She's No Angel

by Leslie Kelly

  Without saying a word, Jen pushed the container across the coffee table, watching Ida Mae grab an olive and pop it into her mouth. With Ivy, only liquor, ice cream or an oldies CD for the stereo Jen had bought her last Christmas could have done the trick. Ida Mae was much less picky when it came to bribes.

  The ploy worked. The older woman slowly lowered herself onto the opposite chair, but kept griping. “Shocking lack of respect for your elders. Your dear, sweet father will be horrified to hear this.”

  “You’re not going to bother my father,” Jen said, her tone steely. “You know as well as I do that he can’t handle the stress. Mom said he’s just now strong enough to walk to the mailbox without coming back winded. None of us are going to do or say a thing to worry him.”

  Ida Mae sucked in her bottom lip. The only thing Jen could ever do to get the old woman to back off anything was say it wasn’t good for Ivan Feeney. Ida Mae and Ivy did have a soft spot in their brittle hearts for their much younger brother.

  “Sweet baby boy,” Ida Mae said, sounding about as gentle as Jen had ever heard her. “I do wish your mother would have let us stay longer to take care of him.”

  Ha. Smother him was the better term. Jen’s mother had almost shot herself when her two elderly sisters-in-law had come down to North Carolina to “help” her parents get settled in their new home. If they went back, Mom was likely to have a heart attack and end up right beside Dad.

  Which was why Jen intended to take care of the aunts whether they liked it or not. “I’m very sorry my suggestion came across as an order.”

  Getting better. Ida’s posture eased a tiny bit, but she wasn’t finished grumbling. “Think I buried one husband and divorced another just so I could let somebody else order me around?” She didn’t wait for an answer, instead grabbing a cherry tomato and a slice of green pepper. The aunts usually lived on canned tuna, so fresh veggies had to be a real treat. Even if they had come out of Tootie’s greasy kitchen.

  “I would like…I would hope, that you and Ivy would at least consider moving into someplace a little nicer.”

  Oh boy. Tactical error. She knew it the minute the words left her mouth.

  Ida Mae’s spine stiffened as if somebody had sent a bolt of electricity through her. She launched herself up on her sturdy legs and glared down, a bit of pepper flying out of her mouth as she snapped, “Nicer? You’re saying my house is not nice? Well, young lady, you may feel free to stay somewhere else then.”

  “Aunt Ida…”

  “Out.”

  She shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The shrug, and reasonable tone, seemed to get Ida Mae’s attention more than anything Jen had said. She appeared a bit nonplussed that her niece hadn’t launched to her feet and started arguing back—as Ivy probably would have done. Ida Mae could handle anger. But she wasn’t so good at holding up against calm, rational conversation.

  Maybe that was one reason she never battled with her brother. Jen’s father was the absolute epitome of a laid-back, kindly man. Which had made his massive heart attack at fifty-nine that much more frightening.

  As if knowing she’d lost the skirmish—though, she’d never concede the battle—Ida Mae glared. “Fine. Stay then. Just be gone tomorrow.”

  Without another word, she bent down, grabbed Jen’s salad and stalked out of the room.

  THE LAST TIME MIKE HAD VISITED his grandfather in Trouble had been during the winter, at Christmastime, to be exact. So it hadn’t quite hit him just how hot this part of Pennsylvania could be in August. Particularly in a monstrous old house with no central air-conditioning. Even his hair was sweating.

  He hadn’t noticed it as much when he’d first arrived the previous evening, since Roderick had served up a great dinner on the back patio. With newly installed ceiling fans spinning lazily overhead, an icy cold beer in his hand and his grandfather’s fine company, he hadn’t even felt the temperature.

  Until he’d gone to bed.

  Then he’d turned into Mr. Heat Miser from that old Christmas show.

  His grandfather had said he’d looked into installing a system when doing renovations on the old monstrosity over the last year. But supposedly the lines of the oddly constructed building—which, in Mike’s opinion, looked like a bunch of kid’s card houses on top of one another—would be affected by installing central air. So Mortimer hadn’t done it. He’d merely brought in a few window units, though none for the third floor.

  Hence the sweating. Even Mutt had known better than to sleep up here. He’d come in with Mike the night before, then turned right back around and gone downstairs where it was cooler. Man’s best friend. Huh.

  Mike had to concede it: the steaminess of his first night in the house might also be attributed to the dream he’d had. He couldn’t remember all the details. But he definitely remembered it had involved Jennifer Feeney, a bottle of massage oil and a pair of his handcuffs.

  It had also caused him to wake up as hard as a tree trunk.

  “Get out of my head, lady,” he muttered as he got up, knowing there was no point trying to sleep any longer. When his feet hit the floor, he groaned. Even the scratched old wooden floors of the attic room were hot, and it was only 9:00 a.m.

  His brother Max, who’d spent a few weeks here last summer, had sworn this third-floor room got the best cross breezes from the two turret windows. Supposedly, its greatest benefit was that it was out of earshot of Mortimer’s snoring, which had been known to knock pictures off walls.

  Mike was apparently a lighter sleeper than his brother. He’d heard his grandfather sawing away from one story below until at least 3:00 a.m. And if a breeze had come through the front window last night, it had tiptoed around him sprawled naked on the bed and gone right out the other side. Now that some rainy weather had rolled in, the humidity was thick enough to drink from a cup and his whole body felt sticky.

  He didn’t know how Max had managed to stay here last summer. Then he thought about his new sister-in-law. And he knew how.

  His brother had fallen hard and fast for Sabrina, and more power to him. Maybe with one grandson settled, Mortimer would get some great-grandchildren who’d distract him from this mess of a town he’d purchased a little over a year ago.

  The man was never as happy as when he had someone to scheme and fuss over, and a new baby would definitely fit the bill. The way Grandpa talked about Hank, his secretary Allie’s kid, he sounded as if he’d already bought stock in Pampers. He adored the boy who was, to be technical, a relative, since he was Sabrina’s nephew. Mike couldn’t even imagine what Mortimer would do with his own great-grandchild…beyond loving him more than life.

  Just as he had his grandsons, who’d never forgotten what he’d done for them when their parents had died. He hadn’t shuffled them off to private schools or dumped them on paid servants. Hadn’t treated them as if they were a nuisance. Hadn’t allowed them to wallow in their own unhappiness. No. Instead, he’d become a true parent all over again, in every sense of the word.

  Mike had only been a kid when his dad had been blown out of the sky during the first Gulf War. But he remembered full well how terrified he’d been of losing anyone else he cared about. So the death of his mother from cancer less than a year later had brought his entire world to a crashing halt.

  Mortimer had made it start spinning again. Eventually. And as it had spun, he’d dragged his three grandsons across it, giving them the kinds of lives most kids only dreamed of having.

  “Michael?” A tap on the door gave him about ten seconds’ notice before it was pushed in by his grandfather. Which was just enough time for Mike to grab his shorts and yank them on.

  It wouldn’t have been the first time his grandfather had walked in and seen him sporting some morning wood. But that hadn’t happened since he was fourteen. The memory of the sex talk Mortimer had insisted they have afterward still gave him chills.

  He would do anything for his grandfather. But he didn’t want to think about the ma
n’s wild sex life, which had, he said, served him well through a few marriages and many love affairs.

  “Good, you’re up. I was hoping you could do me a favor and go down to the market for a newspaper.”

  He certainly didn’t mind, but was curious about the request. “I can’t believe you don’t have the Times, the Journal and the Post delivered to your doorstep every morning anymore.”

  “The town doesn’t carry ’em. Besides, the only paper carrier around here dropped dead of a heart attack when Mrs. Sneed’s pit bull came through her screen door at him.”

  The comment rolled out of Grandfather’s mouth as if he’d been living in this Podunk town all his life. Obviously Mortimer was playing a new role: small-town old-timer. He even had a completely phony twang in his voice.

  “Okay,” Mike said. “I’ll run down there right after I shower.”

  Grandfather frowned. “I could really use that paper.”

  A newspaper emergency? One reason leaped to mind. “Stock issues? Do you want me to check the market on the Internet?”

  Mortimer shrugged. “Roddy does that computer thing for me every day. No, there’s, er, some town business I need to find out about and it should be in today’s paper. So, a bit of a hurry-up would be most appreciated.”

  The old man was nervous. His smile was too wide, his eyes too bright and he was bouncing on his arthritic legs. Whatever this town business was, it appeared to be important. If Mike didn’t go for the paper, he felt sure his grandfather would. And Mortimer Potts and automobiles didn’t go so well together anymore, as several wrecking companies around the globe could testify.

  “Sure. You bet,” he said, grabbing a pair of jeans.

  “Take the back way, left at the bottom of the hill. It’s quicker. Brings you right in behind the market.”

  “You live a mile from downtown either way,” Mike replied, making no effort to keep the dryness from his tone.

  Mortimer didn’t answer, he merely kept his smile in place, then turned and hurried out of the room. Leaving Mike to wonder what, exactly, was going on with him.

  He really began to wonder twenty minutes later. Because after he’d grabbed the paper and a box fan from the ancient drugstore and was heading back to the house, hoping he’d make it before the skies really opened up and dropped the moisture barely contained in the pregnant clouds, his cell phone rang.

  “Michael? I’ve just remembered, that article isn’t going to appear today. There’s really no rush for you to get back.”

  His head began to pound. All he’d wanted this morning was a cold shower to get the sweat off his body and bring his skin temperature back down below a hundred degrees. But he’d been sent out on an emergency errand…which now wasn’t an emergency?

  “So, feel free to, uh, go see the sights or something.”

  See the sights. Right. The Holland Tunnel was the sight he most wanted to see today, but he’d promised to stay through Tuesday. He hadn’t even had a real conversation with his grandfather yet—like the one he’d come here to have, which started with “Why don’t you come back to New York with me?” and ended with Mortimer waving, “Bye-bye, Trouble!”

  “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he finally said with a sigh. Then, something up ahead caught his attention.

  A brunette. Wearing a sexy jean skirt and bright pink top. Walking down the side of the road. “I’ll be damned,” he said, unable to believe what he was seeing. He began to smile, simply unable to fathom how this could be happening. Again.

  “What?” his grandfather said over the phone.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just, uh, maybe I will see the sights, Grandpa. I’ll be back later.”

  “Good, good. Enjoy yourself. Have fun.”

  Fun? Well, he didn’t know if he’d call rescuing Jennifer Feeney fun. But it sure was entertaining.

  At least this time, she was wearing shoes. And she wasn’t carrying any lethal weapons. Probably only because he still had her tire iron on the floor of his Jeep.

  Dropping his phone back in his pocket, he pulled up beside her. He couldn’t hide his rueful amusement as he lowered the passenger side window. “Good morning,” he called.

  She stopped and swung around, a glare on her face. It quickly faded when she saw and recognized him. Then those pretty cheeks pinkened and she nibbled a hole through her bottom lip.

  Yeah. He supposed it would be a bit embarrassing to be outwitted by a pair of sneaky old ladies two days in a row.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Nice day for a walk.” It was so not a nice day for a walk.

  She didn’t even blink. “Yeah. Great.”

  “I see you’re wearing shoes today, at least.”

  She glanced down at her strappy, low-heeled sandals. They might be better than bare feet, but they sure didn’t look as if they’d been made for walking.

  They were very nice, however, for showing off those incredible legs, especially given the short jean skirt that hugged her hips and ass as if it was sewn on.

  “You bet,” she said, quickly looking in both directions, obviously hoping another car would pull up to her rescue, so she could avoid admitting what had happened. As if there was any doubt.

  “So, where you headed?”

  She lifted a hand and waved it in a generally forward direction.

  “Where are you coming from?”

  The hand came up again, waving just as generally the other way.

  He felt laughter bubbling up inside him, and again wondered how this woman was getting around his stiff defenses so easily. No other woman had in a long time. Then again, seeing Jennifer Feeney try to get herself out of trouble was more amusing than just about anything else he could imagine.

  He liked this side of her, this embarrassed side. It was cute, and showed there was a chink in that hard-ass armor she usually wore.

  Yesterday she’d been spitting nails, revealing only a tiny bit of vulnerability when she’d run out of gas. Today she was obviously just as furious…but a whole lot more humiliated. What was that old saying? Fool me once, shame on you…. Abandon me in the middle of nowhere twice—now who’s the idiot?

  “I take it you did make it to the gas station and haven’t been walking the streets since last evening?”

  “I did.”

  “Did the aunts let you in?”

  She so obviously didn’t want to talk about this. “Uh-huh.”

  “Did they have you arrested for breaking and entering?”

  “I found a spare key.”

  “Good.” Still idling on the road, not worrying about blocking traffic since there was none, he pushed harder. “If you didn’t sleep on the street, I guess that means you got things worked out with your aunts and they let you stay?”

  “Mmm, hmm.” Her eyes went down and her feet scuffed in the gravel. She looked like a kid trying not to admit she’d failed a test at school.

  Mike couldn’t take it anymore. “They got you again, huh?”

  Sighing heavily, she nodded. “Yeah. The biddies got me again.” Having admitted it, she suddenly shook off any embarrassment and he saw the fire sparking in her eyes.

  This was the Jen Feeney he’d met yesterday. And damn, didn’t she look fine. “Want a ride?”

  This time, she didn’t even hesitate. Striding to the Jeep, she opened the door and hopped up into the passenger seat, frustration and humiliation rolling off the woman in great almost tangible waves. “Get me out of here.”

  “Where we goin’?”

  “Anywhere,” she snapped. “Just drive.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They say the world’s best diet is the divorce diet. Every newly single woman, fantasizing about making her ex regret what he lost, drops weight faster than ever before. Personally, I think she ought to be satisfied with the two hundred pounds of useless fat she got rid of the day she lost the ex.

  —I Want You, I Love You, Get Out by Jennifer Feeney

  “GOOD MORNING.”

  Start
led by the sound of Allie Cavanaugh’s voice, Emily turned around from the sink where she’d been peeling peaches for a pie. It was late Saturday morning and she hadn’t expected to see Allie at all today. She’d thought she would be joined at the hip to her young man, Damon Cole, who had come back last night.

  Emily wasn’t a bra-burning modern woman—she’d been living in her strict parents’ home throughout the sexual revolution. And the closest she’d ever come to free love in her youth had been when there was a romance double-feature at the old Trouble Movie Palace. But she also wasn’t a prude. So when Allie had asked her for permission to invite Damon to stay a while, until they could find a bigger place to live, Emily had immediately agreed. Not only to make Allie happy, but because she longed for the girl’s company a bit longer. When Allie and her baby moved out, Emily didn’t know how she’d stand the silence.

  She’d have to pay a visit to the Wal-Mart in the next town and see what was in the $5.50 video bin.

  “Having a nice weekend so far?” she asked, laughter in her voice. She imagined her young friend had been having a very nice weekend, considering she and her young man had disappeared upstairs at seven o’clock last night and hadn’t been out since.

  “Hank’s cutting a new tooth,” Allie said with a small sigh. “He was up every two hours.”

  “I would have taken him.”

  Allie came up and put her arm around Emily’s waist, giving her a squeeze and a kiss on the cheek. She was a demonstrative child, bright and funny, her gamine face and curly hair perfect for her sunny disposition. “You’re a darling, but if Damon wants me, he gets Hank, too. He might as well know what he’s in for.”

  “How did he do?”

  Allie helped herself to a slice of peach. “Beautifully. I think Hank kept waking up just so Damon would sing to him.”

  A good man. A very good man. She’d known that as soon as she’d met him. And not at all surprising that he was good with the boy, considering what he really did for a living. He’d been traveling with his family-owned circus, performing as a “Gypsy King” this summer. In truth, he was a child psychologist. He’d just been taking some time off to deal with a personal tragedy.