The local women he’d had relationships with knew who he was and where he’d been. He’d never had to sit them down and tell them the sordid details of his past. But Diana knew none of that. He should have told her.
How could he? She’d been so open, so eager. So ready to rock and roll. And he’d wanted her the way a thirsty man wants water, the way a drowning man wants air. He’d wanted her from the moment he’d seen her at the Faulk Street Tavern and that song from the jukebox had snared them in its web. Was he supposed to stop everything and say, “Before we get it on, let me tell you about my criminal record.”
Yes. That was exactly what he was supposed to do.
And he didn’t do it.
He glanced at the clock on his night table. Midnight. He wanted to call Ed Nolan, but if he did, he’d either wake the poor guy up or interrupt whatever he might be doing with Gus. Besides, he already knew what Ed would say: You should have told her.
Tomorrow. When they woke up. First thing. He’d come clean.
Which left the rest of tonight. Maybe, if he wrapped himself around her, and embraced her beautiful body, and nuzzled his face into her thick, silky hair, he’d be able to fall sleep.
Fat chance. Just thinking about that caused his dick to perk right up.
Maybe he didn’t have to tell her. After all, this wasn’t the romance of the century. They were hot for each other—hot like one of those thousand-acre forest fires they were always experiencing out west—but it wasn’t as if he and Diana were heading toward ’til-death-do-us-part vows. In a day, or two, or maybe a week, she would return to her life in Boston. She’d stop slumming with a working-class kid from Brogan’s Point and go back home to her antiques and her tailored wardrobe and her blue-blood friends. This was a vacation for her. A few days away from it all, spending time in a luxurious inn overlooking the water and enjoying some crazy-hot sex with a local. Nobody was saying anything about a permanent commitment.
He wasn’t going to ask her to marry him. He couldn’t afford the sort of diamond ring she was used to. He couldn’t afford her. They would have some fun, they’d screw their heads off, and then they would say goodbye. Why drag the ugly truth into it?
What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Why not let her believe Nick was a noble, upstanding citizen with an unblemished past? Why disillusion her?
He settled deeper into the pillow, slung one arm around her narrow waist and drew her back against him. The position didn’t do much to ease his aroused state, but somehow, he managed to drift off to sleep.
***
They went to Riley’s for breakfast. Rita spotted them as they entered the place, arched an eyebrow at the sight of Diana pressed close to Nick’s side as they waded into the usual breakfast crowd lining up along the counter and swarming near the cashier, and pointed toward the rear of the eatery. With his hand at the small of her back, Nick guided Diana through the throng until he spotted the empty table Rita had indicated.
“It pays to have a friend on the staff,” Diana said as she slid onto the banquette facing Nick. “Weren’t all those people waiting for tables?”
“Some of them,” Nick conceded. “Rita looks out for me.”
“I think she has a crush on you,” Diana said. Her voice had a teasing lilt to it, but her cheeks darkened to a slightly deeper pink.
“Yeah, right.” He shook his head. “Not a chance. She knows me too well.” Just speaking those words reminded him of what Diana didn’t know. Tell her, the angel on his left shoulder whispered. Leave it alone, the devil on his right argued.
Rita arrived at their table with a decanter of steaming coffee in one hand, two mugs in the other, and two laminated menus wedged between her elbow and her ribs. She set the two mugs down, filled them with coffee without waiting to be asked, and handed Nick and Diana the menus. “The blueberry pancakes look really good today,” she said before sauntering away.
“Blueberry pancakes.” Diana’s eyes widened. “I can’t remember the last time I had pancakes.”
“Then order them.”
“It’ll be too much. I’m not used to eating a big breakfast—especially when I didn’t jog.”
“You can jog later,” Nick suggested. He signaled Rita, who hurried back to their table. “Two orders of the blueberry pancakes,” he said. “You sold us. Orange juice?” he asked Diana.
“Can I get a small one?”
“Two small OJ’s,” Nick requested, taking Diana’s menu from her and handing it and his own to Rita. As soon as Rita waltzed away, the angel on his left shoulder started nagging him again. Tell her.
“The last time I had pancakes was over a year ago, at the bridal shower for one of my friends at the Harvard Club,” she said. Her face was bright, her voice bubbly. “They had a buffet, and I made a pig of myself. But, you know, it was a party…” She went on, describing the buffet, describing the décor, describing the gifts her friend had gotten.
The Harvard Club, the devil on his right shoulder whispered. Diana was way out of Nick’s league. Why bare his soul to her? She’d be returning to her friends and her Harvard Club parties before long.
So it went over breakfast, as they feasted on what, Diana admitted, were tastier pancakes than the one she’d consumed at the Harvard Club. She told Nick about what the rest of her day would be like—getting to the house ahead of the movers, sorting the goods into valuable stuff and probable junk, overseeing the packing of the valuable stuff, making sure everything wound up on the truck, handing over a check. Tomorrow she would head to the warehouse, where she’d meet an appraiser and start working through the inventory, once again sorting items. The pieces with no value would be donated to appropriate charities. The pieces with modest value would be priced and sold as quickly as possible. The truly valuable pieces would be inspected and sent to restorers, if necessary. Once those pieces were in pristine condition, they would be photographed for Shomback-Sawyer’s catalog, posted on the firm’s website, and possibly included in an auction.
The process, as she described it sounded interesting. Too interesting for him to interrupt her and launch into a speech about his criminal past.
“I’m talking too much,” she admitted sheepishly, then used her fork and knife to lift half a pancake from her plate and deposit it on his, as if they’d been sharing breakfasts for years. “What’s on tap for you today?”
“The usual,” he said. “I’ve got to prepare a funding report for the town’s budget committee. I have a meeting with one of the nurses at the high school. They’ve got a couple of pregnant girls enrolled, and we’re monitoring things closely to make sure the girls stay in school. The girls don’t want to meet with me personally, but I’m coordinating things with the state’s Department of Health and Human Services. We want to make sure the girls have every support they need to stay in school.”
Diana sighed. “What you do is so important! I feel so petty. Who needs an antique gramophone? Those girls are fighting for their future.”
Nick snorted and shook his head. “Yeah, I’m such a saint.” Tell her.
“After last night, I know you’re no saint,” she teased, her cheeks flushing with color again. He loved the way she could hit him with a bawdy joke, even if she embarrassed herself way more than him.
They finished their breakfast, Nick polishing off the chunk of pancake Diana had passed along to him, and he handed his travel mug to Rita for a fill-up. Diana took out her credit card, but Nick brushed it away and replaced it with his own. If he wasn’t going to come clean with her, the least he could do was pay the bill.
It wasn’t enough. He should come clean. But being with her, bantering with her, gazing into her sparkling hazel eyes and remembering the lush warmth of her body as he’d made love to her… He wasn’t ready to end things yet. And telling her the truth would end things. He knew it would.
He’d let this adventure play out a little longer. He’d keep his mouth shut, and then she’d go home, and she’d never have to know.
&nb
sp; ***
The moment Nick Fiore entered the Faulk Street Tavern, Gus could tell that he was a changed man. That song had exerted its magic over him, after all.
She couldn’t say he looked better. Or, for that matter, worse. He just looked…changed.
At two in the afternoon, Carl Stanton was in his usual seat at one end of the bar, drinking coffee—on the house. Gus refused to sell him any drink with liquor in it, but she wasn’t going to make him pay for a drink he didn’t really want. He was sad, sulking, angry with her for denying him the whisky he’d ordered, angry with his wife for refusing to let him keep any whisky in the house. At least he was smart enough not to keep a bottle in his car. If Gus ever found out Carl was doing something as stupid as drinking while driving, she’d have Ed all over him before he could beep his horn.
Manny was mopping the dance floor. He put a lot of muscle into it—and he was endowed with a considerable amount of muscle—but the floor would be sticky again by nine that night. Gus wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if people were deliberately splashing their drinks as they walked around.
She was slicing lemons and limes as Nick crossed the room to her. “What can I get you?” she asked as he settled onto a stool.
“A ginger ale, if you’ve got it.”
She smiled, reached into the fridge below the bar and pulled out a can. “What else? You look like you need more than a soda.”
“I need Ed,” he admitted. “Is he around?”
She shook her head. “There was a fire down on Crawford Road, that old farm stand. Nobody hurt, but it looks like arson. Ed’s over there with the fire chief.”
Nick’s eyebrows flicked upward. “Rossetti’s? That place has been empty for years.”
“It’s been up for sale for years. No takers. I think someone decided to get rid of it the easy way, maybe collect some insurance money.”
“Well.” Nick sipped his soda. “At least no one got hurt.”
“That’s an advantage of setting empty structures on fire,” Gus noted. She lifted her knife and resumed slicing a lemon, shaping neat, thin wedges. “Anything I can help you with?”
Nick shook his head.
Gus waited patiently. Patience was one of the most important traits a bartender could possess. People came into her establishment to drink, to party, to have a good time—but they also came because they were looking for something. Often what they were looking for was a sympathetic ear. You just had to wait them out.
After a long, thoughtful silence, Nick asked, “Why can’t we ever escape our pasts?”
“Why can’t we escape our noses? They’re a part of us.”
“You can get a nose job.”
“Hmm. Well, I don’t think medical science has come up with some sort of surgery to alter our pasts.”
“You can delete data on a computer.”
“But it’s still there. Ed tells me the forensics guys can dig out all kinds of evidence people thought they deleted. Porn sites. Emails to lovers. All kinds of stuff. You think you’ve erased it, but it’s still there if a person looks for it.”
“How about if a person doesn’t look for it?”
She added the slices of lemon to a bowl and shrugged. “It’s still there.”
He nodded and drank some more soda. “I’ve got to tell Diana, don’t I.”
Gus recalled the pretty, doe-eyed woman who’d offered to buy the jukebox a couple of days ago—the pretty, doe-eyed woman who’d gotten caught up in “Changes” along with Nick. “I thought she was wearing an engagement ring,” Gus said.
“Not anymore. She broke off the engagement.”
“She changed, huh.”
Nick flashed a dark look at Gus. “All right. Let’s assume I wanted to change, too. Why can’t I change the part of me from my past that I don’t like?”
“You know what, Nick?” Gus set down her knife. “That part from your past isn’t so bad. I mean, sure, it’s bad, but it happened. It’s over. You got screwed, but you overcame it.”
“Some people don’t think I got screwed.”
“I do. Ed does.” She reached for a lime. “The folks who don’t think you got screwed aren’t worth worrying about.” She sliced. “Is Diana worth worrying about?”
“Yeah.” The word slipped out and Nick winced, as if he hadn’t wanted to admit that.
“Tell her,” Gus said. “If it scares her away, then she’s not worth it. If she’s worth it, she won’t be scared away.”
Nick sighed. He nodded. He drained his glass, stood, and slapped a couple of dollars onto the bar. “You’re a goddess, Gus,” he said as he stood. “I don’t know how Ed ever managed to snag you.”
“He got lucky,” Gus deadpanned.
Nick laughed a little forlornly, turned and strode across the room to the door. Gus watched him leave. He had it bad, she thought. One song, and he was a goner.
She hoped he would be as lucky as Ed.
***
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Diana headed back to the Ocean Bluff Inn, most of the day was gone, and she was rumpled and covered with dust. Even though the movers did the heavy lifting, her back ached from hand-wrapping so many delicate items and arranging them inside cartons and crates. Her hair looked like a skein of yarn after a litter of kittens had played in it, and her shirt was smudged with dirt.
She couldn’t remember ever being this happy.
She’d scored a major professional coup. And she’d be seeing Nick tonight. Life didn’t get any better.
Which meant, of course, that life could get worse. She was stripped down to her underwear, ready to climb into the porcelain claw-foot tub in the bathroom attached to her room, when her cell phone rang. She lifted it, read the caller’s name on the screen, and grimaced. Taking a deep breath to steel herself, she thumbed the connect icon. “Hello, Mom.”
“Diana. Good grief, what is going on?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Diana said as smoothly as she could. “How are you?”
“I’m in shock. Peter contacted us yesterday and told us you gave him back his ring. What is the problem? Did you want a different stone? A different setting?”
Diana shook her head to clear it. What planet was her mother calling from? “Mom. I gave him back the ring because I broke up with him. The engagement is off.”
“No!” Her mother sounded so shocked, it occurred to Diana that Peter hadn’t told her parents the truth. Apparently, he’d told them she’d returned his ring, but not why. “How can that be?”
It further occurred to Diana that her mother was so fixated on Diana’s marriage to Peter—and had been so attached to the idea practically since the day Diana was born—that the notion of this marriage not happening struck her as preposterous, beyond the realm of the believable.
Everyone wanted Diana and Peter to marry. Everyone expected it. How could Diana dare to thwart destiny?
“I’m sorry, Mom. I wanted to give the reality a chance to sink in before I told you and Dad. But…I realized I wasn’t happy with Peter. I don’t think I could ever be happy with him.”
“Of course you can be happy with him. He’s a good man, Diana. And from such a good family.”
“And he’ll make some other woman a good husband,” Diana said. “His family is great. This has nothing to do with his family. It has to do with the fact that when I’m with him, I knock myself out trying to please him. I’m always giving in to his wishes, always worrying about whether he’s happy—and when he isn’t, I’m worrying about what I should do to make him happy.”
“That’s what marriage is all about,” her mother said. “Making each other happy.”
“He doesn’t make me happy,” Diana countered. “And honestly, I don’t know if I make him happy, either. I try so damned hard. I shouldn’t have to try that hard.”
“A successful marriage takes work,” her mother said.
A successful marriage also took balance. It took both partners working at it.
And it t
ook great sex, she thought, a flush of heat surging through her body as she remembered the night she’d spent in Nick’s bed.
“Mom, you’ll just have to trust me on this. I’m doing what’s right for myself.”
“For yourself,” her mother said scornfully. “Apparently, what’s right for everyone else is irrelevant to you.”
Diana flinched. Did her mother really believe that Diana’s happiness wasn’t as important as her own? Or Peter’s? Or Peter’s parents’? “It’s my life,” Diana said, doing her best to filter her rage out of her tone. And wasn’t that typical of her? Once again, she was more worried about upsetting her mother than her mother was about upsetting her. She sighed and said, “I’ve got to go.” If she prolonged the conversation, her words would be like lighter fluid on hot coals. Flames would erupt. The conversation would turn into an conflagration. “I’m about to take a bath. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Good idea,” her mother said, and for a hopeful moment, Diana believed her mother was as eager as she was to step back from the flames and let the embers cool. “I’m sure once you sleep on it, you’ll realize that you and Peter are perfect for each other. We’ll get this marriage back on track.”
We? Diana shook her head. No, Mom. We will not. Diana’s marriage was not a group project. It was not a committee decision. It was her life.
“I’ve changed,” she blurted out, realizing as soon as she spoke that her mother would have no idea what Diana was talking about. How could she explain about the jukebox, the song, her newfound confidence, her professional accomplishment? How could she explain about Nick? “I’d better go,” she said more quietly. “And I’m sorry, but I’m not marrying Peter.”
She was still fuming when she stripped off her bra and panties and sank into the steaming water that filled the tub. Why had she said she was sorry? Why did she have to apologize for making her own decisions and determining her own future?
She’d changed, but she had more changing to do. Each change led to another change. Two days ago, she’d become more self-assured in her work. Yesterday she’d become more assertive about her personal life. Last night…
Changes (The Magic Jukebox Book 1) Page 12