TOO HOT TO HANDLE

by Robin Kaye

  Chapter 12

  Annabelle stood in the bathroom of the St. Andrew's rinsing her mouth and wiping her face with a cool paper towel after throwing up her entire lunch.

  She hoped Colleen hadn't noticed her shock. But at this point, it didn't really matter. Her relationship with Mike was doomed. How could God be so cruel? How could he make her fall in love with both Chip and Mike?

  Annabelle held on to the sink as another wave of nausea rolled over her. Her head ached, her heart ached, and since she'd stomped around the bathroom muttering curses, her ankle ached, too.

  How was she going to tell Becca? Oh God, how was she going to tell Mike?

  She dug through her purse, found blusher, and did her best to put some color back into her pasty complexion. She needed to finish her lunch with Colleen without letting on that her relationship with Mike had just been destroyed. She'd always suspected Mike and Chip were distantly related, but she'd assumed it would be in a long, long, long lost cousin kind of way, not in a brothers with different mothers way!

  "Annabelle? Are you all right?"

  She stuffed her blush back into her bag and smiled at Colleen. "I'm fine."

  It didn't look as if Colleen bought that. Damn her inability to lie convincingly. "Okay, you caught me. I feel a little queasy. It's probably from taking a megadose of ibuprofen on an empty stomach. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson after Mother's Day."

  For once in her life, she actually got along with a boyfriend's mother, and now she'd have to… How does one tell the man she loves that he's the surviving brother of her first love? Sheesh, the writers of General Hospital had nothing on her life.

  Colleen didn't buy the ibuprofen bit either, but she was nice enough to let the subject drop. They returned to the table, where Colleen insisted on paying. Annabelle didn't have the strength to argue. She wanted to go home and pretend the day never happened. Becca would insist on a blow by blow. Too bad the girl was going to get the shock of her life. Annabelle knew exactly how it felt and wasn't looking forward to a reenactment.

  Becca lazed on the couch with Dave, who, after an afternoon of quality time, snoozed beside his new best friend. Every now and then he'd awaken and give her feet or her face a swipe of his tongue. Becca regretted two things: that Dave was a dog, and that his was the only tongue, human or canine, she'd come in contact with in over a year. No offense to Dave, but she preferred a human male to Dave, who, she had to admit, was the sweetest ox she'd ever known.

  The door swung open, and Annabelle stepped in. Becca took one look at Annabelle's red-rimmed eyes and shoved Dave off her lap. "What happened to you?"

  Annabelle fell into Becca's arms and let loose a sob that seemed to come right from her soul. Becca had cried on Annabelle's shoulder all through Chip's illness and death, but she'd never seen her shed a tear. It was unnatural the way the girl could hold it together. Annabelle losing it now sent Becca into panic mode.

  Dave barked and Henry and Wayne burst through the door like better-groomed versions of the Ghostbusters.

  "What the hell happened?" Wayne turned on Becca and plucked Annabelle right out of her arms. "What did you do to her?"

  "Nothing." She tried to disengage Wayne from Annabelle. "Now damn it! Give her back to me."

  Henry pulled Becca under his arm and gave her a sideways hug. "Calm down. Wayne feels protective of Annabelle since her last crying jag."

  "She's done this before? I've known her for almost five years, and I've never once seen her cry."

  Wayne made shushing noises and hummed something as Henry steered Becca into the kitchen and put the kettle on.

  "She mentioned something about that." He pulled a teapot from one of the upper cabinets and opened the small pantry, knowing exactly where to look for tea bags. You'd think he lived there.

  "I know you mean well, but I really need to talk to Annabelle about something. Privately."

  Henry turned and looked over the top of his glasses at her. "I don't recommend trying to get in between Wayne and Annabelle when he's in full mother hen mode. Believe me, it will be much easier to let him calm her down. I promise to shoo him out as soon as possible. Until then, why don't we give Annabelle a nice big dose of tea and sympathy? You look as if you could use some yourself."

  The Fairy Godfathers were both very skilled at "handling" people, though their tactics were diametrically opposed. Wayne tended to wade into the fray and get caught up in all the swirl of emotion, while Henry was the calm and supportive Rock of Gibraltar type. She was certain Henry would be able to walk through a mud pit and still come out clean, pressed, and smelling delicious. Too bad he was gay.

  Becca sipped tea and ate cookies that appeared out of nowhere. When Wayne and Henry were sure the waterworks had stopped, they offered to dog-sit and leave the women alone to talk. Annabelle blew her nose and nodded.

  They both watched the boys leave. When Becca turned her attention to Annabelle again, she hiccupped, trying to regain her composure.

  Annabelle played with the tassels on a pillow she'd made, avoiding Becca's eyes. The pillow reminded Becca of the old Annabelle. Bright colors mixed in a way that one thought would clash, but became something uniquely beautiful.

  "I had lunch with Mike's mother and…"

  She covered her face with her hands and mumbled.

  Becca pulled Annabelle's hands away and held them. "What?"

  "Mike's father's name is Christopher Larsen … you are Mike's half sister."

  There, Annabelle had said it aloud, and when she got the guts to look Becca in the eye, all she saw was sympathy. Not shock, not horror—if anything she looked relieved.

  "I take it this little bombshell isn't news to you?"

  Becca only shook her head, guilt dripping off her like water over Niagara Falls.

  Annabelle had never felt such rage; she ripped her hands out of Becca's and stood. "You knew and didn't tell me? You're my best friend, and you kept this from me?"

  Becca's face turned white. "I came here to tell you. I planned to, but I thought it would be better to tell you after we finished going through your past." She stood and reached for Annabelle.

  Annabelle pushed her away. "So you let me find out in the middle of a freaking restaurant? I had to run to the bathroom and throw up. I had to hide it from Mike's mom, all because you didn't want to tell me until after… Hold on. How did you find out?"

  Becca seemed to shrink in stature. "I'm so sorry. I didn't think I was doing anything wrong until after I did it. I had no idea."

  "What did you do?"

  "I showed the pictures of Mike to my father. I asked him how he was related to us."

  "What pictures?"

  "The pictures I saw on your computer. Honest to God, Annabelle, I didn't think. I didn't think about how this would affect you. We always shared everything. It never occurred to me to ask your permission. I just printed the pictures and took them home with me."

  "And you showed your father?"

  "I asked him who Mike Flynn was to us—in the middle of the country club dining room, no less. I thought he was going to have a coronary. Once he heard Mike's last name, well, Mike's mother and he were lovers way back when, and he said she just disappeared. He never knew Mike existed."

  "Until you opened your big mouth and told him."

  Becca nodded. "I'm so sorry. You can't imagine how sorry I am that I handled this so badly. But, Annabelle, if I didn't tell my father, it would have come out some other way."

  Annabelle paced the length of the apartment. Becca just followed behind.

  "When did your father find out?" She stopped and turned to Becca. "What's he going to do about it? Oh God, once he finds out that Mike and I—"

  "Are in love? You can't let this change anything between you and Mike."

  Annabelle threw up her hands. "How could it not change everything? Once your father gets involved with Mike, our relationship is over." She wrapped her arms around herself. "I won't allow your father to treat me the way
I was treated when Chip and I were together. Not even for love. It's not worth it. I'm not that same insecure girl I used to be."

  Becca took the same pose but made it look stubborn instead of the way Annabelle felt, as if her arms were the only things protecting her from completely falling apart.

  "And Mike isn't Chip. No matter how you feel about my father, or how mad you are at me, you need to tell Mike. He needs to hear this from you. You two can work it out. I know you can."

  Annabelle shook her head. No way could this end in anything but disaster. If she had learned anything from her past with Chip, it was that she wasn't cut out for a life that included Dr. Larsen. No matter how much she loved either of his sons.

  "I'll tell him Memorial Day weekend."

  "I'm so sorry, Annabelle. I'm so sorry."

  Annabelle walked back to the couch, tossed the pillows to the side, and sat. Becca was right, and she looked as sick as Annabelle felt. Mike would learn the truth eventually. "It's okay. I know you didn't mean it. I probably would have done the same thing if I were you. It's better that this came out now, before I got in even deeper than I already am. I'll be all right."

  Eventually, maybe … someday, when her heart stopped breaking.

  Annabelle waited for Mike, looking forward to seeing him, and dreading it at the same time.

  He'd been working so much, she spent more time texting him and leaving voice mail messages than she spent in his presence. She missed him, even though she tried to put him out of her mind. He'd made such a big space for himself in her life that when he was absent, the yawning hole he left made her feel empty. She tried not to think what life would be like without him. Though, after this weekend, she'd find out. She wasn't looking forward to it.

  The Felix the Cat clock on the wall counted down the time, and with every swish of his tail, Mike became later and later. She paced back and forth in her new flats, thankful she didn't have to wear that ugly boot anymore. She straightened the painting she'd hung over the couch—one of her own works she'd painted while going through her Tuscan phase. She'd pulled the colors from the painting and chosen the new drapes she'd hung—a mix of jewel-tone silk sheers she made out of the stash of rich fabrics she'd collected. She'd even had the Fairy Godfathers build her a cornice she'd covered to pull all the colors together. Matching hand-woven table runners covered the table and the buffet where she displayed a few pieces of pottery given to her by Becca. She looked around and thought about losing Mike. The only bright side was that she'd made herself a home. It was hers. It looked like her, it felt like her, and for once in her life, she was happy both with her home and herself. She just wished she could change her circumstances.

  Her mind spun with a jumble of inexplicable and sometimes diametrically opposed feelings. She never thought she'd find someone who would invade her mind and pop up in her thoughts at the most inopportune times. She'd thought a lot about it since Becca had left. She'd gone and fallen head over heels in love with the one man she'd never be able to have. She'd even sketched Mike—not that she'd meant to. She didn't know she was still capable. But when she cleaned off her desk before leaving for the long weekend, she unearthed her blotter and found a sketch of Mike looking back at her. She must be going stark, raving mad, because she didn't remember drawing it. The sketch—and it was a sketch, not a doodle—was definitely her work, and the subject was definitely Mike.

  The phone rang. She checked the caller ID and confirmed her suspicion. Becca. The girl was still pushing her belief that Annabelle's relationship with Mike could survive this bump in the road. What Becca deemed a bump, she saw as a sinkhole the size of New Jersey. There was no way over it, under it, or around it.

  "Hello."

  "Is he there yet?"

  "If he were, would I be talking to you?"

  "I guess not. I'm so sorry—"

  "I know. Please don't start."

  "Okay, I'm sorry."

  "There you go again."

  "Are you going to tell him?"

  "I said I would. I'll tell him when we get back. I promise. I want him to have this weekend before I do. I want what little time we have left to be wonderful."

  "How are you going to do that when you have this … thing … hanging over your head?"

  "I don't know, but I don't want to spoil our last weekend together. He's worked so hard to get the time off. I want to enjoy it with him. There will be plenty of time when we get back to make both our lives miserable."

  "I think that's a mistake. Honey, if you tell him as soon as you get there, you'll have time to work through this together."

  "There is nothing to work through. Look, Becca, I've thought about this a lot. Mike is the son your father only dreamed of. He's going to want to give Mike everything. He'll have a new father and you. I don't want him to have to choose between his family and me. I love him enough to let him go. And I won't go back to what I was when I was with Chip. I deserve more."

  "Mike might not appreciate you making decisions about his life for him."

  "Becca, it's my life. I know what's best for me, and I know Mike. Someday he'll thank me for this."

  "Someday, maybe you'll get your head out of your ass long enough to see that you two belong together. I just hope that when you do, it's not too late."

  "I've got to go. I think Mike's here."

  "Promise me you'll at least think about giving him a chance?"

  "Love you, Bec. Bye." She hung up the phone and put the whole situation out of her mind. She was good at it. She'd done the same thing when Chip died, and it worked well for two years. She could do it for another weekend.

  Mike parked outside Annabelle's apartment in the Mustang Nick had loaned him. He had his bag packed, the gas tank topped off, a cooler filled with food in the trunk, and an economy-sized box of condoms in the glove compartment.

  He also had bags under his eyes so large they could be mistaken for oversize luggage. He'd worked around the clock. Not only did he cover his normal shifts, but also the shifts of those he'd traded to free him for the weekend. Spending Memorial Day weekend with Annabelle was worth every minute—he just hoped he didn't sleep through it.

  He couldn't attribute all his sleep deprivation to his long hours at work. He'd also spent time researching Eastern Heart Specialists. He'd prepared for his interview the way he prepared for his board exams. He studied the practice, making lists of specific questions to ask or find answers to. The last thing he wanted was to move from one terrible work environment to another.

  It had been years since he'd last looked up the old man, and part of his research was to ensure his father wasn't involved in the practice. As far as Mike could see, his father was still on the board of University of Pennsylvania Hospital, but he'd closed down his practice. Maybe the old guy was slowing down. His father's partial retirement was a happy thought. He didn't want to see the man. Not that he was too worried about it. After all, his father didn't know he even existed.

  Mike got out of the 'Stang and straightened his aching body. The sun shone hot against his back. He checked his watch and winced. He was two hours late picking up Annabelle. He'd hardly seen her in the past few weeks, which wasn't helping his peace of mind. The worst part about it was that their lack of time together didn't seem to bother her. The last time he'd seen her, she'd seemed happy to be with him, but unlike every girl he'd dated, she never once complained about his absence. She never called and interrupted him at work, though she left nice messages or texts in answer to his messages or texts. No matter how many times Mike told himself that was a good thing, he had a hard time believing it.

  He let himself into the building using the key he'd kept when Annabelle had sprained her ankle. Dick Doyle, Annabelle's doctor, had sent Mike a letter saying pretty much what she'd said after Mike hounded her to go for a follow-up. Her ankle was healing well, and she could stop wearing the stabilization boot unless the pain increased.

  Mike knocked. When Annabelle opened the door and smiled at him, it was
as if someone had given him a shot of adrenaline. Damn, she looked good. When she wrapped her arms around him and didn't let him go even after Dave nudged his big head in between their bodies, all the tension he'd been holding on to since he'd seen her last evaporated.

  He looked around the apartment and was amazed by the transformation. It had seemed like forever since he'd hung the paintings she'd had resting against the walls, but now there were a few more already hung. He smiled when he realized that several of the ones he'd never seen before were signed by her. New drapes, lots of sculpture and pottery. The place looked like a little art gallery, only dustier and hairier. It had been a while since he'd vacuumed, and it didn't look as if Annabelle had.

  "I threw together lunch. Well, not personally. I walked Dave down to the deli and picked up salads and sandwiches. I thought that would be safer."

  Mike gave her a quick kiss, not wanting to tempt fate. Kissing Annabelle was dangerous business. He didn't want to take the chance they'd end up falling into bed. When they did fall into bed together, he wanted to hear nothing but the surf pounding the shore and heavy breathing—no sirens, no traffic, and no neighbors.

  "Can we take it to go? It's late, and I don't want to waste a minute of our long weekend."

  "Are you sure you don't want to take a nap? No offense, but you look like you haven't slept in a week."

  She wasn't far off. "I'm fine. I stopped at Starbucks and got a couple of ventis for the road, and I got you a raspberry mocha."

  "How about I drive, and you sleep? You don't need any more caffeine."

  "Do you know how to drive a stick?"

  Mike grabbed the sissy bar in the three-tenths of a mile it took Annabelle to turn onto Hamilton Avenue

  . By the time she merged onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, Dave was crying, and Mike was saying Hail Marys.

  The woman was a female Mario Andretti on speed. She brought the RPMs up to a racer's whine before shifting, downshifted into turns and accelerated out of them, and passed every car she approached while giving Mike a blow-by-blow of her shopping spree with Wayne. Which, in and of itself, wasn't troubling—what gave him pause was the fact that she talked with her hands. You'd think they were chatting over coffee instead of speeding through rush hour traffic. The estimated time of arrival on the car's GPS dropped at an alarming rate. The way she drove while petting Dave's head and occasionally wiping his mouth with a napkin left Mike amazed.