Juliette and the Monday ManDates

by Becky Doughty

  Then he reached for her hand again, and together they walked to her front door. When she began fumbling with her keys, he took them from her. "Let me."

  She waited silently while he unlocked her door and pushed it open. He didn't move though, but stood blocking the entrance with his large frame.

  "Listen, Juliette." His tone was suddenly serious. "The Petersons are like family to me, so the fact that you liked them means a lot to me." He reached up and brushed her cheek again the same way he'd done earlier, but this time he turned his hand around so he was cupping her face. She closed her eyes, relishing in the feel of his roughened palm against her skin. "It would also mean a lot to me if I thought you liked me a little, too."

  His words and his touch gave her courage, and she stepped forward to place her hand on his chest, her fingers lightly brushing across a white button near his collar. "I do like the Petersons, but I was there tonight because of you, Victor." She looked up into his eyes and smiled, bold and shy at the same time.

  Victor let go of the door and covered her hand with one of his, pressing it hard over his pounding heart. "Can you feel it? That's because of you, Juliette." His voice was husky as he echoed her words. He dipped his head and rested his forehead on hers, his eyes closed. She smiled to herself, feeling the pulse of his body against her palm. Victor slid his free arm around her, his hand pressing into the dip at the base of her spine, pulling her the last few inches toward him. Heat spread through her body as she let herself relax against him, and she sighed, a soft exhalation of the breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. He held her there, one arm around her, the other still pressing her hand to his chest, as he swayed a little, back and forth, moving to a melody only he could hear.

  Finally he spoke, softly, gently. "I'm going to leave now." His abrupt words surprised her at first, but then she realized they were at an impasse. Neither wanted the night to end, and both knew it had to. She was glad to let him take the lead.

  She stepped out of his embrace and put her hands up to her warm cheeks. "Good night, then, Officer Jarrett." She nodded, a happy smile on her face.

  "Good night, Ms. Gustafson." His expression was a mirror of hers.

  She went inside, closed the door and leaned against it. Her chest was so tight it almost hurt to breathe, but it was a wonderful pain, and she sighed, reveling in her suffering. She crossed to the window to watch him leave, and her brow furrowed in confusion.

  Victor stood on the sidewalk beside his car, twirling his keys on his finger. He stared at her house for the longest time, then turned and made his way around to the driver's side of the car and opened the door. He stood inside the open door for a few moments, looking back at the house, then stepped away from the car, and let the door swing closed again. Back up on the sidewalk he came and started up the walk a few steps, before turning around again, and going back to his car. This time he climbed in and pulled the door shut behind him. But he still didn't start it up; he just sat there in the parked vehicle.

  For the life of her she couldn't figure out what he was doing. She was just beginning to think there might be something wrong with the car when he started it up and pulled away.

  Suddenly, the car swerved back toward the curb in front of Mrs. Cork's place, jerked to a stop, and Victor threw open the door and climbed out. He slammed it behind him and marched up the sidewalk, up the walkway toward her door, his long strides covering the distance in record time. He cleared all three steps in one leap.

  She pulled the door open and they stood, facing each other, her eyes large with uncertainty, his intense, almost fierce.

  Then he moved, stepping into her, his hands cupping her face, drawing her body up against him as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  She didn't resist, not even for a moment, as he kissed her, gently at first, his lips pressed against hers, then with more fervor, as he felt her lean into him, opening to him.

  When she let out a soft sigh, he abruptly released her as though she'd reprimanded him. He stepped back, his hands hanging limply at his sides. He stared at her, his face pale.

  "Juliette." His voice broke off, like his throat was being squeezed. She stood in the middle of the entry, afraid to move lest her legs give out from under her, and stared back at him. Then she felt her own throat tightening, and heat beginning to creep up her neck. Her nose started to tingle and she knew she was going to cry.

  "Juliette," he groaned, realizing it too, and he moved toward her once more, taking her in his arms again, and cradling her to him, one large hand at the back of her head, holding her against his chest as her tears fell. "I'm so sorry," he muttered. "I'm sorry."

  Finally, without pulling away, he whispered, "Did I hurt you?"

  "No." She felt his relief as his body relaxed, and he rested his cheek on the top of her head.

  "I don't understand what's happening to me, Juliette. I couldn't leave. I tried." He stroked her back absentmindedly, comforting them both. "I can't seem to find my footing when I'm around you. You make me act a little insane, and that's not fair because it sounds like I'm blaming you for my lack of self-control. I know it's not your fault, but I don't act like this around anyone else. I didn't mean to scare you, but I'm a little scared myself."

  "You didn't scare me," she murmured.

  "Then why are you crying?"

  She paused. "I'm embarrassed to say," she finally replied.

  "Come on, Juliette. Tell me what I did to make you cry." He tipped her face up with a finger under her chin. "Please."

  "You didn't do anything wrong, believe me. I cry when I'm happy, too. It's just that you make me feel—I feel—I don't know. I feel beautiful tonight, and I haven't felt that way in a long time." Her words faded to a whisper and she pulled her chin out of his grasp, pressing a burning cheek to his chest again.

  Victor leaned back a little. "Juliette, look at me." He waited until she lifted her eyes to his. "You are beautiful." He brought one hand back up to cup her face again. "You are so beautiful." His thumb rubbed gently along her cheekbone, his long fingers tangled in the hair behind her ear, and his eyes stayed open, watching her as he lowered his head again, and kissed her ever so sweetly on the lips, on the nose, on each eye, then back to her mouth, where he whispered, "You are beautiful."

  She submitted to his tender assault, kissing him back when he let her, nibbling at his lips when they lingered long enough on hers.

  Finally, he lifted his head, his gaze heavy in a way that warmed her blood even more, and he stepped back, taking her hands in his. He brought first one, then the other, to his lips, and placed a tender kiss on the knuckles of each. His voice vibrated when he spoke. "I should leave now."

  She nodded, not trusting her own voice.

  "Goodnight, Juliette."

  "Goodnight, Victor."

  He turned and made his way down the walk to his car, climbed in, and drove away. She closed the door and locked it, knowing he would not return tonight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED gloriously but Juliette stayed in bed. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and covered her face with one of her many pillows, blocking out the brilliant sun trying to force its cheer in through the tilted blinds.

  "Go away," she muttered to the morning.

  When she'd gone to bed last night, she was sure she'd lie awake for hours, playing over and over the incredible evening with Victor. She must have been completely worn out, however, because she fell asleep before she got to the kissing part.

  "I didn't even dream about it," she whined to the empty room.

  She did dream about Angela, though, and that's what had her wanting to bury her head. In the dream, instead of Angela, it was Juliette who'd been at the wheel of the out-of-control car. It was Juliette who drove faster and faster, careening through the busy streets of Midtown. But it was still Angela's terrified cries echoing through her memory long after she was awake.

  Juliette concentrated on Victor, trying to recapture the intensity
of his gaze, the feel of his arms around her, and the firm lines of his body against hers, but her thoughts kept stumbling over Angela.

  Angela, Angela, Angela.

  Finally she gave up, dug herself out of her burrow, and trudged grumpily into the kitchen to put on some coffee. She toasted a blueberry bagel, slathered it with too much strawberry-flavored cream cheese, and licked the knife rebelliously. Then she headed back to bed with both. She was overdue to wash her sheets anyway.

  Propped up against her plethora of pillows, caffeinated and fed, she felt herself begin to relax a little. She considered going to church, but she wasn't quite ready to hear again Pastor Eric's message about forgiveness and carrying each other's burdens.

  Angela. Forgive her? Forgive and forget her cataclysmic collision into their lives? Yet that was what God seemed to be asking her to do. She knew it like she knew what color pants she'd wear to work on Monday.

  "But how, God? How?" she asked into the air. "How do I forget my graduation and the look on Grandpa and Granny G's faces, the shock on Renata's? Or the stillness in Phoebe's eyes? How do I forget Gia crying for Maman and Papa to come and take us home?" Her throat was tight and she slid down beneath the blankets again, burrowing under the pillows until she felt completely cocooned. Protected by the muffled silence, she allowed her mind to wander unchecked as she imagined what her parents would be like today.

  I wonder what Angela is like today.

  The thought came unbidden, intruding on her memories, and she tried to push it away. She didn't want to think about Angela, not now, not here in Pillowland. But try as she might, she could not make the girl leave. No, the woman. Her classmate would be a thirty-something-year-old woman now, just like Juliette. Did she still have corn-silk hair and laughing brown eyes? Had she gained a hundred pounds on prison fare or could she still wear her cheerleader uniform?

  Did she still sing?

  Angela Clinton performed at almost every school event during their last two years of high school. She had pipes that stunned people into silence the moment she released her first note. It was a natural gift, one that had been discovered by a fellow cheerleader in tenth grade, and had catapulted Angela to small town stardom. She sang the National Anthem at every sports activity. She won awards for the school's choirs in state-wide musical competitions, and she held lead roles in all the drama department's musicals. Angela's face was on the cover of many a local newspaper, and she had an online presence that would make most politicians green with envy. She was funny and personable; her gift had not made her prideful or unapproachable. It helped that she was absolutely adorable in a svelte, pixie-like way. People liked to look at her, to be around her, and they liked to be considered one of her friends.

  Juliette always wondered, with so many friends, why Angela had been driving to graduation alone that day.

  The Gustafson girls never talked to each other about her anymore. After Juliette's post-trial melt-down, the topic of Angela became taboo.

  Well, maybe it was time to drag the girl out of the deep, dark, locked-up place of pain and silence, and finally face her again. Could she do it? Could any of them?

  The relationships the sisters shared were rather unorthodox. They were so different, each girl, and had they not been related, they would likely not have been close, if friends at all. This was something they'd often discussed and were proud of in an odd, inverted way. Their bonds went deeper than simply liking each other or getting along. They were joined by blood and bone, first and foremost, but also by that fateful day that changed the direction of their lives in one defining moment.

  And somewhere in her heart, Juliette was just a little afraid that if they opened up that moment, if they freed Angela from her solitary confinement, then they'd be freed from one another, too. The cords that bound them together would be loosed, and they would no longer need each other with the same under-lying desperation as they did now. Was she willing to take that risk?

  When she finally emerged from Pillowland, she was no nearer a solution to her dilemma. She knew it was time to deal with Angela; she also knew she wasn't strong enough to do it on her own.

  "Victor," she whispered, wishing she could call him, but knowing that burdening him when this new thing between them was just beginning to unfurl would be disastrous. "Victor," she murmured again, warmth spreading through her at the thought of him. "Victor." She wrapped her arms around herself, longing to feel his strength instead of her weakness.

  She thought about calling Victor's friend, Michelle. The woman seemed so sincere last night, but in the light of day, she might feel differently. And to be honest, Juliette wasn't very enthusiastic about calling a brand new friend and unloading on her. What a downer of a phone call that would be!

  She sighed and leaned over the side of her bed to pick up the Bible that had slipped to the floor last night. Michelle also included a verse on the little piece of paper and Juliette had read it several times, letting the words sink in.

  "Come to Me, all who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."

  The thought of sharing her burden with Jesus, the idea that He wanted to come along side her and walk through life connected to her, was more than she could comprehend. She longed for the rest for her soul He offered, and she knew all she had to do was accept it, just like Trevor had said. "Receive it, receive His love. He wants to love you." But how? There seemed to be no answer to that question.

  Finally, she climbed out of bed and headed for the shower. She couldn't lie there all day, waiting for answers that weren't coming. She had to get out and do something, anything.

  It was, after all, a glorious day, and she had something to celebrate.

  Victor Jarrett had kissed her last night. For real.

  ARMED WITH HER BIBLE and a notebook, Juliette walked the two blocks to the neighborhood park. She hoped the crisp October morning would help clear her head a little. There were a few parents with children around the playground and a young man walked a brindle-coated Great Dane on a short lead, but the park wasn't very busy, and she was grateful. She located a secluded bench where she could watch the comings and goings and made herself comfortable, stretching her jeans-clad legs out in front of her.

  As she sat in the cool of the shade, her mind wandered back over the puzzle of Angela. Once she'd allowed herself to consider what she was like today, Juliette could think of nothing else. When Angela was sentenced, she'd gone to a correctional institute for women only a few hours' drive from town. Was she still there? Did they move long-term prisoners from jail to jail? Did her parents visit her? Had the Clintons stayed here in Midtown all these years, not wanting to be too far from their daughter? She had never considered them before; it was as though Angela's family had disappeared behind the bars of her prison cell right along with their daughter.

  But the truth was that they, just like the remnant of the Gustafson family, had gone on living their lives. Somewhere, maybe even close by, Angela Clinton's mother and father had continued to get up every day, to face the world with the knowledge that Angela was a murderer; that vivacious, gregarious, inhumanly flexible, and oh, so musical Angela, had recklessly killed the beloved parents of four young girls, forever changing their lives.

  The Clintons' lives had forever changed that day, too, she belatedly realized. Juliette had never before considered how the accident might have affected them. She'd never wondered about Angela's mother, how the woman endured throughout the whole horrific ordeal. She'd never given thought to how difficult it must have been for Mr. Clinton to keep his family strong during the public exposure of their personal lives, while his daughter's name was plastered all over the headlines as the worst kind of teenager.

  And she certainly had never imagined Angela as an outcast, an orphan in her own right. The girl had been sent to prison, broken and alone, forever condemned an
d labeled, removed from the life she'd always known.

  No! She would not feel compassion for the girl! She was the orphan, not Angela! She, and Renata, and Phoebe, and Gia. Maybe Angela couldn't actually see her parents anytime time she wanted to, but she could contact them any time she needed them. Juliette, on the other hand, would never hear her mother's voice again. She would never feel her father's arms around her. She would never again be able to sit across the table from them and talk about life, about boys. About Jesus.

  Visit Angela. No.

  Visit Angela. No.

  Visit Angela.

  "No!" She said the word out loud, her voice cracking on the single syllable. A woman pushing her little boy on a swing across the way glanced up at her, mild curiosity on her face. Juliette smiled self-consciously, sat up straight, and opened her notebook, trying to look like a normal person instead of a crazy freak, sitting in a corner by herself, yelling at no one.

  The blank page on her lap stared up at her, its emptiness mocking her racing thoughts. The notion to visit Angela had taken her completely by surprise and her heart pounded in her chest. She had no desire whatsoever to see Angela again. She was perfectly content with not having answers to her questions about the Clinton family.

  "What if I just write her a letter?" Juliette whispered, searching for a compromise.

  She slipped the pen from the spiral binding of the notebook and wrote Angela. The girl's name seemed to sit on top of the crisp white paper with its water-blue lines, as though even the fibers wanted to push the letters away. Juliette stared at it for several minutes, her pen poised for more, but nothing came.

  Sighing deeply, she laid both the Bible and the notebook on the bench, and stretched her legs out in front of her again. She leaned back and looked up into the branches overhead, squinting her eyes at the flickering light filtering through the leaves. "You know," she muttered quietly, not wanting to draw anyone's attention, "I didn't have to make decisions about Angela Clinton a month ago. Why can't things just stay the same, at least regarding her? Why are you making me think about her now; worry about her?"