Sleeping Alone

by Bretton, Barbara

  Not even that thought was enough to cool his heat.

  His old man would have a field day with this. Eddie had been trying to push him in Dee’s direction, but some friendships weren’t meant to be anything else. Alex, however, was another story entirely. He turned, expecting to field some major razzing, but Eddie was asleep in the chair facing the television. His father’s breathing was slow and regular, and John tried not to notice how fragile Eddie looked in his blue pajamas and worn slippers.

  I’m not ready to lose you yet, Pop, he thought, then brushed the notion aside as too ridiculous to contemplate. There was nothing wrong with Eddie Gallagher that a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

  John paced the room, his gaze sliding over old-fashioned lamps with pull chains and frilly shades, frayed avocado green curtains, and enough weird knickknacks to fill Giants Stadium. A trio of pictures clipped from a magazine hung on the wall behind the couch. The frames were obviously garage sale rejects.

  He’d stake his life on the fact that everything in the room had belonged to Marge Winslow. He didn’t claim to be an expert on women or interior decorating, but he’d thought most women couldn’t wait to put their own touch on a place. China pitchers in the shape of Elsie the Cow didn’t exactly seem Alex’s style. No, he’d bet his last dime that she was Wedgwood and Steuben all the way.

  There were no family photos propped up on the end tables. No kids’ toys sticking out from under the couch. No men’s shoes or jockstraps draped over the back of a chair. Not even a magazine or book left open on the coffee table. If she had a personal life of any kind, you’d never know it by her home.

  Maybe he wasn’t being fair. She’d only been there a couple of days. Hell, when he and Libby moved into their first house, they’d lived out of boxes for weeks while they tried to figure out what went where. That would explain it. As soon as she unpacked, she’d replace Marge’s eclectic mix with her own things. He glanced around again. He even went so far as to peer into the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. So where were the boxes? Where were the floor-to-ceiling stacks of stuff waiting to be unpacked? All he saw were two very expensive leather suitcases propped up in front of one of the bedroom doors.

  The pieces didn’t fit. She carried herself like a woman who’d never wanted for anything in her life. The kind of woman who’d known only the best life had to offer. A woman who’d rather die than live in Marge Winslow’s old house or wait tables at the Starlight.

  He told himself it was none of his business, that people were entitled to their secrets, but he was lying. When it came to Alex Curry, he wanted to know everything.

  * * *

  If Alex hid out in the kitchen much longer, John Gallagher would think she’d gone to Seattle for the coffee.

  She placed the cups and sugar bowl and milk pitcher on a metal tray, then frowned. The array looked a little skimpy, so she opened a box of cookies and arranged them as best she could on a dinner plate. She used to love arranging tea for Griffin and their guests, taking time to make sure each aspect of the ritual was as perfect as she could possibly make it. For a moment she missed her silver tea service, the china plates so translucent you could see your hand reflected through them, the linen napkins imported from Ireland. Those things were wonderful, but they belonged to her old life and she was better off without them.

  She’d thought that escaping to the kitchen would help her regain her equilibrium, but she felt as dizzy and disoriented as she had in Gallagher’s arms. Get over it, she told herself sternly. This was her problem, not his. She wasn’t blind. She’d picked up on the chemistry between him and Dee at the diner. For all she knew they were having a torrid affair. Maybe they were even married to each other. Anything was possible. These people were strangers to her. She didn’t know the first thing about them, and they didn’t know the first thing about her, which was exactly the way she wanted it.

  She took the plate of cookies off the tray, then carried the coffee into the living room.

  “Sorry I took so long,” she said, placing the tray on the table in front of the sofa. “I’m still not used to that stove.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” John asked. He was standing by the window.

  “It’s a little fluky but—”

  “I’ll take a look at it.” He started toward the kitchen.

  “No!” The word sounded angry, but she wasn’t angry at all. She simply didn’t want anyone getting any closer. Especially not him. She tried to soften her outburst with a smile. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’m sure the stove and I will reach an accommodation.”

  “Johnny’s good with his hands,” Eddie said from the chair in front of the TV. “He can fix anything.”

  Another wave of heat flooded her chest as she remembered exactly how good those hands had felt as they’d held her. “Really,” she said. “I’m not going to impose on either one of you. If I need something done, I’ll hire a professional.”

  “Tell her, Johnny,” Eddie persisted. “He rebuilt the carburetor on—”

  “Drop it, Pop,” John broke in. “You heard her. She said she’ll take care of it.”

  “That’s right,” she said, vaguely annoyed. “It’s my responsibility.”

  “I think we’d better shove off,” John said to his father. He was acting as if she weren’t even there.

  “I could use that cup of coffee,” Eddie said.

  “Pop.” John aimed a thumb toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  “What’s the rush?” his father complained. “I’ve never seen you turn down a cup of joe.”

  “Feel free to leave,” Alex said to John in a sharp tone of voice. This was her home. Nobody was going to make her feel invisible within her own four walls. “I’ll make sure Mr. Gallagher gets home safely.”

  John looked at Eddie. Eddie looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at the pot of coffee. At least someone appreciated her effort.

  “You know what?” Alex bent down and picked up a mug. “I don’t care if either one of you drinks my coffee.” She took a long sip. “It’s delicious, by the way.” The two men were staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. Let them stare, she thought. She could do what she wanted in her own home.

  Eddie hesitated, then grabbed a mug for himself. “You’re right,” he said to Alex. “This is damn fine coffee.”

  His son shrugged and claimed the last cup. He took a sip, then nodded. “Not bad.”

  She inclined her head. “Thank you. Maybe I can take over coffee-making duties at the Starlight.”

  “You got the job?” Eddie asked her.

  She nodded, her good spirits returning as quickly as they had vanished. “I got the job.”

  “How the hell did Dee get hold of Nick so fast?” Eddie wondered out loud. “I thought he was away on some kind of vacation.”

  John looked uncomfortable. “Hey, Pop, let Dee worry about running the diner.”

  “You don’t think it’s a mistake, do you?” Alex asked, suddenly struck with the terrible notion that she might not have the job after all. “Maybe I misunderstood.”

  “You spoke to Dee?” John asked her.

  She nodded.

  “And she said you had the job?”

  She nodded again.

  “So don’t worry about it.”

  “But what about the owner? What if she didn’t ask him and he comes back and fires me?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “How do you know it’s not going to happen? I don’t have any—” She almost bit off the tip of her tongue in her haste to stop her words.

  “Experience?” he asked.

  Color flooded her cheeks. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to. It’s obvious.”

  “What do you mean, it’s obvious? You don’t know the first thing about me.”

  “I have eyes,” he said.

  “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  “Waitresses don’t pay cash for their houses or wear Burberry
raincoats and Ferragamo loafers.”

  She opened her mouth to say something witty and cutting, but no words came out. She’d blurted out the truth to Dee. Why was it so much harder to tell him?

  A funny little grin lifted the left side of his mouth. A funny little flutter rippled through her belly.

  Next to her, Eddie cleared his throat. She’d forgotten his presence entirely. “Bailey needs to get a good foot under her,” he said, edging toward the door while the dog danced at his feet. “We’ll meet you back home, Johnny.”

  “You’re going to let him walk home in his pajamas?” Alex asked as Eddie closed the door behind him.

  “It’s not like this is the first time.”

  “It’s raining,” she said, horrified. “He’ll catch his death.”

  “He’s not going anywhere,” John said. “He’s sitting in the truck smoking a cigarette.”

  “But he said he was going to walk home.”

  The look in his eyes almost melted her on the spot. “My old man says a lot of things, Alex. Believe me, he’s in the truck.”

  She parted the living-room curtains and looked outside. “You’re right,” she said. “He’s in the truck.” She turned back to John. “You were right about something else, too: I’ve never waited tables before.”

  “Does Dee know?”

  “I told her.”

  He whistled low. “You’re either the most honest woman on the planet or the craziest.”

  “Crazy,” she said. “Definitely crazy.” She started to laugh, softly at first, so soft he wasn’t sure it was really happening. That serious face of hers suddenly broke apart like the sparkling pieces of a kaleidoscope, then came together in a brilliant smile.

  “Poor Dee,” she said. “I hope she doesn’t regret it. I don’t know the first thing about waiting tables.”

  He couldn’t take his eyes off her. If she’d been beautiful before, she was otherwordly now. He’d never seen a woman so transformed by something as simple as a smile. “That English accent of yours will have the crowd at the Starlight eating out of your hand in no time.”

  Her smile wavered. “What English accent?”

  “Tomato, to-mah-to—your accent.”

  “I was born in New York City.” She looked uncomfortable somehow, as if she hated to give up even that much of herself, but maybe that was his nonexistent romantic imagination kicking in, creating mysteries where there weren’t any.

  “Back at the diner you said you’d lived abroad.”

  She looked away as the kaleidoscope shifted one more time, and her smile disappeared. You’re pushing, Gallagher. It’s none of your business.

  “Forget I said anything.” He crossed the living room to the front door. “Thanks for the coffee.”

  “No problem.”

  “And for taking Eddie in.”

  “I enjoyed his company.”

  “See you at the Starlight,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said. “See you at the Starlight.”

  If he was looking for something more, she wasn’t about to oblige. He turned to leave. The rain had turned icy while he was inside. He had a vision of himself tumbling down the three brick steps to the ground, but he managed to keep his footing and slid his way toward the truck. Behind him he heard the sound of the front door squeaking shut, followed by the thud of the dead bolt sliding into place. At least she remembered to lock up this time.

  “Took you long enough,” Eddie said as John motioned for Bailey to jump into the rear of the truck.

  “I thought you were walking home.”

  “In this weather?” Eddie snorted. “I may be old, but I’m not crazy.”

  “You’re the one in pajamas.” John stuck the key in the ignition.

  “Did you ask her out?”

  “Don’t start,” John warned as he waited for the engine to turn over.

  “It’s Thanksgiving. You gonna have her eat alone?”

  “Maybe she’s not going to be alone, Pop. She might have a husband and six kids.”

  “And maybe she doesn’t have anyone.” Eddie swung open the passenger door.

  “Where the hell are you going now?”

  “Where do you think?” Eddie countered. “I’m going to ask her out.”

  * * *

  Alex quickly let the curtains drop back into place as Eddie started up the pathway to the front door. She hoped they hadn’t seen her peeking out the window at them. She told herself she’d wanted to make sure John made it to his truck without slipping on the ice, and there was a kernel of truth in that. Unfortunately that kernel of truth was overwhelmed by the real reason: She couldn’t take her eyes off John Gallagher.

  She opened the door at the first knock and gave Eddie her best smile. “Did you forget something?”

  “Sure did,” he said as she motioned him in from the cold. “What are you doing for dinner today?”

  “Dinner?” She tried to visualize the contents of her refrigerator and cupboards. “Probably soup and a salad.”

  His frown threw the lines on his weathered face into even sharper relief. “For Thanksgiving?”

  His words took her by surprise. “It can’t possibly be Thanksgiving yet.”

  “Fourth Thursday in November,” Eddie said, “regular as clockwork.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “I can’t believe I forgot.”

  “Why don’t you have Thanksgiving dinner with us?”

  She was so touched by his offer that tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, I couldn’t do that, Eddie.”

  “You got someplace else to go?”

  “No, but—”

  “So it’s settled. Three o’clock. Number 10 Lighthouse Way.”

  A family Thanksgiving, she thought. Her first in more years than she could count. “I really shouldn’t,” she said. God help her, she sounded like a woman in need of convincing.

  “Why not?” Eddie asked. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

  She laughed again, the second time in less than an hour. “I’m not a vegetarian.” She met his eyes, looking for the slightest hint of uncertainty. “Will your family mind?”

  “The more the merrier, they always say.”

  “Then I’d love to join you.”

  Eddie beamed his approval. “Now you’re talking. 10 Lighthouse Way. Three o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “One more thing,” Eddie said. “Are you married?”

  How could such a simple question be so hard to answer? She glanced down at her left hand. “No,” she said after a moment. The truth fell somewhere in between. “Not anymore.”

  Eddie nodded as if he’d known it all along. “Perfect,” he said, his bright blue eyes twinkling with delight. “Neither is Johnny.” He turned and left without another word.

  Alex stood in the doorway and watched as Eddie climbed into the truck. The two men exchanged words, then John looked toward her. Their eyes met. She felt the way she’d felt when he held her in his arms, dazed and yielding; all the things she didn’t want to feel.

  So turn away, she told herself. All she had to do was go back into the house and close the door behind her. It was an easy enough thing to do.

  But she stood there on the top step, in the wind and the rain and the cold, and she watched until the truck turned onto Soundview and disappeared.

  Five

  No grown woman should greet the dawn with her arm wedged up to the elbow inside a turkey.

  Dee was a firm believer in the importance of holiday rituals and traditions, but there was something about dealing with twenty-five pounds of naked poultry before your first cup of coffee that made her think it was time to adopt a few new family traditions. Like vegetarianism. She yanked out the bag of giblets, then tossed it into the trash without remorse. Call her a renegade, but she drew the line at gizzards and neck bones.

  Vegetarians didn’t have to go through any of this, she thought wistfully as she ran cold water through the carcass. All across the land, vegetari
ans were cuddled under their eiderdown quilts, secure in the knowledge that there wasn’t a vegetable on earth that needed six hours in a 325-degree oven. Vegetarians could sleep until noon if they wanted to and not feel a moment’s remorse.

  “Next year,” she muttered as she patted the turkey dry with paper towels, then set it down in the gargantuan roasting pan that came out at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Next year it would be a festival of vegetables, and she’d personally strangle the first person who uttered a complaint.

  She worked swiftly, spooning stuffing into the bird, then stitching up the cavity with a wide-eyed needle and butcher’s twine. She quartered onions to place around the turkey the way her mother had taught her to do. Her mother had also taught her how to make a gravy so dark it was sinful, and the best pumpkin pie in New Jersey. Maggie Murray was ten years dead, but she was never closer than when Dee was in the kitchen. She rummaged in the junk drawer for the meat thermometer, then plunged it deep into the turkey’s breast as she stifled a yawn. Turkey. Stuffing. Onions. Thermometer. That about covered it. She grasped the pan and slid it into the preheated oven.

  A new speed record, she thought, glancing at the clock over the sink. Gizzard patrol was over, and it wasn’t even seven-thirty yet. “You’d be proud of me, Mom,” she said out loud. “Looks like I’ve finally gotten the hang of it.”

  “Talking to yourself again?”

  She whirled around to see Mark, her sixteen-year-old son, yawning in the doorway. He wore a Hootie & the Blowfish T-shirt, a pair of threadbare gray sweatpants, and thick white socks that looked as if he’d used them to track grizzlies. A lump formed in her throat as she smiled at him. Whoever said love hurt must have been the parent of a teenager. You tuck him in one night and he’s a little boy with a teddy bear, and you wake up the next morning to find he’s turned into six feet of raging hormones.

  “Did you get taller overnight?” she asked as he sat down at the kitchen table.

  “You’re getting shorter,” he said around another yawn. “Happens to all of you old people.”

  “I’m not old,” she snapped. “I wasn’t much older than you when—”