I Think I Love You

by Stephanie Bond

  Before Regina could take it all in, the front door swung open and Cissy emerged, dressed in cut-off jean shorts and a T-shirt. No bra. Her gray-streaked red hair was bundled under a blue bandanna scarf, and she was barefoot. “Regina! Oh, I’m so pleased you’re home!”

  Regina noticed the wineglass in her mother’s hand but smiled her best-daughter smile before they embraced. “It’s good to see you, Mom.”

  She stroked Regina’s shoulder and squinted. “You look tired, darling.”

  “I am tired.”

  “You’ve finally stopped wearing your glasses, I see.”

  Her hand flew to her temple. “No, I… stopped at the store first and I must have left them there.” Darn it. That man had truly seen her at her worst.

  “Oh. And did you see your father?” Cissy spoke carefully, then drained her glass.

  “No. But a man was there—an appraiser?”

  Cissy frowned. “That would be Mitchell Cooke. I don’t trust him.”

  “Then why is he at the shop by himself? And why is he here in the first place?”

  Cissy puffed out her cheeks. “Let’s get out of this heat.”

  Regina dutifully followed her inside the cool, cavernous house. They had never installed central air, but the hum of fans in every room was comfortably familiar, as were other things—same supremely cluttered interior, same squeaks in the wood floors, same stale scent that set up in a home when activity ceased. How many months, years, since that cushion had been plumped? That book opened? That rug walked upon?

  They moved through the entryway and the formal living room, down a hall to the most modern room in the house, the kitchen, which was an eclectic mix of 1870s furniture and 1970s Formica. Regina sank into a padded chair, wondering about the equivalent of the breakfast bar in the Victorian Age. Every serious talk she’d ever had with her mother had occurred in this kitchen, with her mother standing up on the sink side and she seated on the other. Once again they assumed the position.

  “Lemonade?” Cissy asked.

  “Sounds good.” Regina could have gotten it herself, but she knew her mother needed to do something with her hands. At fifty-seven, Cissy was still a striking woman, with smooth, moist skin and acute green eyes. But since their last visit, Cissy’s shoulders seemed to have given in to gravity.

  When the lemonade was handed over, Regina sipped. “So what’s going on?”

  Cissy sighed. “Your father and I are deeply in debt.”

  The lemonade went down hard. “What? How?”

  “We made some bad investments, and I suppose we’ve neglected the business. The bank agreed to give us thirty days to liquidate, and they arranged for Mr. Cooke to appraise everything for auction.” Cissy bit into her lip. “The store inventory has to go, of course, and everything in this house. And maybe the house itself.”

  Regina reached for her mother’s hand. “Is this why you and Dad are splitting up?”

  Cissy shook her head. “No. I didn’t even know how bad our finances were until I told your father I wanted to end our relationship. He knew I’d find out, so he had to tell me everything.” A dry laugh escaped her. “Believe me, it was a double betrayal to find out that not only will I be starting over, but I’ll be starting over with nothing.”

  “A double betrayal?”

  Cissy averted her eyes. “Some things you don’t need to know, sweetheart. Let’s just leave it at that.”

  But it was clear from Cissy’s expression that John had had an affair. Regina’s mind violently rejected the idea, unable to reconcile her shy, somewhat befuddled father with infidelity. In fact, Cissy had always been the flamboyant flower and John seemingly grateful that she let him hang around. One of Regina’s earliest memories was the knowledge that her parents were devoted to each other… to the exclusion of their daughters.

  “How can I help?” Regina asked in a choked voice.

  Cissy smiled. “There’s my girl. I need for you to help Mr. Cooke.”

  “Huh?”

  “You know our filing system, and with your help, the appraisals will go twice as fast.”

  “But—”

  “And that will allow me to tackle this behemoth of a house.”

  “But—”

  “And you can keep an eye on him and let us know if anything seems out of kilter.”

  “Mom, I met the man, and I didn’t particularly care for his company.”

  Cissy laughed. “You don’t have to marry him—just watch him.”

  Regina searched for a straw to grasp. “But why can’t Dad help him?”

  Cissy smiled sadly. “Your father is drinking… a lot. I’m afraid he’s rather undependable these days. To be honest, I’d feel better knowing you were at the shop keeping an eye on him, too.”

  And how could she possibly argue with that?

  Her mother’s head pivoted toward the window. “I hear a car. Maybe that’s your father now.”

  Regina was closer, so she pushed herself up to look—and to check that she could still make her limbs move. She didn’t think she could take any more shocks today. She parted the curtains and watched as a yellow Mercedes came to a halt next to her pathetic little rental. She inhaled sharply when the realization hit her.

  “It’s Justine,” she murmured. “And she’s alone.”

  Cissy hurried to the window. “What’s Justine doing here? Did you tell her about me and your dad?”

  “No. In fact, I couldn’t reach her on the phone. You didn’t tell her?”

  “No, I only left a message for her to call me.”

  “Maybe Mica told her?”

  “Even if they were on speaking terms, Mica doesn’t know, either—unless you told her.”

  “No, she’s been hard to track down lately, too.”

  “Well,” Cissy said cheerfully, hugging Regina’s shoulder. “Maybe Justine had a feeling that we needed her.”

  Regina nodded, but she had a feeling that Justine’s sudden appearance was more about needing something for herself.

  Chapter 8

  DON’T let bygones be bygones, by golly.

  Regina studied Justine as she and Cissy hugged and Justine gushed that—surprise—she’d just decided to drive down for a few days. Something was wrong, all right. Oh, sure, Justine’s immaculate makeup, brilliant red hair, and impeccable clothes were as glamorous as always, but her eyes were beyond bloodshot and her perfect nails were gnawed down to the quicks. Regina suggested that she and Justine retrieve their luggage, and the second the door closed behind them, she said, “Okay, what gives?”

  Justine had the nerve to give her an innocent look. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Regina crossed her arms. “I mean it’s quite a coincidence that you show up here, unannounced, the day after a shoot-out at your company’s headquarters.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Just enough to think you might be involved. Didn’t you get my messages? I called you at home three times last night and this morning. And when I called your office, all I got was your voice mail.”

  “Sorry—I didn’t know you’d called. I spent the night in a hotel.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  Justine sighed. “The wife of some guy I was seeing went off the deep end.”

  “The wife of a guy you’re seeing?”

  “Oh, God, don’t start with the lecture—I knew this was how you’d react.” Justine walked down the steps, every footfall punctuated with attitude.

  Regina took a deep breath and followed her. “Okay, I’m sorry, but I’ve been worried about you. Was anyone injured?”

  “The woman shot her husband earlier, and he’s still in pretty bad shape. And a lady I worked with was wounded, but she’s going to be fine.”

  “This man, was he someone special to you?”

  Justine looked rueful. “No. He reminded me of… someone.”

  Regina knew that look. “Dean?”

  Justine scoffed and thumbed away a tear. “Ain’t that a
kick in the pants? The bastard is still screwing up my life.”

  Regina had her own ideas of who was screwing up Justine’s life, but Justine didn’t seem to be in a mood for self-analysis. “I heard on the news that the shooter was a fugitive—did they catch her?”

  “No. Which is why I’m here.”

  “You came to Mom and Dad’s to hide out from a killer?”

  “She’ll never find me here,” Justine snapped. “The woman’s a lunatic; they probably have her in custody by now.” She stopped. “Hey, wait a minute—why are you here?”

  “Mom and Dad are splitting up.”

  Justine rolled her eyes. “Again?”

  “No, this time it’s for real. Mom didn’t come out and say it, but I think Dad had an affair.”

  “No way.”

  “That’s what I said, but she swears that their relationship is over.”

  “There’s no divorce to file, so what’s all the fuss?”

  Regina frowned. “There’s still a matter of property settlement, and apparently, they’re broke. Everything at the shop and in the house is going to have to be auctioned off.”

  Justine blinked. “Dibs on the Tiffany silver candelabra.”

  “Is that all you can think about?”

  “Well, Jesus Christ, if they’re splitting up, they’re splitting up. Don’t look so wounded, Sis—what did you think, that after all these years they were going to get married?”

  She hated herself for having a telltale face.

  Justine’s eyes bugged. “I don’t believe it—you actually thought that someday they’d get married?” She laughed. “Don’t you get it? Marriage isn’t for the Metcalfs. Look at Mom and Dad. Look at me. Look at you.” She snorted. “And look at our darling baby sister. Nary a marriage among us.”

  “But that’s better than a bunch of divorces.”

  “Oh, come on, Sis—if you tell someone you’re divorced, they don’t even blink, but tell them you’ve never been married and they wonder what’s wrong with you.”

  It was true, Regina conceded. Divorced people at least exuded the potential of being able to make a commitment.

  Justine pulled a brand-new suitcase from her trunk. “So, did you come down to counsel the folks with one of your self-help books—How to Live Happily Ever After or something stupid like that?”

  Regina pulled out her own suitcase and frowned.

  “Mom wants me to work with the appraiser to make sure he doesn’t rob them blind.”

  “Ah.” Justine turned her head at the sound of another car coming down the winding driveway. “Must be Dad.”

  But at the sight of a blue extended van, Regina developed a sour taste in her mouth. “No such luck—it’s the appraiser.”

  Mitchell Cooke pulled in on the other side of Regina’s car, stopped the engine, and climbed out.

  “Yum-yum,” Justine muttered.

  “Don’t get excited,” Regina muttered wryly. “He’s not married.”

  He walked toward them, holding up Regina’s glasses. “Thought you might need these.”

  She took them and smiled tightly. “Thanks.”

  He gestured to the Doll and her surroundings. “Nice place.”

  “Uh-huh.” She had no intention of engaging the man in conversation.

  Justine broke the awkward silence. “I’m Justine Metcalf.”

  He nodded. “Mitchell Cooke. I’m doing some appraisal work for your parents.”

  “Yes, my sister was just telling me she’s going to be working with you to make sure you don’t rob them blind.”

  Regina wanted to kick Justine.

  “Was she now?” He seemed highly amused when he looked back to her. “I guess you had a chance to talk to your mother.”

  Regina squirmed and nodded.

  “And our working together is agreeable to you?”

  “Whatever it takes to help my parents.”

  “Good. When can I expect to see you tomorrow?”

  “Is nine too early for you?”

  He smiled. “Why not make it eight?”

  She smiled back. “Why not make it seven?”

  “Great. I’ll bring doughnuts.”

  They stood looking at each other until Justine cleared her throat. “Well, I think I’ll take my suitcase in now.”

  “I’m right behind you,” Regina said. “Good-bye, Mr. Cooke—”

  “Call me Mitchell.” He shifted foot to foot and watched Justine walk away, then turned back to Regina. “Listen, I really stopped by to tell you that your dad returned a few minutes ago. I didn’t want to say anything in front of your sister in case you wanted to keep things… private.”

  “Has he been drinking?”

  He nodded. “I helped him up to the apartment and he was sleeping when I left, but I thought you should know.”

  She jammed on her glasses and blinked away tears of humiliation. “Thank you… thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Unless you have a brother showing up, I’d be glad to go back later and check in on him.”

  “No brothers. Just two sisters.”

  “Where’s the other one?”

  “She’s—” Regina broke off at the sound of another car approaching.

  “Busy little place,” he observed.

  “Probably someone lost.”

  He squinted. “In a limo?”

  Regina’s vital signs increased as a black stretch limousine nosed its way down the twisting driveway. “Oh… no.”

  “Who is it?”

  She swallowed. “You’re not going to believe this… I don’t believe this—I think that’s my other sister.”

  “Is she someone famous?”

  “Sort of.”

  Her heart hammered as the limo pulled alongside Justine’s Mercedes. Justine had made it as far as the porch and was riveted on the arrival. A stone settled in Regina’s stomach at the ramifications of the scene unfolding.

  “I’ll be going,” Mitchell said. “I don’t want to horn in on your family reunion.”

  She touched his arm without looking at him. “Would you stick around for a few minutes?”

  “Sure. I always wanted to meet a celebrity.”

  When the vehicle stopped, the driver hopped out and jogged back to open the door. One long tanned leg appeared, followed by another; then all six feet of Mica emerged, clad in a black miniskirt and a white silky blouse. Her hair flowed around her shoulders like a cape. Regina never stopped being in awe of her little sister’s beauty. Next to her, Mitchell exhaled a low whistle. Mica had that effect on men.

  The driver set bag after bag on the ground. Mica pushed back her sunglasses, gave him a wad of bills, and waved him off. Then she turned large, luminous eyes in their direction and waved. “I’m home!”

  Regina grinned back and started walking, but a noise behind her caused her to turn. Justine had dropped her suitcase and was stalking down the sidewalk toward Mica. “You little back-stabbing tramp—how dare you show your face here?”

  Before Regina could position herself between the two of them, Justine had launched herself at Mica. They fell to the ground grunting, then rolled into a bed of ivy, legs kicking.

  Mitchell Cooke looked thunderstruck.

  “Help me,” Regina said with a sigh.

  Chapter 9

  DON’T reveal all the skeletons in your closet at once.

  Regina arrived at the shop ten minutes before 7:00 a.m., but Mitchell’s van was already there. She sneaked a peek into the visor mirror and conceded she should have taken him up on his offer to meet at eight—she certainly could have used an extra hour of sleep last night. She’d covered the circles as best she could and hoped her glasses camouflaged the rest.

  The upside of leaving the house early was that her mother and sisters were still sleeping, so she didn’t have to witness a brawl before breakfast.

  She closed the car door quietly, and took a moment to appreciate the early-morning stillness of the trees, the citrusy scent of heavy dew, the dawn song o
f an unidentified bird. Nature went on about its beautiful business, heedless of the screwed-up humans passing through. She sighed. This visit home had all the makings of a catastrophe.

  Regina entered the back door quickly to circumvent the chime in case her father was still sleeping in the apartment above. The warm, peppery scent of good coffee rode the air, lifting her mood ridiculously. She followed her nose to the cluttered room between the stockroom and the showrooms that had been originally set aside to serve as an office but had over the years become part kitchen, sitting room, and chaotic catchall. A decrepit refrigerator sat in one corner. Mismatched cabinets and counters lined the perimeter of the room, overflowing with manila file folders and catalogs. To his credit, Mitchell had cleared a path to the massive metal desk in the middle of the room, where he now sat with his long legs propped up, enjoying a mug of that great-smelling coffee. Sam looked at her from his resting place on the floor, with droopy eyes that said he, too, could have used a few more z’s.

  “Good morning,” Mitchell said way too cheerfully.

  She wanted to smile, but the image of him peeling apart her sisters was still a little too vivid for comfort. “Good morning.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Absolutely.” She walked to the coffee-maker and poured a cup, then rummaged around the counter clutter. “Did you happen to see any creamer?” To heck with her resolution to do without—at the moment she needed all the solace she could get.

  “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

  She looked up. “Hm?”

  “My coffee—taste it. It doesn’t need dressing up.”

  She took a dubious sip, then pursed her mouth. “I’m impressed.”

  He smiled. “I’m glad.” He lifted the lid on a box of doughnuts. “Jelly or cream-filled?”

  “Jelly.”

  “Ah, thought so.”

  She frowned but took the proffered doughnut and leaned against the counter. She chewed, thinking he probably expected an explanation for the scene last night, but considering her father was sleeping off a hangover upstairs, she wasn’t inclined to volunteer yet more information about her dysfunctional family.