by Diann Hunt
By the time Carly had her sweats on, she was out of breath. Running a brush through her tangled hair did nothing for her mood. And hello? Wasn’t it bad enough to be cutting down on calories? Must she eat vegetables too?
Since Scott had to do something in the office, she decided to take a minute to send Jake an e-mail. It was just the thing she needed to calm her down. Opening her mail, she saw his name in her in-box. Her heart skipped.
Hey, Squirt. How’s it going? I’ve had a tough day with Katelyn. She is fighting me on the move back to Spring Creek. Kids today just don’t listen. I’m ready to come home. Maybe you can help me knock some sense into this daughter of mine. I’ve got to go for now. Can’t wait to see you. Love J
Carly had that leaving-the-bathroom-with-toilet-paper-dragging-behind-her kind of feeling. As though something was wrong but she couldn’t quite figure out what it was.
Someone knocked on the door.
“Yes?”
“Scott’s here.”
“I’ll be right down.”
Carly’s fingers flew across the keys.
Sorry you’re having problems with Katelyn. I’m sure everything will be fine once you settle in here. I’m looking forward to seeing you too. I’ll write more after dinner. Love, Carly
They had been signing their letters with “love” from the start. It was more of a signing-off thing than a romantic gesture. People just signed letters that way. Didn’t really mean anything. At least not yet.
She wondered if Jake could ever love someone he called “Squirt.” She had her doubts.
Closing her bedroom door, she stepped into the living room and greeted Scott. “We’ll be back soon, Magnolia,” she said, one foot already on the stairway.
“No hurry. The enchiladas will stay warm in the oven.”
Carly leaned in to Scott. “Next thing I know she’ll be drying herbs in my kitchen.”
He smiled and grabbed her arm, leading her down the stairs, most likely before she could change her mind.
After she snagged bottled waters from the fridge down in the spa, they burst through the front door and a heavy gulp of air gave her just the fuel she needed. “Do you believe that woman? Did you see my home? Trashed. Trashed, I tell you. Furniture everywhere the eye can see. I’m keeping Pinkie locked in my bedroom. If she trots out to the living room, I’ll never find her again.”
“Don’t you think you’re exaggerating a little?”
“Did you not see that place?”
“I saw.”
“Then you should know I’m not exaggerating.”
“Ivy told me her mother was a bit of a pack rat,” Scott said.
“No rat I know would put up with her.”
After a few minutes of jogging, Carly was beat. “Listen, could we walk tonight? I just don’t have the strength.”
“Okay, but if you want to lose weight, we have to keep it brisk.”
“My shins are burning. Does that mean nothing to you?”
“That means we’re at a good pace. Keep it going.” Before Carly could respond, he jumped ahead. “Heard from Lover Boy today?”
“Lover Boy? That’s a new one.”
“Isn’t that what he is?”
“I wouldn’t characterize him as that.”
Scott gave her a sideways glance. “Oh?”
“Well, we’re friends and we’re writing, but I don’t know where it will take us.” She knew where she hoped it would take them, but who knew what would happen?
“But you feel confident you’re ready to date again, right?”
His question startled her. “Well, yeah. I wouldn’t be writing him if I didn’t think that.”
“I just wondered. Writing is safer than actually dating, so I didn’t know if it was something like that. You know, where you’re comfortable writing, but don’t really want to date.”
She hadn’t thought of that. But this was Jake Mitchell they were talking about. She had wanted to date him forever. “Is that the voice of experience?” Carly asked.
“I’ve written a few women since Ivy . . .”
“Really?” Carly was totally shocked to the core. “Who?”
“Just a couple of women I met in a chat room.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope.”
“You never cease to amaze me.” Carly took a drink from her bottled water, allowing enough time to create the illusion that she wasn’t prying when she jumped in with more questions. “So what happened?”
He laughed. “Like I didn’t know that was coming.”
She shrugged.
“Nothing happened. I wrote to them but couldn’t bring myself to take it to the next step.”
“But you have someone now, right?” she pursued.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” He picked up the pace and she had to run faster to keep up with him.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
“There’s nothing to tell. You’re the one who’s fabricated another woman in my life.”
“What? You mean there is no one?”
He shook his head.
“Well, that just totally stinks.”
“Tell me about it.”
Her head whipped toward him but he just laughed and kept running.
“Come on. We have to work off that chocolate you most likely have been snitching behind my back.”
Like she said, the man scared her.
After tossing and turning in her covers, Carly glanced over at the clock and saw that it was five after two in the morning. She never should have snuck that last piece of pizza before she went to bed.
Careful not to wake up Pinkie, who was sleeping at the foot of her bed, Carly lifted off the comforter, eased into her slippers and robe, then headed down to the spa. Usually it freaked her out to go down there in the middle of the night, but she couldn’t remember when her first appointment was in the morning. If she had the time to spare, she just might come into work late. Owning her own place had its perks.
The wooden stairs groaned beneath her weight, which just made her mad. “I’m working out, okay? What more do you want from me?”
Her whisper had a definite snap to it, and she wondered about her mental state that she was talking to a bunch of boards. Maybe she shouldn’t consider the reconstructive surgery. That would add pounds, wouldn’t it? Wait. Pounds in the right places could make all the difference.
The truth was she felt desperate to have the surgery before Jake got there, but that wasn’t possible. She didn’t have nearly enough money saved yet. Some days she wondered if she would ever look like a woman again. A mastectomy had taken more than her breast. It had also taken her husband.
A sound cracked through the silence.
Edging into her office, Carly stopped to listen. A banging of some sort, though it was hard to tell since her heart was pounding hard enough to throw her into an Indian war dance. She tried to swallow, but that reflex thing wasn’t working for her.
Silence.
“Maybe it was just my imagination,” she whispered.
More thumping. Her heart flip-flopped while her mutinous feet carried her toward the sound. Closer, closer, until she wound up near the basement stairwell.
The pounding stopped.
Well, the pounding was coming from downstairs, not her heart. It was beating. Hard. And fast. Definitely fast.
The wood creaked on the basement steps, causing the air in her lungs to back up.
She headed for the utility room, nearly slipping on her socks as she dashed across the hardwood floor. Easing the door closed behind her, her eyes darted about the room for some sort of weapon. With no time to think about it, she yanked the iron from its cradle on the wall and clutched it near her chest. If the intruder wanted a fight, she was ready.
She heard the basement door creak open. Her heart bolted up to her head and pounded against her skull. Perspiration drenched the back of her neck.
The intruder’s footsteps edged closer to the utility room. Putting her ear
against the door, Carly listened closely, heart thumping in her ears, adrenaline surging through her at the speed of light. She heard the sound of the doorknob twisting and looked down. Just as she took a step backward, the door swung open and thumped her hard against the floor, sending her and the iron sprawling.
A loud crackling noise scattered against the floor, and Carly prayed if those were bones breaking, they didn’t belong to her. With a groan, she looked over to see the iron had splayed a couple of broken pieces across the floor. The cord was in a tangle near her feet, but her bones were still intact, so that was good. Moving her neck just right, Carly got a full view of the frightening intruder.
She wished she hadn’t.
There stood Magnolia, gray hair fanned across her shoulders, her face so slicked up with grease Carly wanted her nowhere near anything flammable.
“Couldn’t you sleep, dear?” Magnolia asked.
“Magnolia—” She started to ask Magnolia what she was doing, but Carly couldn’t get past the shine. “What’s on your face?”
The old woman reached for her cheeks as though she couldn’t remember. She chuckled. “Oh, this is my facial cream. Olive oil.”
“Olive oil? You wear olive oil on your face?”
“Oh yes. Didn’t you know? It’s one of the best kept secrets of the stars.”
“I can see why,” Carly grumbled.
“What, dear?”
“I said, ‘Oh my.’”
Magnolia reached down to help Carly stand up. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” No thanks to you. Carly brushed herself off. “Do you want to tell me what you were doing down here?”
Guilt flashed over Magnolia’s face like a neon sign. She swallowed and looked down, scraping the floor with her toe. “I was practicing,” she whispered.
Carly had to bend toward her—which hurt her considerably—to catch it. “Practicing? What?” Were they really having this conversation in the middle of the night?
Magnolia mumbled something that sounded like thumbs.
“Thumbs? You were practicing thumbs?” That was the last time Carly would eat something spicy before bed.
Magnolia looked up. “Drums. I was practicing drums.”
Father, this woman is driving me to sugar. You promise not to give us more than we can bear, but do you realize just how dangerously close we are on this one? I lose my best friend, suffer through breast cancer, my husband walks out on me, my dad dies. Then this woman comes into my home, takes over my kitchen, forces me to eat charred vegetables, and now she tells me she plays the drums?
Lord? We need to talk.
five
“What happened to you?” Scott asked when Carly hobbled into the office.
“I had a run-in with Ringo,” she said bitterly.
“I’m afraid to ask what that means.”
Her purse plopped onto the desk with a thump. “Magnolia plays the drums, did you know that?”
It was a rare moment when something surprised Scott, but right now, it was happening. And Carly rather enjoyed it. She explained what had happened in the middle of the night—the heart pounding, the fall, the ugly threats of eating sugar.
He shook his head. “She seems more a flute and piccolo gal to me. On the other hand, I have seen her drum side.”
“I’m just too beat—pardon the pun—to think about that.” She cracked open a pistachio. “So, do you think there’s anything to that midlife crisis thing?”
“I don’t know,” Scott said, staring at his computer screen. He looked up at her. “Are you telling me chocolate is your crisis?”
“Work with me here. This is not about chocolate. This is about midlife. My brother hasn’t been himself for quite some time, and I just wondered if he’s maybe going through a midlife crisis or something. You ever have anything like that?”
“You say that as though I’m way past midlife,” he said.
“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?” Something told her he was not having a good day.
“I’m fine. I was wondering about you.”
“Midlife. We were talking about midlife. My brother, C. J., acting differently. Any of this ringing a bell?”
“How is he different?”
“I don’t know. He bought that Harley—”
“Nothing wrong with that. Lots of guys are into Harleys. I have one.”
Carly thought a moment. “I know, but—”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She sighed. “Just something unsettling. I can’t explain it.”
“You women always read into things. Everyone goes through that wanting-to-do-more-with-their-life stuff. Especially at our age.”
“Have you ever felt that way?” she asked.
“Sure. I want to accomplish more. I’d like to do some traveling, maybe go on a mission trip or two.”
“Really? Where do you want to go?”
He typed a couple of things on his keyboard and looked at Carly. He’d probably like to get some work done, but she wouldn’t leave him alone. “Doesn’t really matter where. Just want to contribute in some way. Have you ever been on a mission trip?” He opened his desk drawer for something.
“Where they have enormous bugs and snakes the size of California redwoods?”
He sighed. “Not all mission trips are in Africa. Wait—are you telling me you would stay home from helping people in need because you’re afraid of bugs?”
“Excuse me, when a toddler can ride them, they don’t qualify as bugs.”
He stared at Carly a little too long.
“Say it. I’m the slime of the earth because there are martyrs out there who face death on a daily basis for their faith, and I won’t even sink my toe on African soil because I’m afraid of plate-sized spiders.”
“I wasn’t going to say that, but since you did—”
“I’d rather send money.”
“I guess both are needed,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yes, they are.” Carly couldn’t help feeling this need to defend herself. “They’re not allowed in my home, either, just so you know.”
“Who?”
“Spiders.”
“Carly?” Amber stood in the doorway. “The customer in room three is having an allergic reaction. She has a friend coming to get her now.” Amber rolled her eyes, then stepped out of the way to make room for the customer and the tearful technician at her side. It was Melissa Winters. She was blotchy, swollen, and scratching to beat the band.
Carly thought the woman had never looked better.
“I didn’t mean to . . . I’m sorry, I just—”
“It’s all right. We’ll take care of things from here,” Carly said to the technician, who was clearly upset by all this.
Scott immediately got out of his seat and walked over to Melissa. “I’m so sorry.” He helped her to the sofa that was in the office. “Why don’t you sit down here, and Amber will let you know when your friend gets here. You’re not having trouble breathing, are you?”
She shook her head, though her tightened facial muscles revealed her anxiety. Scott grabbed a throw pillow and stuffed it behind her. “Does that feel better?”
Melissa nodded and lifted a charming smile.
Carly stared at Scott. Who was this person? Carly had heard of taking care of the customers, but this was ridiculous. She had to wonder if he would be so nice and thoughtful if this were eighty-year-old Mrs. Grayson who frequented the spa. Or what about Gladys Wilmington who weighed three hundred pounds after fasting?
“Scott, you can finish what you were doing. I’ll be glad to help Ms.—” Carly stopped herself. “Melissa.”
The woman turned to Scott, her mouth upturned. “Melissa Winters. We’ve met, I believe,” she said, dripping with charm.
Scott blinked. “Yes, um, would you like some hot chocolate, tea, anything?” he asked. Just like that. Ignoring Carly completely.
Melissa scratched her arms and face—which wer
e growing puffier by the moment. “No, thank you.”
“Have you ever had anything like this happen before?” Scott asked, clearly very much interested in what was going on with Melissa. He walked over to his desk.
“Yes, it’s the eucalyptus. I haven’t been around it in so long, I forgot about it. I called my doctor, and he’s calling in a new prescription for me.”
Scott scribbled something on a note and returned to Melissa’s side. “Please accept our apologies and a complimentary massage at your convenience.”
Hand to her throat. “Oh my, that’s not necessary. It’s no one’s fault,” she said, yanking the certificate from his grasp before he changed his mind.
“Our pleasure. You haven’t had a pleasant stay here, and it’s our goal to make everyone happy.”
Carly wondered if she should point out that she was the owner and would decide who got free certificates.
The red blotches on Melissa’s face just got redder. Her eyes never left Scott’s. “Do you give massages?” she asked with a wicked smile.
He cleared his throat. “Um, no, I leave that to the professionals.”
“Your ride is here,” Amber said, stepping into the room.
“My goodness, that was fast,” Melissa said with a hint of irritation.
“Here, let me help you.” Scott leaned over to help her up, walked her out the door, and disappeared.
Carly stared after them, mouth gaping like a carp, marveling at how Ms. Z-Cup had Scott completely mesmerized. It wouldn’t surprise Carly at all if Melissa hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing.
A pang of guilt stabbed her heart, but she flipped it off. Okay, maybe Melissa hadn’t staged the allergy attack, but Carly still didn’t trust her. Just thinking about it made her mad. It was downright embarrassing how Scott had slobbered over this woman.
Pulling files from her drawer, Carly set to work. Thumping the end of her pen on the desk, she tried to think about the invoices in front of her, but she was too steamed. It had nothing to do with Scott. Or Melissa. It just made her mad that men were so . . . so . . . well, so visual. Could they truly be that shallow? Where did that leave women in her predicament?
Up a creek.
A glance at her fake breast depressed her once again. This was ridiculous. She needed to calm down. This was not about her. Well, maybe it was, but she needed to get over it.