle of the night, at least in this small Southern California town.

  In contrast, on the day shift, he issued speeding tickets to disgruntled drivers who were already late to work, and during the lunch hour, folks were even angrier at him for cutting into their precious break time. By two o'clock, the end of the shift, still an hour away, seemed forever in coming.

  Graveyard was worse. There was no reasoning with alcohol, and when the bars shut down around two in the morning, he never knew what to expect. Something about the dark of night seemed to trigger a surge of human depravity, and Victor had seen the worst of his cases while working graveyard. He understood it was called that because it made the person working the shift feel like the walking dead, but he believed it had more to do with the fact that death had a vested interest between midnight and the early hours of the morning. Because of his clean record and seniority, he didn't have to work graveyard often, but when he did, he put on prayer like he put on his uniform, and he didn't say 'amen' until he was back home again.

  His uniform gave him the authority to participate and intervene if necessary, but always with a degree of detachment that allowed him the space he needed to keep a clear head. Yeah, he knew there were some real psychological issues in that way of thinking, but by the grace of God, he'd come a long way from the angry little punk he'd been when he left home, and he simply preferred things black and white.

  Someday, he was certain, the right woman would come along who understood his level-headed nature and respected his need for order. They'd get married, have a few kids, and grow old together.

  He just hadn't met her yet.

  It wasn't for lack of trying. In fact, just over a year ago, he'd quietly proposed to his girlfriend, but Amanda turned him down, explaining that she was "somewhat bored" with their relationship. Well, so was he, and he liked it that way. He didn't want drama. He didn't want emotional highs and lows. He wanted to be able to count on the woman in his life to be who, and what, and where she said she was going to be, and in return, he would do the same for her. He and Amanda parted ways with one last dinner at her favorite restaurant, followed by a warm hug and a cool kiss.

  He shook his head as he compared the gentle, rational Amanda to Juliette Gustafson.

  "It's no wonder the boyfriend bailed," he muttered to himself. The myriad of emotions he'd witnessed on her face in just three encounters made him grimace. He wasn't interested in emotionally unstable or unpredictable women. He'd had enough of them to last him a lifetime.

  Victor left home a month before his eighteenth birthday under the barrage of his mother's weeping, and then cursing when the tears had no effect on his decision to leave. He crossed the little lawn he'd neatly mowed and trimmed the day before, tossed his duffel bag in the bed of his pick-up, folded his lanky frame into the driver's seat, and pulled away, leaving behind the houseful of women; free at last.

  He made a point to visit a few times a year. Loreena laid a guilt trip on him every time, even as he walked in the front door bearing flowers and gifts, and of course, cash. The money always seemed to appease her enough to allow him to stay for a few days.

  During those visits, he did his best to tolerate his older sisters, twins, who moved in and out of the house between boyfriends. Darlene and Sasha were still just as manipulative and obnoxious as they'd been growing up. From the time he was old enough to care, they'd taken every opportunity to humiliate and embarrass him, especially in public, and they still hadn't grown out of it.

  Victor loved his family. He especially loved the fact that they lived nowhere near him, because truth be told, he didn't like them very much.

  So what was it about this Gustafson woman that had him thinking of his sisters? When it came right down to it, they had nothing in common but the fact that Ms. Gustafson's behavior unsettled him. She dressed modestly, she didn't wear her make-up like she was in an 80's girl band, and once she calmed down, she seemed almost reasonable; nothing at all like Darlene and Sasha.

  Maybe it was that unexpected desire in him to make sure she was okay that disconcerted him. Even though they weren't close, even though they drove him absolutely mad with their antics, Victor still felt responsible for restoring order to his mother and sisters' lives whenever things got out of control for them. Even if it just meant showing up with money, the only love language they seemed to understand. Although he barely knew her, something about Juliette Gustafson stirred the same desire in him to rescue her, to set things right for her.

  And he didn't like it one bit.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “GUESS WHO STOPPED BY for a visit last night?" Juliette tried in vain to spear a piece of broccoli with her plastic fork, chasing it around the plastic bowl until she gave up and picked it up with her fingers.

  "Not Mike! Did you call the police?"

  Juliette rolled her eyes at the irony of Sharon's question. "Funny you mention the police. No, I didn't call the cops. The cops called on me."

  "You lost me there, Juju." They were eating lunch at Sharon's desk, having opted to pick up food from the cafeteria and return to their office to visit.

  "So you don't know anything about it?"

  "About what?" The curiosity in Sharon's eyes seemed sincere.

  "Officer Jarrett came by to check on me last night."

  "No way! THE Officer Jarrett? The gorgeous hunk who pulled us over yesterday?" Sharon leaned forward, her eyes round with questions. "Is that even legal? Was he on the clock, or was this an after-hours kind of visit?" She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. "Was he still in uniform?"

  "Whoa!" Juliette sat back in her chair. "Do you ever breathe? And do people still even say 'hunk' anymore?"

  Sharon sighed dramatically. "I can't believe it! What did he want? Wasn't that a little weird for you?" Then she put a hand up to cover her smile. "What were you wearing? Please tell me you weren't ready for bed when he came."

  In answer, Juliette glared across the desk at her friend. Sharon guffawed and clapped her hands. "Not your puppy-face jammies?"

  "Yep," Juliette shrugged. "But I dressed them up with my pink robe."

  "Oh, Juju! That's awesome! But what did he want?"

  "I don't really know. He just said someone called wanting the police to check on me." She eyed Sharon, but her friend shook her head.

  "Wasn't me, girlfriend. If I was that worried, I'd make Chris drive me over. Besides, I'd just spent the last several hours with you, duckie. I knew you were fine, albeit a little psycho." She leaned back in her seat and chortled with delight. "I can't believe you wore your pink robe to the front door! Well? What did he say? Was he nice?" She wiggled her fingers at Juliette. "Details! Give me details!"

  Juliette filled her in on the conversation she'd had with the officer. She didn't tell her how his smile made her knees wobbly and her fingertips tingle, nor did she tell her how good it sounded when he said he'd be watching out for her.

  "I know Ren sent him. I still won't answer her phone calls."

  "I can totally imagine her filing a Missing Persons on you. But if it was Ren, you need to call her and thank her," Sharon teased.

  "I was planning on calling her tonight anyway. She's a pain, but she is my sister."

  Their
conversation meandered from one subject to another, until Sharon commented, "What's up with you? You seem really distracted. Are you thinking about your policeman?"

  Juliette smiled but shook her head. "He's not 'my' policeman, but he certainly didn't make last night any easier for me. I didn't sleep much, I guess. I pulled out the stupid binders and started shredding sample invitations."

  "You let Mike keep you up."

  "No, I barely thought of Mike at all last night." She sighed heavily. "Angela kept me up." For some reason, she'd been consumed by thoughts of Angela, and even when she finally did fall asleep, she dreamed of being in a car with her, Angela driving wildly, out of control, tears streaming from her eyes as she screamed, "I can't stop! I can't stop! Help me, Juliette!" What disturbed her most was that when she awoke, trembling from the vivid dream, the only thing that seemed to settle her was the thought of Victor Jarrett standing in front of her house, promising he'd be watching out for her.

  "Angela Clinton?" Sharon leaned forward, brushing tender fingers along Juliette's forearm. "Oh, Juju, I'm sorry. Where did she come from?"

  "I was thinking about the wonderful wedding I had planned for me and Mike. That's why I was shredding the stupid invitations. It's time to get rid of that whole plan, you know? But in my mind, I pictured what it would be like to walk down the aisle, with all my favorite people in the world around me."

  "How does Angela fit in?"

  "Papa and Maman were there, too, sitting together." Juliette's eyes began to well up. "Sharon, I can't seem to get Maman's face right anymore. I look and look at her pictures, and I know that face like it's my own, but when I try to bring it up in my mind, I can't see it. I've started imagining one of those cute little French birdcage veil thingies so I don't have to get her features right."

  "It's been a long time, Juju," Sharon half-whispered.

  "But I don't want to forget Maman. I want to forget Angela, but for some reason, her face I can see clearer than ever. It's like I have these images of her burned into my brain. In U.S. History, laughing at some stupid thing Mr. Hanson said. On stage at Baccalaureate, singing like an angel with that incredible voice. I can even conjure up an image of her lying in a hospital bed, all broken and bruised, tubes and wires going everywhere, even though I certainly never visited her there. And I can still see her, plain as day, on the stand, begging me to forgive her." Juliette shook her head vehemently. "But I can't, for the life of me, see my own mother's face! Angela is still taking things from me, even after all these years."

  Sharon reached over and pulled a couple tissues from the box on her desk. She kept one for herself and handed the others to Juliette.

  "I just want my Maman today. I feel very lost, and I haven't felt like this in a long time." Juliette dabbed at her tears, careful not to smudge her make-up. "Sorry to unload on you."

  "Oh, please." Sharon snorted. "You always carry way too much on your shoulders. Unload already."

  "Then there's this whole Monday ManDate thing. My sisters are trying so hard to cheer me up and get me past this 'getting-over-Mike' stage, but they don't understand how stressful blind dates can be to someone like me. It really, really stresses me out. I'm sure that's why my emotions are all over the place these days." She blew her nose and reached for another tissue and patted her damp cheeks with it.

  "I'm trying, Sharon. I really am. But Mike was everything to me for so long. Even though I'm totally convinced splitting up was the best thing for me, there's always this horrible little 'but maybe' whispering in the back of my mind. But maybe he might change. But maybe he's missing me and realizing how wrong he was to let me go. But maybe I can convince him that it can work again." She wadded up the tissues and threw them at the trashcan against the far wall, missing it by miles. "What is wrong with me? Why do I even entertain that little voice?"

  Sharon listened while Juliette ranted, refilling their tissue supply as needed. By the time lunch was over, Juliette had a headache, a red nose, smeared make-up in spite of her best dabbing techniques, and some relief from being able to talk through her feelings.

  "Are you going to be okay?" Sharon asked.

  "Yes. Thanks to you." But the rest of the afternoon, Juliette had a difficult time concentrating on her work. Something seemed to be waking up in her, something she didn't understand. Life had been so straight-forward, so neat before she left Mike. She didn't know how to deal with messy, and that's how things were beginning to feel.

  JULIETTE STOOD IN FRONT of the mirror and examined her appearance, something she seemed to be doing a lot of lately. Tonight she wore a layered linen skirt the color of flax—she needed the security of neutral—and a brick red blouse with a ruffled neckline. Her hair was swept back off her face in a loose French twist with a few tendrils whispering against her neck, and she had on a clear lip gloss, having decided to tone down her makeup, too. A pair of garnet earrings sparkled prettily when she turned her head, but that was all the bling she wore. Even her shoes were sensible; she slipped into low-heeled linen sandals and headed for the living room to wait for Frank Clapson.

  Five minutes before seven, someone knocked on the door. Feeling much more prepared this time, she quietly crept to the peephole, not letting her shoes clip the tile.

  "Hm," she mused, pleasantly surprised by what she saw. The man outside her door was very handsome, definitely someone Phoebe would be seen with, and he was armed with a beautiful bouquet of green—green!—roses. She watched him for a few more seconds, but he just patiently waited, not checking his watch, not looking around, not turning to stare longingly over his shoulder at his car, wondering if he could make a mad dash for it and get away unscathed. He didn't seem nervous at all, and that made her even more so. She straightened her shoulders and pulled open the door.

  "Hi," she said. "You must be Frank."

  "I am," he agreed, and took her proffered hand in his. He pumped it once, very aggressively, and released it, and Juliette had to resist the urge to rotate her shoulder a few times, to make sure it wasn't out of joint. Strike one. "And you must be Julie."

  "Juliette." Strike two.

  "Juliette. My apologies." His smile faltered for just a moment, but then he remembered the flowers. "This whole blind date thing is new to me, so I wanted to find flowers that were new to me, too. I've never seen green roses before, have you?"

  Juliette buried her nose in the blooms, breathing deeply of the delicate fragrance. "They're beautiful, Frank. Thank you. And what a nice sentiment."

  "I'm glad you like them," he beamed. "Are you ready?"

  "Let me put these in a vase first. Please, come in." She wedged the door open with a rubber door stop, just in case Phoebe didn't know the man as well as she thought she did, and pointed at the sofa. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll just be a moment." Besides, she'd seen Mrs. Cork's door open and heard her little dog yapping furiously from the front yard. She was certain her neighbor would be paying close attention to what was going over here.

  They decided to wander around a local estate sale shop to pass the time before their dinner reservations. The store was segmented into individual booths, so the options were endless. Frank, as it turned out, was a collector of old stringed instruments, and this was one of his favorite stomping grounds. He pointed out where he'd discovered old mandolins, ancient lutes, even a rare Martin guitar he'd purchased for a mere pittance of what it was worth.

  So far, between the green roses, the way he opened and closed doors for her, and his unique interests, Frank was quickly making up for his first two strikes. Juliette was actually enjoying herself.

  In one booth she found a hammered copper cuff bracelet that had a beautiful marbled patina. She picked it up and studied it, ran her fingers over the chunky curve of it, then returned it to the tray. She turned to leave, then hesitated. She'd never wear the thing, but Phoebe would in a heartbeat. "I think I'll take it after all," she said to the lady who was getting ready to slide the tray back inside the glass counter.

  She ma
de her purchase and it was time to go. While they talked amiably in the car, she noticed Frank kept eying the paper bag that held her bracelet. Finally she asked, "Do you want to see what I bought?"

  "I saw it," he grinned. "I'm just curious why you aren't wearing it."

  "Oh. Well, it's a gift for Phoebe. It's totally her style." She pulled it out and studied it, then slipped it over her wrist, and held it up for him to see.

  "For Phoebe? I thought it was for you. For tonight."

  She shook her head. "I don't wear stuff like this. It's totally not my style."

  He laughed, and cocked his head to look at her, as they pulled up in front of the restaurant. "What do you mean? You're wearing it, and it matches the shirt you've got on. I'd say it totally is your style." He mimicked her, but in a nice way.

  "But I ... I got it for Phoebe," she insisted lamely.

  "And how will she ever know? I won't tell her. Will you?"

  Juliette stared at the bracelet where it encircled her wrist. It did look like it belonged there. She turned to find Frank grinning mischievously at her. "It was never hers," he said. "It was yours the moment you laid eyes on it. I saw the way you touched it." He reached over and ran his fingers over the back of her hand. "The same way I do when I come across something I want."

  Juliette flinched visibly under his touch, and suddenly the air in the car was stifling. Oh no! Was that strike three, or did she start back at strike one again? Frank withdrew his hand, aware of her reaction, and turned off the engine. Please, oh please, don't apologize. Just pretend it didn't happen. Don't apologize, please.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. Your sister told me that you didn't—"

  "Um," Juliette interrupted, holding up her hand. "I don't really want to hear what Phoebe told you about me." Strike two. Or four. But who was counting anymore?