I was the worst birthday girl, ever.
As we sped through the darkness, I kept reminding myself that things could always get worse, which oddly enough they did, just a few minutes later, when we pulled into the long driveway that led to my house.
As it turned out, I was being robbed.
By my least-favorite relatives.
Again.
Chapter 13
Even from a distance, I could make out the familiar white Mercedes as plain as day. It was parked in the turnaround with the doors shut, but the trunk wide open.
Looking at it, I wanted to scream. Instead, I leaned back in my seat and groaned, "Cripes, not again."
"What?" the painter asked.
I gave him a nervous glance. "I've got company."
He stopped the car and turned to study my face. At something in my expression, he cut the engine, along with the headlights. His gaze shifted forward to the Mercedes, and his eyebrows furrowed. "And that's a problem?"
I looked toward the house. Through the eyes of a stranger, there was nothing to be alarmed about. In front of me, there it was, a perfectly pretty scene – a pricey estate with a pricey car parked out front.
Sure, the car's trunk was open, but that wasn't terribly unusual. I'd parked in that same spot countless times, unloading whatever from my own trunk.
But studying that oh-so-pretty picture, I knew something that a stranger wouldn't. If past history was any indicator, the trunk wasn't being emptied. It was being filled.
I just knew it.
I looked to the painter. "It's my aunt and uncle."
He gave me a perplexed look. "And?"
I winced. "And I think they're robbing me."
His gaze shot back to the Mercedes. "You think? Or you know?"
Right on cue, my front door flew open, and a portly middle-aged man with a shock of red hair staggered out through the open doorway. In his arms was a bronze sculpture of a charging war horse.
The man was my uncle. The horse was my dad's – or at least, it had been, back when he'd been alive.
I looked to the painter. "Well, I guess that answers that question."
But the painter wasn't looking at me. He was looking at Uncle Ernie, who was stumbling his way down the front steps, heading toward the trunk of his car.
Before I could even consider what to do, the painter hit the headlights. Under the sudden glare, my uncle froze in mid-stagger, like a farmer caught screwing a chicken.
Next to me, the painter fired up the Camaro and hit the gas. We roared forward and skidded into the turnaround, only to stop on a dime just inches from the back of the Mercedes.
Uncle Ernie staggered sideways. "Son-of-a-bitch!" he yelled, apparently more in surprise than in anger.
I had to give him credit for one thing though. He hadn't dropped the horse. Then again, this wasn't exactly his first rodeo.
I shoved open my car door and jumped out to demand, "What are you doing?"
He glanced around. "Huh?"
Through gritted teeth, I said it again, more slowly this time. "What. Are. You. Doing?"
He gave me a shaky smile. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be at T.J.'s?"
I eyed the horse. "Aren't you supposed to be not robbing my house?"
At this, he had the nerve to look insulted. His gaze shifted to the bronze statue, still clutched in his beefy arms. "You talking about this?"
Yes. I was. And whatever else he was taking. I turned toward the trunk of his car. Inside, I saw an ancient broadsword and a lace tablecloth.
I felt my jaw clench. The sword was a collector's item, worth more than I cared to consider. But it was the tablecloth that really ticked me off. It wasn't a pricey artifact, but it had belonged to my grandmother on my mom's side.
She'd died years before I was born. She hadn't been a wealthy woman. Far from it. Other than a few old photos, the tablecloth was all I had to remember her by. And I actually used the tablecloth, too. I saved it for special occasions, like Christmas, Easter, and the occasional Thanksgiving.
And here, Uncle Ernie was trying to steal it, just like he'd stolen the good china and half of the wine glasses.
Screw that.
I looked back to my uncle and felt my gaze narrow. "How could you?"
He was still looking insulted. "I don't know what you think here, but you've got it all wrong."
Sure I did.
A new voice, the painter's voice, cut across the short distance. "Yeah? Then put it back."
I turned toward the sound and was surprised to see him standing just to my right, giving my uncle the look of death.
My uncle gave a nervous chuckle. "Put what back?"
I made a sound of annoyance. "Oh for God's sake. He means the horse, obviously." I pointed. "The thing you're holding."
My uncle looked to the statue. "This?"
I rolled my eyes. "No. The horse you rode in on."
After a long, awkward moment, my uncle's eyes widened to epic proportions. "What? You think I'm stealing this?"
I stared in stunned silence. At that moment, I could practically see him wearing a straw hat and denim overalls, pooled around his ankles. What chicken? This chicken?
I threw up my hands. "Of course I think you're stealing it. What else would I think?"
My uncle's gaze shifted to the painter. "So, uh, who's that?"
It was the painter who answered. "It's the guy who's gonna kick your fat ass if you don't turn around and put that back where you found it."
Chapter 14
The painter's words echoed in the night. Shocked, I whirled to face him. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but this wasn't it.
It hit me like a ton of bricks that it had been forever since anyone had taken my side, or at least anyone who was willing to make a scene about it.
From the look on the painter's face, he was willing to do more than make a scene. He was willing to make good on his threat. Under the glare of the Camaro's headlights, he looked dark and dangerous, with his fighter's build and tight, coiled muscles.
If I were my uncle? Well, let's just say I'd be galloping back into the house, pronto.
But was he? I turned to look. Nope. He wasn't galloping. He was staring, thunderstruck, at the painter. As I watched, my uncle's face turned nearly as red as his hair. He choked out, "What did you just say?"
"You heard me," the painter said. "Now, put it back." His voice grew a shade darker. "In one piece. Got it?"
A new voice, this one female and filled with false cheer, sounded from the open doorway. "Oh, Melody, what a surprise!"
I looked up and spotted the thin, ferret-faced woman, standing in the open doorway. It was Aunt Vivian, dressed to kill as usual, in black designer clothes and so much jewelry, it was a wonder she didn't topple over.
I gave her a hard look. "If you're surprised, imagine how I feel."
Ignoring the comment, she plastered on a friendly smile and sashayed down the front steps. She claimed the spot next to Uncle Ernie, who was still holding the horse. I saw beads of sweat pooling on his upper lip and signs of dampness under the armpits of his fancy white dress-shirt.
Probably, this was the hardest he'd worked all year. My uncle was, to put it nicely, between jobs. In fact, he'd been between jobs for as long as I could remember, even before the death of my parents.
How long ago was that? Only five years? There were some days, like today, where it felt like a million.
My aunt's voice, dripping with sweetness, yanked my thoughts to the present. "Melody, darling. You never said, why aren't you at T.J.'s?"
That was a good question, and I was angry enough to give her a straight answer. "You mean right now? Maybe it's because…" My voice rose. "…I'm too busy stopping a robbery."
Her hand flew to her mouth, and she made a show of looking around. "What? Where?"
"Cut the act," I said. "I mean you. Here."
Her smile disappeared, replaced by a look of overblown concern. "Oh, dear." She turned to Uncle
Ernie. "I think there's been a terrible misunderstanding." She gave him a meaningful look. "Didn't you explain it to her?"
His face froze. "Uh…"
My aunt continued over him. "We weren't taking these things. We were transporting them." She gave me a sunny smile. "For you."
"Oh yeah?" I made a sound of disgust. "Just like you 'transported' the good china? Was that for me, too?"
"Oh, stop harping on that," she said. "You don't use it, anyway. And, as I've told you many times, when you plan your next party, just let us know." She pursed her lips. "We'll bring it right back."
"Fine," I said. "I'm having a party tomorrow."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "We know you don't entertain."
About this, she was right. I didn't entertain, mostly because I didn't have the money. Forget fancy dinners. I could barely afford pop and pizza.
Pushing that depressing thought aside, I asked, "And how'd you get in this time?"
"The front door," she said. "It was unlocked."
It was the same thing she always said. It was a lie, of course. Before leaving, I'd locked all of the doors and engaged the alarm.
It hadn't stopped them. It never did. By now, I was almost convinced they had a secret entrance or something.
I gave her a dubious look. "Sure it was."
"It was," she insisted. "You really should be more careful." She looked to the painter, and her eyes narrowed. "I see you have a new friend."
I crossed my arms. "Yup."
She gave a loud sigh. "Well? Might I ask for an introduction?"
Next to her, my uncle muttered, "I wouldn’t recommend it."
I looked to the painter and felt a twinge of guilt. He wasn't just "the painter." He had a name – Joel Bishop. I'd seen that name on the check. If he was willing to stick up for me, the least I could do was remember his name.
He was still giving my uncle that ominous look. In passing, I couldn't help but wonder if it was Joel's stare, and not the weight of the horse, that was making my uncle sweat buckets.
Joel moved toward my uncle. "Are you putting that back?" His jaw tightened. "Or not?"
My uncle took a couple of steps backward and cleared his throat. "Uh, sure." He glanced toward the open front door. "I guess I'll just head inside and toss this thing back onto the pedestal."
"Remember," Joel warned, "in one piece."
My aunt spoke up. "Oh, you two, don't be ridiculous."
I wasn't sure who the "two" were. Joel and my uncle? Me and Joel? I paused. My uncle and the horse? I remained silent, hoping to just end this already.
My aunt turned to me and smiled. "In case you haven't guessed, we were taking that lovely horse to your birthday party."
"What birthday party?"
"Why, the one at T.J.'s, of course."
She knew about that? How, I had no idea. But I did know that none of my friends would've invited her. They knew better.
I gave a bitter laugh. "Sure you were."
"We were," she insisted. "I thought it would make the perfect centerpiece. We all know how you love horses."
I didn't love horses. They scared the snot out of me. Aunt Vivian might've known that if our relationship didn't consist mostly of her stopping by to pilfer my stuff.
I pointed toward the open trunk. "And what about the tablecloth?"
"Why, it's for the table, of course." She gave a little laugh. "Your birthday is a special occasion, is it not?"
I didn't bother hiding my disbelief. "Right." Like I'd let anyone spread out my grandma's best tablecloth over some bar in a booth, where who-knows-what could happen to it.
Still, I just had to ask. "And the sword?"
My aunt's gaze shifted to the trunk. "The sword? Well, yes, you see, that's for…" She hesitated, as if unsure what to say next.
Next to her, my uncle suggested, "Cutting the cake?"
My aunt shot him an irritated look, but said nothing.
Again, I looked at the sword, nestled in the folds of the tablecloth. Knowing my aunt, the tablecloth was just padding, something to protect the ancient artifact.
For some reason, that just made everything worse. To me, the tablecloth was priceless. But to them, it was convenient packing material.
As for the sword itself, it was a genuine collector's item. If the notches on its blade were any indicator, it had seen more than its share of action. And yet, I was reasonably certain that none of that action involved cutting baked goods.
I looked back to my relatives. "Forget the party," I told them. "I'm not even going." I reached into the trunk of their car and pulled out the sword with one hand and the tablecloth with the other.
Holding both of them in a death grip, I circled the vehicle, checking for more contraband. I saw nothing else, probably because we'd caught them in the act.
When I finished circling the car, I looked to my aunt and uncle, and felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. The horse was gone.
No. Scratch that. Now, Joel was holding the horse, while my uncle sweated alone.
God, what a spectacle.
And for some reason, watching Joel holding that stupid horse, I felt my eyes grow misty, and my bottom lip start to quiver. But it wasn't with sadness. It was with gratitude.
How messed up was that?
Chapter 15
Together, Joel and I watched from the front steps as the Mercedes sped down the long driveway and disappeared from sight.
Good riddance.
Until next time, anyway.
With a weary sigh, I turned to Joel, only to feel myself pause. He was still holding onto that horse. He looked ridiculous. And dangerous. And, boyish in a way that warmed my heart.
In words that felt woefully inadequate, I said, "Thanks for that."
"For what?" he asked.
"For everything." I made a vague gesture with my hand. "The stuff with Chester, the ride back. And that whole scene with my aunt and uncle." I gave a shaky laugh. "Honestly, I'm surprised you're still here."
He frowned. "Like I'd just take off? And let them rob you?"
I shrugged. "I dunno. I mean, who needs the drama, right?"
He gave me a long, penetrating look, and then turned to scan our surroundings. As I watched, he took in the darkened yard; the massive house; and the long, stately driveway that contained only one car, his.
Around us, the estate was utterly silent, except for the rhythmic sounds of waves lapping somewhere below the bluff.
As the seconds ticked away, I tried to see the place through his eyes.
Of course, he wouldn't see it as a giant pile of debt and decay. He'd see it the way everyone else saw it – as a waterfront estate with ornate architecture, a stately boardroom, and multiple balconies overlooking Lake Michigan in all its ocean-like glory.
Plus, there was the size of the house itself. It was big, thousands of square feet, with two stories, a wine cellar, and enough bedrooms and bathrooms for a family of ten, maybe twenty if people doubled up.
But there weren't twenty people. There was just me, all by myself.
As if reading my thoughts, he asked, "Where's everyone else?"
I hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"Earlier today, there were what, twenty, thirty people here?"
I gave it some thought. Yeah, I guess there were, counting all the applicants, along with Derek and the others who'd been helping with the interviews.
And then, there was Joel. I recalled the two interns who'd been slobbering at the sight of him. I couldn’t help but wonder if they'd caught up with him after leaving the boardroom. I had no clue, and didn't want to speculate.
So instead, I said, "Yeah, well, this time of year it gets kind of crazy."
He gave me a penetrating look. "Crazy how?"
I briefly explained that my dad's foundation was headquartered right here in the estate. And that yes, for a few days a year, the place was pretty crazy during business hours, with tours, applicant interviews, and whatnot. But the rest of the time, t
he estate was just home sweet home.
When I finished, Joel gave the house another long look. His eyebrows furrowed. "You don't live here alone?"
I did, in fact. But it seemed foolish to admit it. So all I said was, "Well, there's my aunt Gina."
Even saying it, my heart ached. Aunt Gina used to live here, back when I'd been underage and required a guardian. Now, she was living five hours south, thanks to an amazing job offer she'd gotten with the help of Derek's dad.
In spite of her objections, I'd pushed her to take it. It really was a great opportunity, even if I did miss her like crazy.
So here I was, on my own, in a house that was way too big for only me. Some days, it didn't feel like a home at all. It felt like a museum, filled with too many artifacts, and not enough people – especially the two people I missed most.
But crying wouldn’t bring back my parents. I knew this from firsthand experience.
Looking to change the subject, I pointed to the horse, which was still cradled in Joel's muscular arms. "You're probably tired of holding that, huh?"
Funny, he didn't look tired. Unlike my uncle, who'd been staggering under its weight, Joel looked like he could lug the horse around all day and not break a sweat.
I glanced up. "Not that you look like you're struggling or anything." I cleared my throat. "But seriously, who wants to carry around a horse all day, right? I mean, aren't horses supposed to be carrying us? You know, giddy-up and all that?"
I froze. Giddy-up?
Cripes, I sounded like a complete moron. Hoping he hadn't noticed, I clamped my lips shut and tried to look like I hadn't just been rambling like a missing mental patient.
In front of me, Joel made no reply, and I fought the urge to squirm under his penetrating gaze. Something in his expression told me that he knew exactly what I was doing – avoiding the gist of his question.
Where was everyone? Gone, that's where – at least when it came to people who mattered.
Unable to bear his scrutiny a moment longer, I looked away and let my gaze settle on the long, lonely driveway.
Really, this was none of his business. Just because he'd rescued me – twice, in fact – from people who I'd been hoping to avoid, that didn't mean he was my friend, as much as I'd like to think otherwise.
Something Tattered (Joel Bishop Book 1) Page 6