Bad Heiress Day

by Allie Pleiter

  “Jack’s a good guy,” Kate replied leaning back against the counter. “Speaking of which, what are you planning to get him for his birthday?”

  The refrigerator gave out a high whine and a series of menacing clunks. “Think he’d go for a new fridge?” Darcy quipped.

  “Sure. Then he can buy you another vacuum cleaner for your birthday. It’ll be an appliance extravaganza. I think Little Orphan Heiress and her Mr. Moneybags can do better than that, though.”

  Darcy was sorry she’d ever leaked the nickname to Kate. She chose the most annoying times to use it. Not to mention she’d taken to calling Jack Mr. Moneybags—behind his back, of course. But the names meant the returning of joking about it, which Darcy welcomed. It meant they were finding their way back to normal. Or the new normal, whatever that was. Personally, Darcy thought Ed Bidwell made a better Mr. Moneybags—right now Jack was so concerned about finances she was thinking she might be lucky to get to buy him a present at all. There were times, like last Thursday, when Darcy loved Jack for his calm sensibility. Then there were times—times when a bit of imagination or dashing was called for—that she wanted to strangle him for it.

  Global crisis or not, Darcy Nightengale wasn’t in the habit of skipping birthday presents. Darcy loved presents. Buying them, giving them, pondering them, helping other people pick them out, you name it. Even if they had to be teeny tiny, birthday and Christmas presents were nonnegotiable in her world.

  It was another one of those things Jack never quite understood.

  “Believe it or not, I don’t know what I’m going to get him. I’ve got another week, though.”

  “You don’t know yet?” Kate had good reason to be surprised. Darcy usually planned presents weeks and weeks in advance.

  “I’m stumped. Really. There’s just been so much going on between us, nothing seems to be appropriate, and I don’t want to give him just anything—especially after all we’ve been through.” Darcy took a long swig of her soda. “This one has to be good.”

  “Don’t suppose we can kidnap him to Ernestine’s to give him a makeover?”

  Darcy laughed. Jack and a manicure—the most unlikely combination on earth. “Very funny. But you know, I’d like to do that sort of thing—not the makeover part, but the…I don’t know…spark of it. I want him to feel the same spark I did when we were there. To catch the idea of it. I want him to understand The Restoration Project, to get why it’s so important to me, to understand what it can do for people.”

  “Pretty big agenda for a birthday present.”

  Darcy looked out the window again. “Tell me about it.”

  “Too bad everyone expects better of you than a gift card. You’ve a reputation to maintain. You can’t give wimpy presents like normal people—you’ve been too perfect at it before.”

  Cries of victory erupted from the driveway, pulling the women back out the door onto the deck. From the looks of things, Thad had just made a spectacular shot, securing the game for Team Owens. The guys stood around the hoop, gesturing and pounding each others’ backs, deep in playback analysis.

  “Man, that was such a cool shot!” Thad was evidently as thrilled with his game-saving swish as the rest of them. “Mr. Nightengale, this ball really rocks. Do you have it pumped up to a different pressure or something? It feels different than mine.”

  Kate and Darcy grinned at each other. Jack’s obsession with quality sports equipment was about to get a major shot in the arm. Not that it needed it. Don’s kids may be heavy on the talent, but Jack’s kids always had the best of equipment. The man scanned sporting goods catalogues the way most men looked at power tools. Even Paula’s tiny soccer shin guards were the best the Nightengales could afford.

  “It’s an indoor ball, Thad. They’re more expensive, and they wear out faster playing out here, but I love the way it feels in your hands. Makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” He held it up for inspection. “The skin gives you a really good grip.”

  Thad, true to the nature of any fourteen-year-old basketball star wannabe, eyed his dad. “Can we get one of these?”

  Don smirked. “Thad, if we got every piece of the Nightengales’ sports equipment you’ve asked me for, we might not have enough left over to get you a car anytime this decade.” That brought “Ooos” from the men. Don even dangled the car keys out of his pocket for emphasis.

  “Very funny, Dad. It’s only a ball.”

  Moans of “Don’t say that” rose up around the boisterous group. To Jack, it was never “just a ball” and everyone knew it. Jack shot the ball into Thad’s chest and within seconds a new game was underway. The pure exuberance of it made Darcy smile.

  “Oh.” Kate made a strange sound.

  “Huh?” Darcy looked at Kate. She was staring at Jack. Hard. With a really odd look on her face.

  “Oh, man, that’s it…that’s it!”

  “What? What?”

  Kate grabbed Darcy’s arms and began to pull her inside the door. “Oh, I got it, Darcy, I got it. I’ve got the absolutely perfect birthday present idea for Jack. You’re going to love this. You are so going to love this. Get in here!”

  “It was awful, Glynnis. I didn’t think it would be so hard, going to Bob Denton’s funeral. But I walked in there, and I saw that casket, and it all came rushing back at me.” Tuesday Morning Prayer in the Henhouse had hosted a packed agenda for the last two weeks.

  “Are you really surprised?” Glynnis handed her another tissue. Glynnis simply kept a box on the table now. Darcy wondered if “tissues for Darcy” had its own line item in the Bidwell family budget these days.

  “I thought I’d handle it better. I wanted to be there for Angie. She looked awful. Even worse than when I saw her last at the hospice.”

  “She’s hurting.”

  “I keep thinking about how alone she must feel. I lost Dad, and it was awful, but I had Jack and the kids. She’s alone. What must it have been like to go back to an empty house after a funeral?”

  Glynnis leaned on her elbow. “I doubt she went home to an empty house. You said she has a circle of friends who have been helping her. People tend to step up to the plate at a time like that. It’s all the other times—the ordinary empty days after the funeral flowers have all gone—that they forget to pay attention.”

  “That’s true.” Darcy thought about all the people who kicked so quickly into “normal” with her, as if the loss resolved itself after thirty days like a sprained ankle. There were people who had asked her constantly about Paul’s condition, who now never even brought up his name in conversation. Poof. You die and you’re gone. People are always too busy to remember. Even the articles about those who’d died on September 11 had stopped showing up in the papers.

  “That’s why I think God is asking you to do what He’s asking.” Glynnis’s voice brought Darcy’s thoughts back to the conversation. “Because He pays attention. He knows what they need, and He knows you know how to give it to them.”

  “I don’t know, Glynnis. I don’t think we’re any further along in getting The Restoration Project up and running.”

  “That’s not true. You talked again to Meredith at the hospice, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. She’s completely onboard with the idea.”

  “Well, that’s something. And you patched things up with Kate, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, that, too. She even came up with the idea for Jack’s birthday present.”

  Glynnis grinned broadly. “I remember. Oh, and I think it’s a humdinger.”

  Humdinger. Who said humdinger anymore? For a spry gal, Glynnis’s vocabulary would occasionally remind Darcy that the woman was as old—if not older—than most of the grumpy old ladies she knew.

  She leaned in toward Glynnis. “It is great, isn’t it? You’ve got to pray hard Friday night, Glynnis. Pray really, really hard, ’cause this has just got to work. Everything else won’t matter if we can’t get Jack to come around.”

  Glynnis’s face registered a look of supr
eme satisfaction. “Oh, I’m sure it will work. One hundred percent.”

  Darcy was sure—one hundred percent—she didn’t want to ask how Glynnis knew that.

  Chapter 13

  God is in the Details

  October 28 was a mild, clear Sunday evening, perfect for viewing the lights of the city from the corner table where Darcy and Jack sat celebrating. It seemed to Darcy that God had ordered up extra stars for the evening, a private hint of His approval of her birthday plans. She was halfway through the best chicken marsala on the planet, enjoying Jack’s face as he savored a steak of monumental proportions. The evening had been perfect. A batting average, she hoped, that would last another two hours or so.

  “Is yours as good as mine?” Jack asked, smiling “You’ve got a smile a mile wide on your face.” He eyed her. “Or are you just plotting something?”

  Darcy felt that rush of unnamable sizzle, that certain something his eyes could always do to her. Forgotten and familiar. “Both,” she replied. She had always loved the way he looked in that tan sweater. His eyes could stop her from across the room when he wore it. Had it been another favorable sign when he chose to wear it? Or luck of the draw?

  Jack’s smile widened. “Fess up, then. What did you do for my birthday?”

  Darcy hid behind her water glass, taking a long drink. “Oh, hon, you told me not to go overboard, so it’s not much.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “Your face says otherwise.”

  “Well, I suppose there’s a bit of otherwise in there.”

  “More than a bit.”

  He was waiting for her to tell. She wouldn’t, not yet. She simply rested her chin on her folded hands and stared at him, teasing. It was as if they were in high school, flirting over milkshakes or something. Her heart was doing flip-flops worthy of an eighth grade crush.

  “Well?” He toyed with his steak knife.

  “Well, what?”

  “The suspense is killing me. If you don’t wipe that look off your face soon, I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  “Actually,” he said, “I’m not quite sure what I’ll do.” He started spinning his wedding ring with his thumb. It was something he did when a situation put him on his toes. He’d done it for a solid week when they were waiting to see if she was pregnant with Mike. It felt splendid to know she’d caught him off guard. Infatuating.

  Over Jack’s shoulder, Darcy caught the waiter looking at her with questioning eyebrows and a Now? expression. He was holding a large tray with one of those domed lids on it. Darcy nodded.

  Jack caught her signal and looked over his shoulder just in time to see the waiter bring the tray to the table. The waiter, grinning himself, set the tray down and kept his hand on the dome. He waited for Darcy’s signal.

  Jack stared at Darcy, then at the waiter, then back at Darcy again. She was wearing a Cheshire-cat grin, practically squirming in her seat with anticipation. Suddenly, she was twenty again, sitting on his car trunk, holding out the first birthday present she’d ever given him. The woman lived for birthday and Christmas presents. He didn’t care much for the presents one way or another, but the way she looked when she gave them—well that was another thing altogether.

  “Now,” she practically giggled, her chin still perched on her hands.

  The waiter, who obviously enjoyed his role in the charade, whipped the lid off in a dramatic arc. There, on the tray, was a large stack of DVDs.

  James Bond movies.

  “Whoa, Dar. This is amazing.” He began flipping through the boxes, calling out the titles as he found them. “This is incredible. There’s…there’s six movies in here.”

  “A virtual Bond bonanza,” she replied.

  How many times had he seen those boxed sets for sale at the video store? How many times had he thought about picking just one or two movies up, trying to calculate if it’d be worth it to own it rather than rent it once a year? How many times had he stopped himself just short of buying one?

  How had she known?

  She’d known because she was Darcy. And knowing just what to get is what Darcy did best.

  “Wow. This definitely counts as otherwise.” He ran his fingers down the stack of titles. “You didn’t have to spend so much—even one would have been great.” Jack tried to stop his brain from calculating how much she must have spent, but it ran the numbers without his consent.

  “That’s the beauty of it—I didn’t. Ed Bidwell found them wholesale through a friend of his.” Her face told him she’d anticipated his calculations and beat him to the punch. She knew he’d be uncomfortable with the price of the DVDs, so she’d found a way to spend less and still give him what he wanted. Man alive, he loved his wife tonight.

  He pulled one of her hands out from underneath that adorable chin, wrapping it in his. She’d kept up polishing her nails since that crazy stint at the spa. She’d kept her hair in that same new style, too. He liked it. He made a mental note to tell her more often.

  “These are amazing. You’re amazing. Thanks. Really.”

  “You’re welcome. My pleasure.”

  “Oh, count on it,” Jack replied, the husky edge of his voice surprising even him. Darcy’s mild shock only made it worse. How long had it been since he’d been so eager to get his wife in private like this? This was the stuff of teenage hormones, not the well-seasoned affections of a man with two kids and a minivan.

  Who cares? It felt wonderful.

  “Let’s hurry up and get dessert.” He didn’t care how it sounded.

  “Oh, that’s fine, but you’re not done yet.”

  Jack stifled a gulp. “I’m not?”

  “Oh, no, that’s only half the present.”

  Darcy felt like a child on Christmas morning as they drove out of the restaurant parking lot. She insisted on driving, which only seemed to make Jack more curious about the second half of his birthday present. Once again, as if God had decided to voice His approval by adding superlative details, the weather was ideal. It was crisp and cool, but not uncomfortable—in fact, it was unseasonably pleasant, and people were out all over the city enjoying the near-perfect evening. That was important, because this time outside—and other people being outside—were crucial elements in Darcy’s plan. If God truly was in the details, He was making sure the whole world knew it tonight. Darcy was happy—thrilled even—at the show of divine support.

  The part of town she had chosen for the second half of tonight’s festivities was a distinct counterpoint to the plush comfort of the restaurant. Out of the corner of her eye, Darcy watched Jack’s expression as she turned toward the other side of town. If she had wanted to keep Jack guessing—which had not been her intent but had arisen as a marvelous byproduct—she had him positively stumped. Good. Mr. Sensible Predictability needed a good shake-up in his life, and she had the epitome of all shake-ups in the works.

  Please, Lord. Let this work. It’s either going to be wonderful or awful. I need it to be wonderful. I need your help.

  It had taken her three days to find the right spot. Not a good part of town, but not a dangerous part of town. A place on the edge of uncomfortable. When she pulled into the community center, it was just as she had hoped. Filled, even at this time of night, with several boisterous pickup games of basketball. On several far from perfect courts. Slabs of crumbling asphalt with trash and broken glass piling up along the edges. Most without any nets on the hoops at all, some with the last remains of chain hoops that merely swung and chattered when a ball hit the rim.

  A few of the teenagers and adults looked up when the car pulled into the parking lot, but most were too engrossed in their games to care much about a rusting sedan’s arrival. Jack’s eyes were wide and a bit doubtful as she switched off the ignition. He was trying to think of a way to ask her what on Earth was going on—she could see it in the way he squinted up the corner of one eye. He evidently settled on, “What are you up to, Dar?”

  “You’ll see.” Darcy took a deep breath and pulled o
pen the door latch. Here we go.

  She heard Jack’s door open as she came around to the back of the car. She waited until he was beside her to hit the trunk release on her key chain. It seemed to take ages to rise all the way open, and Darcy fought the urge to grab the lid and push the hydraulic hinges faster. The slow rise of the trunk lid added a certain drama to the moment.

  Darcy waited for Jack to see, feeling as if her lungs had forgotten how to work.

  Jack let out a long, slow whistle—an uncharacteristic response to be sure—when he did.

  It was excruciatingly impossible to judge Jack’s response to the sight before him. Darcy sent a silent yelp to heaven, and let him take it in.

  Or, actually, take them in. All twelve of them.

  A dozen of the absolute best street-play basketballs money could buy. Nestled like Fabergé eggs in the trunk of his car.

  Get it. Get it. Oh, God, please let him get it.

  He looked at her. There was the beginning of something in his eyes, a spark she hoped to God could be fanned into just enough flame, a connection just out of reach that she hoped to snap together.

  She took his hand and placed a ball in it. “One’s for you,” she said, her voice wavering more than she would have liked. It felt like her whole world was teetering on a knife edge. “The others are for you to play hero with.”

  “Hero?” Darcy could see the thoughts string themselves together in his brain. It was not an instant flame as she had known in the spa, but a slow, grasping revelation. An unsure questioning. A disbelieving curiosity.

  Just at that moment, as if God had been listening in the wings, a teenage yell came out over the air. “Man, this ball is the worst. I can’t shoot worth—” he added a colorful word here Darcy would have rather avoided, but she wasn’t about to second-guess God’s stage directions “—with this ball.” A chorus of grunted agreements rang out across the court, and one kid even chose to kick the hoop post for emphasis. Its metallic echo pierced the air.