Death, Taxes, and a Sequined Clutch

by Diane Kelly

  Chapter Five

  The Chili Challenge

  While my mother set the table, I went upstairs to change. I tossed my work clothes onto my bed and slipped into jeans and a T-shirt. As I returned downstairs, the doorbell rang.

  Brett. Right on time, as usual.

  I opened the door to let him inside. At five feet eight inches, Brett stood a full half foot above me, yet his stature gave him a somewhat boyish appearance. He had sandy hair, sage green eyes, and the perfectly straight smile that comes only with high-priced orthodontics.

  He held a bouquet of irises in his hand, a mixed bunch including white, blue, and yellow, no doubt clipped from the beds in his backyard garden. Dating a landscape architect definitely had its perks. Not only had Brett installed an automatic sprinkler system in my yard, but he’d also designed a gorgeous flower bed across the front of my house and planted a redbud tree in the center of the lawn. Once the thing grew big enough to provide some shade, it would help cut down on my astronomical summer air-conditioning bills.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I said, taking the flowers from Brett as he leaned in to give me a peck on the cheek.

  The chaste kiss was both sweet and painful at the same time, making my heart swell, then shrink into a hard ball. Brett was a great guy. He was hardworking, easygoing, and generous. Any girl would be lucky to have him. Hence my decision to hang on to him.

  Still, though I respected him, enjoyed his company, and found him physically desirable, I wasn’t sure I loved him—at least not yet. We’d been dating for several months, though with our busy work schedules, we weren’t able to see each other as regularly as most couples.

  Should I know by now whether he was “the one”? Or would it take more time?

  The only thing I knew for certain was that I could not rule out the possibility that Brett was the man I was meant to spend the rest of my life with. As long as that possibility existed, I couldn’t risk a good, solid relationship for what might or might not be with Nick. Besides, Nick could sometimes be a stubborn, bullheaded pain in the ass. I’d been called the same myself. And two stubborn, bullheaded pains in the ass was a recipe for relationship disaster, wasn’t it? I wasn’t sure I wanted to spend the rest of my life locking horns with Nick, though locking lips might not be so bad.

  Ugh. What’s a girl to do?

  I wished that fate would intervene, give me a clear sign of whom to choose. Until then, maintaining the status quo seemed like the sensible option.

  I led Brett into the kitchen, where my father was scooping up bowls of steaming chili. My mother gave Brett a hug, then handed him a bottle of beer.

  “Good to see you again, son,” Dad said. He handed Brett a full bowl of chili, tossing me a discreet glance in the process.

  “This smells great,” Brett said.

  Dad offered only a roguish grin in return. Though Dad was normally a fairly nice guy, he seemed to derive a sick pleasure in seeing who could tolerate his corrosive chili, like it was some gastronomical test of character. I could tolerate the stuff, but only because I’d had twenty-seven years to acclimate myself to it.

  I filled a glass vase with water, arranged the irises, then joined Brett and my parents at the table. Dad raised his bottle of beer, and the rest of us followed suit.

  “To health and happiness, fame and fortune, and cold beer and hot chili!” Dad exclaimed.

  “Hear, hear!” We clinked our glasses and bottles.

  Dad’s kick-ass chili seared your throat, and his hotter-than-hell chili made Hades’ river of fire seem like a kiddie pool. His killer chili kicked things up yet another notch and had been known to bring grown men to their knees. Serving the stuff was probably a violation of the Geneva Convention.

  All eyes were on Brett as he scooped up his first spoonful. I wanted to warn the guy, but a stern look from my father told me not to. I watched as the steaming chili went into Brett’s mouth. I silently willed him to sack up and swallow the stuff without coughing, choking, or bursting a vein. Not that Brett had anything to prove to my parents, but still.

  To Brett’s credit, he managed to swallow the bite without protest, even offering a smile afterwards. But his pained expression, the bright red glow on his cheeks, and the tears in his eyes told a different story.

  “Whaddya think?” Dad asked Brett.

  Brett sat up straighter as the chili burned its way down his esophagus. “It’s delicious,” he rasped, his vocal cords no doubt charred by the caustic substance.

  “Glad you like it,” Dad said, glancing my way once more before turning his attention back to Brett. “Eat as much as you like. We’ve got enough for seconds.”

  An expression of sheer terror crossed Brett’s face, but he managed to squeak out a mannerly “Thanks.”

  Brett downed his entire beer in three seconds flat. My mother poured him a glass of tea and he downed that, too. I considered shooting him with my Glock, putting the poor guy out of his misery. But discharging my weapon required far too much paperwork.

  We made small talk during dinner and as we enjoyed Mom’s homemade peach cobbler afterwards, I noted how nice it was to reconnect with old friends at Martin and McGee. Mom mentioned that her encore azaleas were in bloom again back home. Brett mentioned a recent game of golf in which he’d earned a good score. Though my father acknowledged Brett’s accomplishment with a raised beer and nod, I could tell he wasn’t sincerely impressed. To Dad, any sport that didn’t pose a risk of concussion or broken bones was for wimps.

  Later that evening, I walked Brett out to his car, a black Lincoln Navigator SUV classy enough to fit in at the country club where he golfed with his father, yet with enough cargo room and towing power to hold his landscaping equipment and pull a flatbed trailer loaded with plants, sod, and mulch.

  The night was fully dark, my porch light and a nearby streetlamp providing only dim lighting.

  He settled back against the driver’s door and reached out to put his hands on my hips, pulling me toward him. He took my hands in his, leaned his forehead against mine, and looked into my eyes with a bloodshot pair of his own. The chili had made its way into Brett’s bloodstream and fried his retinas.

  He grimaced. “I think my internal organs have melted.”

  “Yeah. Dad’s chili should come with a biohazard label.” I pulled back a bit and placed a hand on his cheek, feeling the scratch of his five o’clock shadow. Or should I say ten o’clock shadow? The stubble scraped my hand like a tactile warning of all I might lose if I chose to pursue things with Nick.

  “When can I see you again?” Brett asked.

  I probably should have invited him to Thursday’s art showing, but Nathan would likely be there and I didn’t want to risk an uncomfortable encounter. “How about a movie on Friday?” I suggested.

  “Sounds good,” he said. “We can grab dinner somewhere first. If I’m able to eat again by then, that is.”

  He gave me a soft smile, followed by a soft, warm kiss that made my heart feel soft and warm, too. I backed away as he climbed into his car to leave. He cranked the engine and unrolled the window, sticking out a hand to wave good-bye as he backed out of the drive.

  Once he was gone, I turned to go inside, stopping for a moment to admire the gorgeous flower bed in front of my town house, the pink rosebushes with their abundant blooms and the underlying pink petunias, the white stone birdbath. Even in the dim light it was clear how much the beautiful bed enhanced the appearance of my home. The project had taken Brett long hours of hard labor in the scorching Texas summer sun.

  Damn.

  Brett was such a sweet guy to do this for me. He was dependable, successful, and caring, too. He could occasionally be a bit naïve, which was understandable, given his sheltered upbringing in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods in Dallas. Besides, his innocence was part of his charm.

  But, unlike the woman in Jerry Maguire, I wasn’t sure he completed me. I wasn’t sure Nick would, either. The only thing I knew was that my feelings were c
ompletely confused.

  Chapter Six

  Sack Up for a Sack Lunch

  I woke the next morning to the smell of coffee and my mother’s blueberry pancakes. Thank God Dad hadn’t cooked breakfast. He’d been known to mix a spoonful or two of leftover chili into the scrambled eggs. I wasn’t sure my stomach could tolerate the spicy stuff for two meals in a row. My stomach still felt raw. I feared last night’s dinner had burned through my duodenum.

  The cell phone on my night table buzzed with an incoming text. I checked the readout. The message was from Brett and read simply AAAAAGH! He’d obviously experienced the aftereffects of Dad’s chili this morning. I probably should’ve given him a heads-up.

  I went into my bathroom to freshen up, my gaze going to the bullet hole in the tile floor, damage that had preceded the night spent in Nick’s arms. I supposed I should call a handyman to replace the tile, or perhaps ask my father or Brett to take care of it. But the hole served as an odd memento of sorts, a warped souvenir. If I couldn’t have Nick, at least I could have this reminder that he cared enough about me to hold me all night, to quell my fears and brush away my tears.

  At least he’d cared enough about me back then to do that. Now? I wasn’t so sure. I couldn’t expect him to pine away for me forever.

  Could I?

  When I finished in the bathroom, I went downstairs, my third step greeting me with a creak as it did every morning. I went to the kitchen to find a stack of pancakes waiting for me, along with a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and a mug of flavored coffee.

  My mother stood at my sink in her bathrobe, rinsing dishes. I wrapped my arms around her and laid my head on her shoulder. “I love you, Mommy.”

  “Shush.” She flapped a dish towel at me, but I knew she was secretly glad to take care of her little girl, even if her little girl had been a legal adult for almost a decade.

  The two of us took seats at the table, my father joining us moments later. We chatted over breakfast. My mother caught me up on the small town gossip from back home, while my dad read the newspaper’s sports page, offering an occasional grunt of disapproval when he disagreed with the sportswriter’s commentary.

  While my mother cleaned up after breakfast, I took a quick look at the newspaper’s business section. H2 stock was up eight points. Perhaps the Hildebrand brothers should have hung on to their shares awhile longer.

  My tummy now full, I went back upstairs. I showered and fixed my hair, backcombing my chestnut locks to give them a wild, sexy look. I applied far more makeup than usual, rimming my lids with thick liquid liner and putting an extra coat of gloss on my lips. I slipped into a tight black micromini, a silky white tank with a scoop neckline, and a blue gray blazer that brought out the color of my eyes. My feet went into a pair of stilettos I normally wore only to nightclubs on weekends.

  Okay, you got me. The reason I was getting myself all dolled up was to make Nathan Jamison realize what a catch I was, to make him regret tossing me aside like an undersized trout. It was a surreptitious form of revenge, but I couldn’t very well force-feed the guy a gallon of Dad’s killer chili. No doubt Nathan would fail the chili challenge.

  When I headed back downstairs, I found my parents had packed up their things, ready to pick up the fencing and head back to East Texas.

  My mother’s gaze made a trail from the top of my teased hair to the tip of my pointy stilettos. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Nathan Jamison is going to regret letting you go.”

  Nothing gets by that woman.

  My mother held out my gun to me. My hip holster now bore a complete covering of shiny silver rhinestones. She’d outdone herself with the BeDazzler this time. If I couldn’t draw my weapon in time to defend myself, maybe the bad guys would be blinded by the bling.

  “Black holsters are boring,” Mom said. “I figured I’d glam it up a bit.”

  I slid the holster on under my blazer. “I’ll be the envy of the office.” Or, more likely, the talk of the office. And the talk would go something like, Why is Tara wearing a disco ball on her hip? Then again, maybe my mother was on to something. I bet she could make a fortune designing a line of gear fashioned for the female law enforcement officer. Pepper spray scented with lavender. A magazine pouch that would hold both gun clips and hair clips. Kevlar bustiers. I could go for one of those.

  She handed me two paper lunch sacks next. One had my childhood nickname, Itty Bitty, scrawled on it. The other read Nick. I took the bags from her. They were suspiciously heavy. I took a peek inside. Each bag contained a thermos of chili, a soup spoon, and a paper towel. A mere napkin was not enough when Dad’s killer chili was involved.

  Dad chimed in now. “You make sure Nick gets that chili, you hear? And let me know how he likes it.”

  Jeez. Could he be any more obvious? Then again, I’d hoped fate would give me a sign about my love life. Maybe this was it. But would fate really use Dad’s chili as the determining factor of the rest of my life?

  I walked into the federal building to witness a Latina sheriff’s deputy running a wand dangerously close to Nick’s nether regions, confirming his oversized belt buckle was the only metal in that general area, though I supposed it was possible he’d gone insane and had one of his testicles pierced. That didn’t seem his style, though. I briefly wondered if the metal detection device could pose any threats to his virility, or perhaps render his sperm radioactive. I realized then that I’d be willing to give birth to Nick’s baby, even if it was the size of Godzilla. I’d draw the line at breastfeeding the pointy-toothed beast, though. I also realized that perhaps the fumes from Dad’s chili had fried parts of my brain.

  With two metal thermoses in tow, it took me an extra minute or two to make it through the security checkpoint. Now finished with Nick, the female deputy turned her attention to me and opened my lunch sack for closer inspection. I feared she might confiscate my thermos. After all, the chili was virtually weapons grade. Hell, I bet the stuff could power an army tank or nuclear reactor.

  She unscrewed the lid from my thermos, releasing a moist cloud of spicy steam. She jerked her head back, blinking as the pepper fumes engulfed her, waving a hand in front of her face to clear her vision. “Whoa. That’s some spicy chili.”

  She returned the thermos to the bag and sent me on my way.

  Nick waited for me at the elevators, his boot in the door to hold it open. When I caught up with him, his gaze took in my short skirt and stilettos. “Is it my imagination, or have your legs gotten longer?” He raised a questioning brow.

  I was flattered he’d noticed my legs, but I didn’t want to tell Nick why I’d worn today’s skimpy, sexy outfit instead of my usual conservative business attire. My brain whirled, trying to come up with a good excuse. Ding-ding-ding! We have a winner! “I haven’t done laundry in a while.” It was not only an appropriate explanation, but also true. I hated doing laundry.

  Nick appeared to accept my excuse, his gaze now moving to the bags in my hand. “Itty Bitty?” he asked as we stepped into the car.

  I rolled my eyes as the doors slid closed. “My parents are visiting. My mother packed my lunch. Itty Bitty was my nickname when I was a kid.”

  He fought a smile, revealing a glimpse of the slightly chipped bicuspid that told tales of a younger Nick who hadn’t yet learned to turn the other cheek before responding to a physical confrontation. “Well, Itty Bitty, is that my name I see on the other bag?”

  I nodded. “My father thought you might like to try his chili.”

  I didn’t bother telling Nick he’d need to sack up to handle this sack lunch. After one bite, he’d figure that out on his own.

  The elevator stopped at our floor and we climbed out. I followed Nick down the hall to his office. He set down his briefcase and slid into his chair. He held out his hand. “Gimme.”

  I held the bag back. “This is lunch,” I said, “not breakfast.” God help me, but I was trying to segue the conversation into a lunch date. Well, not a date date. I would never cheat
on Brett. Still, I wouldn’t mind spending some time with Nick, even if it was just as coworkers.

  Nick didn’t take the bait. “Just give me a taste.”

  Oh, I’d like to give him a taste, all right. A big ol’ lovin’ spoonful.

  Just because I’d never cheat on Brett didn’t mean I couldn’t fantasize about another man, did it?

  I put down my lunch, purse, and briefcase and held his bag out to him, using one hand to brace the bottom of the paper sack. With my hands covering most of the bag’s surface area, there was no way Nick could take it from me without touching me. It was a cheap ploy, sure, but if I didn’t feel his skin on mine again soon, I wasn’t sure I’d survive. I was like an addict that needed a fix.

  Nick looked at my hands awkwardly clasping the bag, then looked up at my face. I hoped my desperation wasn’t obvious from my expression, but I feared my face betrayed me.

  He tapped a finger on his desk. “Put it here.”

  Dammit! I couldn’t very well demand he take it out of my hands, could I? That would be weird.

  I placed the bag on his desk. He sat up and opened it, pulling out the thermos and paper towel. His eyes locked on mine as he put his hand over the top of the thermos and twisted the lid slowly, sensually. He ran a finger around the rim to collect the liquid that had gathered there, then stuck the tip of his finger in his mouth, gently sucking at it. “Mmmm.”

  My nether regions twitched.

  He retrieved the spoon and twirled it around in his fingers. Then he grasped the spoon in a tight fist, gave me a wicked, wanton smile, and plunged the spoon fast and hard and deep into the warm, wet chili.

  I had to lean on his desk to keep from collapsing.

  He scooped up a heaping spoonful of chili and held it to his lips, blowing softly, the steam wafting my way. He closed his eyes as he put the spoon in his mouth.

  He didn’t choke or gasp.

  He didn’t turn red.

  And when his gaze returned to mine, his eyes were free of tears.