Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  “Where’s Buck?”

  “Rella’s flying him home from Atlanta.”

  Rella, of course. Superwoman had to be involved.

  At TMC we discovered that Quinn had called ahead to the ER and arranged priority treatment for me. I was whisked into a trauma room where medical history, blood samples, and x-rays were taken. Nothing had been broken, and in record time the cut on my forehead was cleaned and stitched. My shin was slathered with some mysterious ointment that looked and smelled like Bag Balm. I got the inevitable tetanus shot and a little envelope of free sample pain pills to tide me over until I could get my prescription filled.

  When I emerged, Nick and Quinn were conferring in the ER waiting room. They looked over and saw me standing there.

  “How’s Delta?” I asked.

  “She’ll recover,” Quinn said. “She lost a lot of blood, but your friend here did everything right. He saved her life.”

  “That’s why you couldn’t come. Both of you. You were trying to save Delta Sawyer.”

  “And nearly lost you,” Nick said. “Jesus, Aimee, if only I’d known what that thug was up to.”

  “How could you know? I wasn’t sure he was going to show up, and by the time he did, it was too late.” Just then the pain pills kicked in. I murmured a weak, “Oooh” and felt myself start to crumple. Nick lifted me in his arms.

  “You’d better take her home,” Quinn said.

  I woke the next day in Jack and Amah’s spare room with Fanny’s warm body curled against my hip. I squinted at the clock. Two in the afternoon. Friday. I panicked for a moment, then remembered Quinn had ordered me to stay home from work. But Amah and Jack could arrive anytime. I sat up and discovered I had been sleeping in my blood-stained jeans and T-shirt.

  I hobbled barefoot through the house and out the back door. Nick and Harry were on the veranda, munching chips and swigging beer. Bosco was there with them, snoozing in his cage.

  “Look who’s here,” Nick said. “Want a beer?”

  “Ugh,” I said.

  “How about coffee?” Harry said. “Nick just made a fresh pot.”

  “Okay.”

  Nick went inside to fetch it.

  “Harry, how much of last night’s mayhem is going to make the papers?”

  “The Sawyer County Sheriff’s Department and DA Keefer will get all the publicity, and the news media will make it clear I was exonerated. Abe’s taking care of all that. Right now, we need to get our stories straight before Amah and Jack get here. They’re going to know that Orrie Mercer was caught on the property, but we can soft-pedal the details.”

  “Right.” I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear my head. “You start.”

  “They don’t have to know how serious your stand-off was. Your injuries won’t be obvious if you can walk without limping. We’ll explain the upgrades to your little apartment by saying Nick wanted to spruce it up for you since you can’t afford your own place right now.”

  “And why would Nick want to do that?”

  Nick appeared with my coffee. “Because I’m trying to win you back.” Nick handed me the cup. “Or we could tell them we’re already back together. That would keep them distracted.”

  I took the coffee. It was delicious. Just the way Nick used to brew it when we really were together.

  Harry cleared his throat. “Come on, Sis, let’s go have a look at your digs.”

  With each of them taking one of my arms, they escorted me down the lane where my little dwelling gleamed with fresh white paint. The ceiling was patched, textured and painted, and the hole in the roof repaired seamlessly.

  “Wow, how did you do all this so fast?”

  “I had my crew drop by this morning while you were sleeping off the pain meds,” Harry said.

  “They did this in one morning?”

  “Less than four hours. My guys are the best.”

  Inside my apartment I saw that my answering machine had been busy. Three messages. All from Jared Quinn asking me to call him as soon as possible. I dialed his office. After I assured him I was almost as good as new, I asked about Maybelline Black. Quinn told me that with Dr. Beardsley’s blessings, his sister was headed back to Marin County for an undetermined length of stay at Green Pastures. As a parting gift, she had informed the police about Orrie Mercer’s drug theft operation involving the TMC pharmacy. Turned out he’d been the source for several local coke addicts, including Bonnie Beardsley.

  Quinn went on to say that Lola Rampley had volunteered to cover for Maybelline on Monday and Wednesday. Amazing Lola. If only I could grant her wish to meet Marty Stockwell.

  “Look, they’re here.” Nick pointed out my kitchen window, where we saw Amah and Jack pulling into their driveway.

  “I’ll go,” Harry said. “You’d better get cleaned up fast, Aimee. You look like hell. See if you can hide that cut on your forehead.”

  “I’ll stay with her,” Nick said. “She’ll need some help.”

  “No, I won’t.” I grabbed underwear, clean jeans and a tank top and limped toward my tiny shower enclosure.

  “How are you going to hide those stitches?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nick pawed around in my kitchen drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors.

  “Sit,” he said. “And hold still.”

  I sat at my kitchen table. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve always liked girls with bangs. Bangs are sexy. Especially when they swoop down kind of low.” He separated a few strands and began to clip.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I used to.”

  Nick picked out a few more long strands and guided the scissors with precision. “How can I convince you I’m not interested in Rella?”

  “You might have mentioned your past with her before she dropped that on me at Buck’s company barbecue. It pretty much spoiled the picnic.”

  “I would have, but she beat me to it. She said she wanted you to know that she and I weren’t—”

  “Still hot for each other? That’s how she put it. And she calls you Nicky. That’s annoying as hell. Every time I hear it, I picture the two of you having sex.”

  Nick clipped some more. “Aimee, I’ve never asked about the men in your past. Is there something I should know? Did someone betray you?”

  “Just the usual. Guys who let me assume we were exclusive while they played the field. Most of them eventually settled on women like Rella—at least in the looks department.”

  “But you’re so beautiful. That doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if a man looks at my eyes and cheekbones and thinks concubine, then looks at a blue-eyed blonde and thinks wife.”

  “Most guys these days don’t know what a concubine is.”

  “Okay, then, mistress, but you get the idea. Did you know Harry’s girlfriend dropped him because he’s half Chinese? She loved him, but in the end, her parents talked her out of marrying him.”

  “And you think I’d pull that on you? Don’t you know me better that that?”

  “I thought I did.”

  Nick reached for my hand, and I let him hold it. “I didn’t sleep with Rella in Paris. Why can’t you believe that?”

  “You called me every day at noon. Except for the last night you were there. I waited until three o’clock—that’s midnight in Paris. I was worried, so I called you. Rella answered and said she didn’t want to wake you. What was I supposed to think?”

  “I know how it sounds, but when we arrived in Paris the hotel had only reserved two rooms for us. I told Rella she could have my room and I would bunk with Buck.”

  “Did you?”

  “Except for that last night. When I got to the room, Buck had an all-night poker game going. I had to fly in the morning, so I needed sleep. The room I’d given Rella had two beds, and I figured she’d already be asleep. Unfortunately, she was entertaining a Frenchman she’d met in the bar. Clearly, three was a crowd, so
I went downstairs and hung out in the bar drinking ginger ale for a couple of hours.”

  “But you had to fly the next morning,” I was furious with Rella for bouncing Nick out of his own room.

  “Exactly,” he agreed. “I had to get some sleep somewhere, so I went back up around eleven thirty and found Rella sound asleep and the Frenchman gone. I slept in the other bed. Alone, of course. End of story.”

  “You know, your story is so bizarre, I almost believe it’s true. I need some time to think about it.”

  Nick gave me a long look. “Well, for my part, I wasn’t particularly happy when Harry told me you’d moved out of our apartment and didn’t want to see me. He said you were living with your grandparents, but he didn’t mention the barn. By then, I was pretty pissed off at you for not letting me explain, and I decided to give both of us time to cool off and rethink things.”

  I looked up at him, feeling my anger dissolve faster than I’d imagined possible. Could I have been wrong about him? Harry had always teased me about being stubborn—a trait I recognized in myself far too often. Was my stubbornness going to cause me to lose the only man I’d ever really loved?

  Nick took a deep breath. “I’ve done my thinking, Aimee, and I’m ready to try again. Now the ball’s in your court.”

  “But you’ll still be working with Rella.” I felt my guard going up again.

  “Do I have to quit my job to make this work?”

  “Of course not.” I was amazed that he’d even consider such a drastic action. “You love your job.”

  “Good. Because if I quit mine, you’d have to quit yours.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because your boss, Quinn, has a thing for you. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Come on!” I shot back, but I had to admit I was pleased he brought it up. “That’s not the same at all. You and Rella have a history together.”

  “And that’s all it is. History. Everyone has one.”

  I let the truth of that sink in. Nick couldn’t change his history. Dealing with it was up to me. I had missed him terribly, and here we were again, dancing around the possibility of a future together. Someone had to stop the dance, and this time it would have to be me.

  “I guess we could take it slow, see if we can make a fresh start.”

  “Like a first date?” He grinned, relief showing in his face.

  “Something like that.”

  “How about a first date with options?”

  “That might work. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves about the options,” I replied, although I’d already been thinking about several of them.

  He touched my arm, and we leaned toward each other. Just then Harry phoned, telling me to hustle. The folks were asking for me; it was time to make an appearance.

  I took the scissors away from Nick. “We’ll have to talk later, Harry wants us. Are you finished with my bangs?”

  He held up a hand mirror. “Have a look. What do you think?”

  “Pretty good. I don’t think they’ll notice anything, do you?”

  “Only that you’re more beautiful than ever,” he said.

  “You can skip the flattery,” I said. “I’ve already agreed to that first date.”

  “Okay, then you’d better get that shower. Your grandparents are waiting.”

  “Right.” I turned too quickly and the room spun around me. Nick caught me before I could fall, and I found myself braced in his arms, his strength and gentleness enveloping me. When his kiss came, it was sweet, deep, and achingly familiar.

  “Looks like you might need help with that shower,” he said.

  Vanza’s words came back to me. Nick’s the real deal. Vanza was probably right, but there was only one way to find out.

  “Looks like I might,” I said.

  Chapter 50

  The shower could have been complicated, but we were in a hurry, and I was still in pain, so we made quick work of it. With more pain pills on board, I practiced walking without a limp. It hurt, but I preferred the pain to the worry it would cause Amah if she knew I’d been injured.

  The reunion went off better than we could have hoped. The folks were full of news about their trip, and eager to tell us about their hike in Washington and their new llamas.

  Amah asked me to help her in the kitchen, but I knew it was a ploy to get me alone.

  “So Nick is back.” Her hazel eyes glowed with pleasure.

  “We’re not sure how it’s going to work out.”

  “But he’s back,” she said. “That’s a start.”

  Over dinner, Harry, Nick, and I told our creative version of the Bonnie Beardsley story, leaving out almost everything except how Maybelline had implicated Mercer. The courts would decide whether he was charged with murder or with unlawful disposal of a corpse. Either way, he’d go to jail for drug trafficking.

  Jack’s phone rang in the middle of dinner, so he let it go through to his answering machine. We all heard the caller’s message. “Jack, this is Marty Stockwell. I gave your grandson a lift last night. Handsome young fellow. Doesn’t look like you, does he? Just checking to see if everything’s okay.”

  Jack fixed an inquiring stare at Harry.

  “Flat tire,” Harry said. “The car’s been towed. Everything’s taken care of.” He rubbed a sudden sheen off his forehead. “Hot in here, isn’t it?”

  “Jack,” I said, “just how well do you know Marty Stockwell?”

  “Well enough, I suppose. Why?”

  * * *

  Photo courtesy of Lowell Martinson

  Sharon St. George had the good fortune to spend an idyllic childhood in a small northern California town, riding horseback and camping with her family in the nearby mountains. One of her favorite pastimes was reading fiction, and a trip to the library was always an occasion of great joy. She’s traded horses for llamas, but she still treks to the high mountain lakes near her home—always with a mystery novel in her backpack.

  Sharon’s writing credits include three plays, several years writing advertising copy, a book on NASA’s space food project, and feature stories too numerous to count. She holds dual degrees in English and Theatre Arts, and occasionally acts in, or directs, one of her local community theater productions.

  Sharon is a member of Sisters in Crime and Mystery Writers of America, and she serves as program director for Writers Forum, a nonprofit organization for writers in northern California.

  For more information, go to www.sharonstgeorge.com.