She saw real regret in his eyes; after all these years, he still had the capacity to sympathize.
She was so grateful for that. She smiled at her older brother, because he was so wrong: he did love cats and dogs and human beings; he just didn't know it. She said softly, "I can't stop thinking about him, Zack. It was the picture in the paper; it hit me out of the blue."
"Zee, Zee," he said, shaking his head. "We've been through all this. It wasn't him. It didn't look anything like him."
He came over to her and gave her a reassuring squeeze and said, "Hey, how about a beer for all my hard work?"
He was right. Change the subject. Because they really had been through all that.
She reached inside the fridge door for a Coors and handed it to him. "But don't you think it's odd that their first names and initials are the same? I mean, really; don't you think that that's quite a coincidence?"
Zack's broad shoulders slumped a little; his expression turned rueful. He took his beer and crossed the imaginary divide that separated the eating area from the living area, and he dropped with a sigh onto her brightly slipcovered sofa. She watched him take a long, thirsty slug and thought how quaintly bizarre he looked, sitting there: two hundred pounds of well-honed workman surrounded by yardage of blue lilacs and dainty butterflies.
He perched the beer can on his thigh and said, "God, I'm sorry you ever learned how to use a computer. Why couldn't you just stick to your sewing machine?"
He didn't mean it the way it sounded; he truly did just want to change the subject.
"But it's such a coincidence," she persisted. "I saw it right away when I looked up the names of the lottery winners on the Web site. James Hodene: it's so much like Jimmy Hayward."
"You don't even know if the name James Hodene goes with the picture of the guy you think is Jimmy Hayward."
"Oh, come on."
He shrugged and said, "The last names are nothing alike."
"The initials are."
After a burp came wry agreement. "Yes. That's true. You're right. The initials are the one thing, the single thing, the only thing, that's alike between the two men. What the hell is that?"
The long-haired black-and-white cat had come creeping out of the carrier and was slinking with flattened ears toward the darkened bedroom.
"That's Cassie, my newest foster cat."
"Cat, my foot. It looks like a skunk."
"Shh. Don't tease. She was taken from a woman who was watching her for her daughter while the daughter toured Europe." Zina jammed her fists in the pockets of her denim coveralls, reluctant even to relate Cassie's sad history. "The woman didn't want her on the furniture or bringing in fleas from outside, so she kept her in a cage in the basement all day, all night. It was a small cage, the kind you use to trap small animals with."
"Jesus. How long was the daughter gone?"
"Six months so far."
Zack looked utterly repulsed. "You're joking."
Zina shook her head. "One of the woman's friends called the shelter, and they were able to talk the woman into letting us foster-care Cassie. With any luck, we'll be able to put her up for adoption soon."
Zack got up and walked over to the door of the bedroom and stared into the darkness within. "I don't see how you can stand working there," he muttered over his shoulder to her. "I'd want to blow these people's brains out. Or mine."
Behind him Zina said simply, "If we don't help the animals, who will? Besides, most people aren't cruel."
"Just stupid."
"Thoughtless. They don't think, that's all."
"Give me a break, Zina!" her brother snapped. "When you leave a dog tied up too long to a parking meter while you have a few beers with your pals—that's thoughtless. Keeping a cat in a cage for half a year is cruel. Genuine, bona fide, undeniably cruel. God, what a bitch!"
Anyone else might have quaked in her socks at the ferocity of his outburst, but not Zina. She understood her brother well: Zack Tompkins had no use for people who didn't follow through on their commitments.
In that, she and Zack were nothing alike.
He was standing in the doorway still, staring into the darkened room, trying to see she didn't know what.
"I don't think that she'll be coming out soon," Zina volunteered. "She's probably under the bed."
"I'm sure." Zack slugged the last of his beer and turned away from the room, his face the picture of misanthropy. "I suppose," he said as he rinsed out the can, "that you're going to sleep on the couch tonight so that the cat can have a space to itself?"
She smiled. "Actually, it's a very comfortable couch."
"You'll be springing for an apartment with a guest room next," her brother said wryly.
"Are you kidding?" Zina picked up the food and water dishes and moved them into the bedroom. "Where would I find a landlord as willing to put up with my animals? No, I like it here. It's in the country, quiet, cheap, and close to the shelter. Best of all, Margie's hard of hearing. Remember last month, when that Siamese was in heat? She never heard a thing."
"There you go, then; the landlady from heaven. Did you lose this?" he asked, picking up a silver bracelet from the floor.
Zina was surprised—shocked—that she hadn't noticed it wasn't on her wrist. "The lock must have opened again!" she said in genuine distress. "I'm going to lose it for sure."
Zack looked at it closely and said, "The loop needs crimping, that's all. Do you have a needle-nose around?"
"A what?"
"Never mind; I'll fix this and bring it back next time. I'll add a drop of solder to keep it from opening again."
"Let me see."
He handed her the ID bracelet. She looked at the loop, then ran her finger lightly over the inscription on the plate: J and Z Forever. Defiantly, because her brother was watching her with wry amusement, she lifted the bracelet to her lips before handing it back.
"My good luck amulet," she said, her chin still high. "Don't keep it too long."
"Zina—"
"Don't. Just ... don't."
****
Every once in a while Jim and his office mates declared a boys' night out; Wendy had got the word earlier in the day that tonight was going to be one of them.
Jim was good about warning her, just as he was bad about holding his liquor. She appreciated both traits in him: they defined a man who kept her in the loop about his comings and goings, and who didn't drink enough to have developed a hollow leg.
At ten-thirty, Jim walked in with a weave in his step that Wendy pretty much expected to see. She was glad that they'd had a designated driver.
He gave her a loopy grin. "Betcha think I've had—guess how many I've had."
"One too many?" she said, taking his rain-spattered jacket from him before he could throw it over something upholstered.
"Two too many," he answered, heading straight—more or less—for the oversized recliner that loomed large in their small living room.
"There was a lot to drink to, I can tell you," he informed her. "Plenty of stuff goin' on. Plenty." He dropped with a grunt into his easy chair.
"What kind of stuff?" Wendy asked. She was wary nowadays about the possibilities.
"You know—all kinds of stuff," he said, elaborating as best as he could. He used his right foot to pry off the loafer on his left, then fumbled through the process in reverse to get the other shoe off. The effort seemed to exhaust him; he collapsed and dropped his head back on the recliner and stared at the ceiling. "Man, I'm wasted."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Oh ... bullshit stuff. Like Phil's getting a divorce from Cindy."
"You're kidding!"
"But not because of the money. Eh, well ... maybe because of the money. Before the lottery—I have to say—the two of 'em seemed shaky. But not that shaky."
He sighed, then frowned. "What was I saying?"
"Phil. Cindy."
"Right. Now, all of a sudden, there's another woman in the picture. Where she came from, I don't
know," he said, rolling his head back and forth at the ceiling. "Phil never said squat about her before. I think Phil, being Phil, would've said."
"It's because of the money, you can bet on it," Wendy said in grim agreement. She got up to bring her husband a cup of black coffee because she didn't want him falling asleep in his chair, the usual aftermath of a boys' night out. "Phil's always been a jerk," she said from the kitchen, dismissing him.
"On the bright side, Todd finally got engaged."
"Because of the money, by any chance?" Wendy asked dryly as she set the mug down.
"Damn right because of the money. You know how Todd is. Zero confidence."
"His winnings should be able to buy him a good supply of that."
"You would think. But—I dunno, it's weird, but—no one seems to be handling the money that well. Except me. I'm doin' all right with it. As you know. And Ed. But a lot of the other guys, their heads are pretty messed up over this. They're having real problems."
Ignoring the mug on the coaster, Jim yawned sleepily and closed his eyes. He was one step away from kicking his recliner all the way back.
"Don't you dare," Wendy warned her husband, but it was too late; he threw the lever before she could stop him.
She was surprised at how unwilling she was to let him do his post-boys thing. "Stay up, Jim. I want to know who's having problems with the winnings. What kind of problems? Stay up," she said, pushing on his ankles to get him sitting straight again.
"Cut it out, Wen," he groused. But she persisted, and he levered himself back into an upright position. "What do you want from me? You want me to tell you that we all decided to give our winnings back? That's not gonna happen. No one's interested in giving back a dime, sorry to disappoint you."
"I didn't expect that. I want to know what 'messed up over this' means."
Jim rolled his eyes and said, "Why did I open my mouth? This isn't something ... I don't know ... it's ... some of the guys are ... restless ... antsy ... I don't know."
"You mean, about keeping their jobs?"
His response to that was a snort. "Forget keeping their jobs; they'll all be out of there by the end of the month. And that includes me, by the way. I can do better than pushing paper around a desk all day." He added dryly, "Don't worry, though; we should be able to scrape by while I have a look around."
"We've already talked about that," she said, surprised at his tone. "You know that I agree with you. You know that I think you should be happy in what you're doing."
"Well ... just so you know I'm not going to stay there forever."
Something in his voice, something in his green eyes, made him sound a little lost. Even him. Instantly sympathetic, Wendy came over and curled on his lap. She laid her head on the back of the recliner alongside his and said softly, "This is such a huge change in our lives. In all of our lives."
"You've got that right," he said, idly stroking her hair. He sounded a million miles away.
"The one who's handling it best of us is Tyler, I think. As long as he's got what he wants in video games, he's happy. He's clueless about all the possibilities."
"Oh yeah? He clued in on a new boat fast enough."
"Well, okay, a boat," she said, smiling at the thought of the two of them poring over brochures days earlier. "That goes without saying. Still, I can see why the guys at the office are restless. They've just been handed what amounts to a second chance at life. How many people get that?"
Jim angled his head to get a better look at her. "That's exactly their situation. Exactly. They don't want to blow it."
"No one does," she said. Certainly she didn't. She wanted the money to be put to the best possible use, whatever that was, because she wanted to be the best person she could, whatever that was.
Her husband murmured, "I don't think you realize that most of us have already blown it. That half of our lives have already been shot to hell behind a desk. That's why everyone's looking around, trying to get it right this time. Everyone's second-guessing ... everything. Believe me."
Something hot and sharp needled its way through Wendy's insides. Before she could identify the sensation, she said, "I hope their wives are helping them try to figure it out?"
Jim shifted his weight, and Wendy found herself sinking into the void alongside him. "That's just it," he mused. "I think the guys have this ... this feeling of, I'm the one who bought the ticket, and the money's my responsibility to figure out," he said. "Except Ed, of course. Dorothy runs that show."
She tried to laugh away the unease that both of them seemed to be feeling. "Uh-oh; does this mean that from now on I have to fill out a written request to buy something?"
He gave her hair a quick yank and said, "Goof. I'm talking about the other guys, not me. Hell, I'm the one who feels like he has to fill out a form to spend any money around here."
"Because you're impulsive," she couldn't help saying. "It's the Irish in you."
"What about the Irish in you, Wenda Hodene?" he said in a fake but rich Irish brogue. "Ye've repressed it of late."
She sat up and turned to face him squarely. "Meaning ...?"
"Meaning it's been a while. I know things have been crazy, but ... it's been a couple of weeks now."
There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Wendy had seen the same look the day she walked into the motorcycle shop twelve years earlier, in search of a bicycle bell. The only bells around were the ones he rang that night when he kissed her. Within the month they'd gone to bed; within three months they'd become engaged. It was the O'Byrne in her that had made her do it.
She smiled at the memory but said, "You're tight, James; it would take all blessed night."
"We have all blessed night. Tyler, do not forget, is at a sleepover."
"His first in a month," she said, keying in on the fact. "You're right."
Jim grinned, showing straight white teeth, and Wendy thought, I keep forgetting how good-looking the man is.
And loyal; she loved that he was loyal. His desire for her, coming hard on the heels of the news about Phil and Cindy, was a spur to passion.
And, they would be alone. All blessed night.
Motive and opportunity; Wendy had it all. "You know what, mister? I think I'll take you up on that offer."
She turned and straddled him, wedging her knees between his thighs and the arms of the recliner. Her kiss was fierce and deep, as reassuring as it was hungry for reassurance. She felt him rise instantly beneath her and realized that he might not be so drunk, after all.
He broke off the kiss and said in a raspy growl, "Let's go screw our brains out."
His bluntness jolted her out of any expectation of fuzzy, warm intercourse between a couple with more than a decade of lovemaking behind them. This would be raw; this would be basic.
This could be fun.
****
Zack Tompkins was in bed with the hottest date he'd had in months. He lay back and closed his eyes, perfectly willing to let her do most of the work. "Ah, darlin', where did you go to school?" he murmured. At this rate, he wouldn't last; he was going to have to think about doing his taxes or something.
No need. The new phone on the nightstand rang, a shrill, unfamiliar sound that brought a string of expletives from him. "Ignore it, ignore it," he told her hoarsely. "It'll go away."
But it didn't. The machine kicked in after the second ring, and after that they heard a tremulous, "Zack? Zack, are you there?"
Ah, shit.
"It's about Jimmy."
Ah, shit.
At the other end of the line, he heard Zina's voice falter and then turn sniffly. "I know ... I know what you said. But it's him. It is him," she insisted poignantly to the machine. "I know it is. So I'm going to Providence tomorrow—"
Shit! He rolled away from his date and snatched up the phone. "Zee, what're you talkin' about? Are you nuts?"
"Oh, Zack—you're home," she said, sounding less offended than relieved. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
; "No, no, nothing," he mumbled, but he grabbed a corner of the sheet and pulled it over his groin. This was Zina he was talking to: an emotional, naive, hopelessly fragile human being. The least he could do was cover up in deference to her goodness.
He tried, as gently as he knew how, to crush her plan. "Zee, I don't think that that's a good idea. It would be too stressful for you."
"I'm stressed now," she said simply. "Ever since I saw the photo in the paper."
"You'd be depressed if—when—you found out it wasn't him."
"Zack, don't you understand? I'm depressed now."
"It could be embarrassing—"
"Not to me. Maybe to him."
"It could be dangerous, for crissake!"
"How? If he's Jimmy or if he isn't, the worst he could do would be to brush me off. You know the way these lottery winners have to brush off charities and relatives and con artists. Who knows? Maybe he has a security guard that I won't be able to get past."
"Ah, geez..." Zack glanced at his date, sitting where she'd landed at the edge of the bed when he'd dumped her to grab the phone. Brittany was wearing a polite smile—but that was all, and she knew that he was well aware of it.
He smiled back, also politely, while he focused on the crisis at hand. "Zee, I haven't asked you for much in life, but I'm asking you now: don't do this. For me. Don't do this."
He heard her shocked intake of breath. "Zack! How can you ask me not to?"
He turned away from Brittany now and hunched over the phone with one hand slapped over his free ear, feeling like a soldier in a foxhole during a firefight. "What will you gain, Zina?" he said, forcing himself not to scream at her. "What can you possibly gain? He's moved on, wherever and whoever he is. Let it go."
After a long pause she gave him an answer, spoken softly but resolutely, that wasn't a reply to his question. "I have to see him."
He'd lost. It was a novel sensation. He felt the way he would have if she'd beaten him at arm wrestling, and for a moment he wasn't quite sure what to say. Later he realized that his ego had been smarting: he'd been her brother for thirty-four years, and yet there he was, outranked by an asshole she'd known for little more than that many weeks.
But at that moment, all Zack cared about was keeping his sister from a self-inflicted wound that he was convinced could end up being fatal.
A Month at the Shore Page 33