by Nicole Young
“However you want to put it.”
Sam dropped our drinks in front of us and disappeared. I unwrapped the straw and started slurping, hoping to put an end to the discussion.
I watched Brad take the paper off his straw. I liked his hands. Wide across the palm with long, agile fingers.
Neither Walters sibling wore a wedding band, a quirky fact for two so attractive people. “How is it that you two have managed to stay single? Or were you married before?” I asked.
Brad looked in my eyes. “I’ve waited a lot of years to find the right bride.” He looked away. “Sam was married when she was young, but got dealt a dud. She hung in there longer than any of us thought she should. I think she’s still getting over the sting. But I have to say, I’ve never known anybody as happy to be single as Sam.”
Seeing Brad’s brotherly devotion to his little sis, I struggled with David’s accusations against him. How could this sweet, sister-loving guy be a big-time philanderer?
Of course, no one could, by simply looking at me, say, “There goes a grandma killer.” Unless they’d read about it in the papers.
Secrets. Everybody had them. Mine happened to be tough to keep.
But like Brad, some people out there excelled at keeping secrets. Such as the person who murdered Dietz and Cellar Dweller.
“So where do you call home, Tish?” Brad’s voice interrupted my brooding.
“Um . . .” His question stumped me. “I spent most of my youth in Walled Lake with Gram. But I guess if I think about it, home’s up north, where I was born.”
“Up north. Like Traverse City?” Brad asked.
I bit my tongue. I got really irritated with people who thought Michigan ended at the Straits of Mackinac.
“No. Up north, like Escanaba,” I said.
Brad raised his eyebrows. “An Upper Peninsula Girl, huh?”
I geared up for the insults I’d grown accustomed to hearing whenever I mentioned my place of origin. Sure, the U.P. had its problems. But so did the rest of the world.
Brad cleared his throat. “I went to the academy with a guy from Gladstone. Mike Segerstrom. What a great sense of humor. He’s a state cop in Manistique now.” He shook his head. “Man, is it beautiful up there. I spent a couple weeks fishing with Mike after graduation.”
I sighed in relief. No insults. “I barely remember it,” I said. “I was only seven when I moved downstate.”
I closed my eyes and saw gentle waves licking a rocky shore. Heard leaves fluttering in a playful breeze. Smelled fresh earth and pine needles. Felt hot sand running through my fingers. All memories of a happy childhood, before Mead Quarry rose up that night and swallowed my mother.
“Maybe I’ll take you back there one day.” Brad nudged my shoulder and smiled impishly.
“Maybe.” I looked toward the kitchen, avoiding Brad’s eyes.
I didn’t like the way he got to me. I shouldn’t want to know more about him. Or want to have lunch with him again. Or even feel comfortable around him.
But there was something about Brad that ate away my defenses, made me trust where I shouldn’t, made me hope where I mustn’t.
Sam glided to the counter and set our meals in front of us. Hot steam from the soup hit my nose and I grabbed for a napkin. I looked over at Brad’s fare. A Coney dog and a bowl of the chicken noodle. Not bad looking, actually.
I watched Brad take a bite out of the juicy chili-n-cheese-covered dog smothered with onions. I dipped a fork into my salad, spearing a chunk of lettuce. Brad chewed the spicy-scented Coney. I crunched away on iceberg.
Brad spotted me staring.
“Want a bite?” He pushed his basket toward me.
“Maybe just a little one.” Using my fork, I sliced off a piece. Nothing had ever tasted so good. “Mmmm” was all I could manage.
“You haven’t lived ’til you’ve had Sam’s Coney Deluxe.” Brad took another bite.
“Sounds like a radio ad. But I think you’re right.” I dabbed at the spot of mustard on a corner of my mouth.
“Sam,” Brad called.
She came around the corner.
“Yeah?”
“Get Tish a Coney Deluxe, please.”
I waved my hands in protest. “No. No, really. One bite was enough.”
“One bite is never enough,” Brad said.
Sam looked me up and down. “You look like you can afford it. One Coney Deluxe coming up.”
Brad had me laughing all the way through the second Coney. Sam joined in with her blithe jokes and bright smile. I’d never felt so warm inside. Must have been the chili beans. And all those onions.
At one o’clock sharp, Brad took me back to the house and dropped me off at the back door. Staring out the kitchen window, I rubbed my arms to warm up and watched Brad drive off. The Victorian had never felt so lonely.
33
I closed my eyes and let my dreams run free around me. A pot of chili simmering on the stove. Brad at the kitchen island I’d be putting in next month, reading the paper, a cup of steaming hot coffee in his hand. Kid Number One, with reams of dark spiral curls framing her round four-year-old face, sitting next to him, filling in the lines of her princess coloring book. Kid Number Two beating on the tray of his high chair, babbling for more crackers. My heart swelled at the imagined scene.
I rubbed a tear from my cheek. A beautiful dream. Nothing more.
Yet for some reason, Brad led me to believe it could come true.
I gave in to the burst of maternal energy that lunch with him had somehow unleashed. By six that night I had finished another upstairs bedroom. The two little dream kids now had a place to call their own. By the time I finished everything, Brad and I could lodge four cuddly whippersnappers each in their own bedrooms.
I washed the paintbrushes in the sink, content. Everything seemed to fit together. My life had unfurled like a mural, with Rawlings the final chapter. Right here in this house I’d spend my days loving my husband, raising my family, and entertaining friends.
Life would be perfect, for the first time ever.
I looked up from the suds at a figure crossing in the dark outside my kitchen window.
David.
I squeezed my eyes closed and sighed. What would I say to him?
What could I say to him? Sorry, David, your worst nightmare has come true. One bite of Brad’s Coney Deluxe and now I’m hopelessly in love with him.
Hearing myself think the words snapped me out of my intoxicating drama. In love with Brad? In love with a churchgoing, iron-pumping police officer? It didn’t even sound like me. In fact, it was almost the exact opposite of what I’d planned for myself.
David knocked. I wiped my hands on a crusty paint rag and opened the door.
“Hi.” I couldn’t think of anything more brilliant to say.
“Tish. I missed you this afternoon.” Remorse, or maybe accusation, sounded in his voice.
“Oh, that.” I waved it off. “I just went for a quick bite to eat.”
“Then you and Brad aren’t . . .” He paused and raised his eyebrows.
“What? An item?” I giggled. “Good heavens, no.”
“Can I come in? Do you mind?”
“Oh, gosh, of course.” I stepped aside.
David walked over to the watercooler and poured a cup. “Would you care for any?”
“No. Thank you. Listen—” I fidgeted, uncomfortable with his familiarity in my kitchen—“why don’t we walk over to the coffee shop? We can talk there.”
He set his cup on the counter, its pure-as-a-mountain-spring contents untouched. Two long paces and he stood over me, barely a foot away. His body radiated heat. I blew at my bangs to cool my forehead.
“How long have we known each other, Tish?” His voice came low and soft. I nearly keeled backward.
“The cumulative total?” A whisper was all I could manage. “About three hours.”
David smiled, unshaken. He reached for my hand and pulled me six inches closer. “I t
hink we know each other better than you think. We both want the same thing from life. Someone to love, a measure of happiness, maybe a child or two.”
My outer vision blurred until David’s face became the only thing in focus. The only thing in the room. The only thing in my life.
He slid his hands upward until they cupped my cheeks. Heat from his palms added to the impossible burning in my head.
“Tish. What I’m saying is, I want you to marry me. We’ll be happy together, I swear.” He pulled me to him. His heart beat in my ear.
I held on, drowning in the warmth of his body. I let myself go under for the third time, never wanting to come up for a breath of air, never wanting to end this moment of surrender.
His lips burned against my neck. I closed my eyes, feeling close to death from sensory overload.
“Marry me, Tish.” His lips touched mine. I clung to him, ignoring his question, ignoring nudges from the practical Tish who tried talking sense into me.
But Miss Practical wouldn’t shut up. “David.” I peeled myself away from him. “I can’t. I mean, I’ll have to think about it.”
His ragged breathing filled the kitchen. “Right. Right. Sorry.” He pushed me an arm’s length away, but kept hold of my shoulders. “Of course you have to think about it. It’s a big step. Take a week to mull it over. Just know that I love you, Tish.”
He brushed his lips against my forehead, cleared his throat, and went for the door.
I stood in place ten minutes after he left, wondering what had just happened. My first marriage proposal and I said I’ll have to think about it? The guy wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t exactly a loser. I could do worse.
But could I do better?
I chewed on a fingernail, glad it was my own, and paced a square around the room. “Better” was all in one’s perspective. It came down to what I wanted in a man. Did I want the computer geek–engineer type with an amazing historic home and silky bathrobe? Or a Joe Schmo–cop type with a fixer-upper and sweatpants? Or somebody else altogether?
I couldn’t think. Why did David give me only a week to mull it over? Why not a year? What was his rush? If he thought he’d be getting the cooking, cleaning, domestic type, he’d probably be disappointed. It was one thing to imagine being a mom and wife, but another thing to actually be one. What was my example, after all? My mom ran into a snag or two in her life and took the easy way out. And Grandma. The woman could inflict pain on everyone around her but had no tolerance for it herself.
I couldn’t trust myself to do the right things or act the right way in a relationship. If I failed, perhaps I’d fall into despair. Then what would stop me from carrying out the family tradition? I couldn’t bear to do that to people I loved.
The only guarantee would be to remain single and childless the rest of my life.
I stopped at the bushel of wilted roses.
But what if I said yes to David and everything turned out all right? What if we had lots of wonderful years together? Things always worked out in my gothic romance novels. Arranged marriages, forced unions, all began with a measure of loathing. Maybe the couples weren’t on fire for each other at the beginning, but deep love and respect always grew over the years.
Besides, with David’s financial backing, I could finish the Victorian. The profit from the sale would help get our marriage off to a good start. We would even be able to afford to have kids right away.
I plucked the bouquet of roses from the paint can and laid it on the counter. I took the red ribbon and tied it around the stems. Then I hung the whole batch to dry, upside down from a nail over my kitchen window.
I knew how to make the best of things. I’d been doing it all my life. And David could definitely be the best of things.
Tomorrow I would tell him yes. Yes, I loved him. Yes, I would marry him. Yes, we would be happy together.
I finished cleaning up my paint mess, lost in a swirl of contentment.
Brad would be surprised at the announcement. Disappointed, even. I hoped the news wouldn’t come between our budding friendship. I thought of his beautiful, smiling sister, and I hoped she and I could still become friends one day.
I wondered about Tammy. How would she react? Would she be upset that David was off the market almost as soon as he’d gotten back on?
I thought about Dorothy across the street. She wouldn’t be pleased. She’d be certain I could do better than a member of the jet-set crowd, as she’d called David. She’d have been thrilled if I’d told her Brad would be my groom.
But I couldn’t worry about what everyone else thought. I was entitled to my own life, as Brad had pointed out. And my own life meant my own choices.
Tonight, I chose David, and all the happiness that choice would bring me.
I drifted asleep on my cot, dreaming of wedding decorations and dresses and invitation styles and cake patterns and bridesmaids and guests.
34
The next morning, I spent extra time on my hair. A sample bottle of perfume, found abandoned in the bottom of my duffle, got a workout. I even put on my pretty blue sweater with the silky bow.
I downed a container of yogurt, dusted the lint off my coat, and took the front sidewalk over to David’s.
The morning was cold and crisp. A light snow had fallen during the night. Fresh prints left by my tennis shoes along the sidewalk dispelled any secrecy I might have hoped for surrounding my mission. I watched for Brad’s cruiser, sure he would show up to try to baffle my plans.
But I made it to David’s back door without any interference. I paused to rehearse my lines, then lifted my hand and knocked.
I fidgeted while I waited, jumping up and down to stay warm. No answering sounds met my ears. I sighed and rolled my eyes. David’s house was such a tomb. My knocking probably hadn’t made it past the mudroom door.
I looked toward the garage. I couldn’t tell from all the tire tracks if David was home or out. The path of footprints worn from the porch to the garage and back was as unrevealing.
I knocked again. Still no answer.
Should I go home and try back later?
Nah. I was his bride-to-be, for heaven’s sake. If he could propose marriage, I guess we knew each other well enough for me to walk in and see if he was home.
I turned the handle and entered. I slipped my shoes off next to a pair of boots on the rug. A pair of women’s boots. A pair of size 7 black leather women’s boots with fur lining and a designer label.
Oh. Okay.
Hmm.
I squeezed my eyes shut, determined not to cry. Maybe now wasn’t a good time to barge in and accept David’s marriage proposal. But it was certainly a good time to meet the competition. And maybe slap David for getting my hopes up at all. Or at least bawl him out for toying with my heart, when all along he was two-timing me. That put him and Brad on equal footing. Both were detestable when it came to women and honor.
I headed around the corner and into the dining room. There were no occupants, but my eyes glommed onto the computer, perched like a blue-eyed Cyclops atop the massive armoire. The printer spewed paper piece by piece into a tidy pile.
I walked to it and turned the top page over.
Mortgage document of some kind. I’d seen a million of them. I picked up the pile and flipped through. Great interest rate. No prepayment penalty and no balloon.
Wow. I’d have loved terms like that on my place.
Sugar Cane International Bank. Never heard of it. The address showed someplace in the Virgin Islands.
I looked back at page one. The documents were assigned to Tammy Johnson of 675 Maple Street, Rawlings, Michigan. My hair stylist. The papers refinanced her home for almost two hundred thousand dollars. I had a hard time believing anything on Maple Street went for that amount.
More paper came through on the printer. I peeked at the appraisal that followed, which backed up the re-fi price. I skimmed the comparable homes used for the final determination of value. One of them was my Victorian. But the sal
es price shown on the appraisal was almost double the amount I’d actually paid.
Somebody was scamming somebody.
I looked at the computer screen. Squares blinked sequentially in a center rectangle. Printing . . . , said the text.
I wished I knew something about computers.
My heart sounded like cannons in my ears. I glanced over my shoulder at the empty room. Future fiancée or not, I was stepping into dangerous snooping territory. I already didn’t like what I’d found. Looking further might only cement the situation.
A manila folder lay on the desk. I angled it to read the label. IMM, it said in sloppy ballpoint pen. I flipped it open with shaking hands.
The top page was on U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services letterhead, complete with the crest of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. I scanned the contents, forgetting to breathe.
. . . due to the October 31 severance date from your corporate sponsor . . .
. . . Divorce Decree dated October 15 . . .
. . . failure to comply with naturalization requirements . . .
. . . must depart the country as of December 31 or face deportation . . .
I slammed the folder shut like the lid of Pandora’s box.
Deportation? No wonder David had only given me a week to think about marriage. Maybe I had an ulterior motive for hooking up with him. But his ulterior motive for hooking up with me bordered on usury.
The floor squeaked behind me. I let out a scream of surprise and twirled to face David and Tammy, standing in the archway to the parlor.
Tammy had been crying again. Tears of black mascara trickled down her cheeks. She wiped them away as I watched.
I waited for David to yell at me for snooping, but he only smiled and walked toward me. He gently plucked the manila folder from my hands and set it back on the desk.
“Good morning,” he said and kissed my cheek.
Tammy watched the exchange without a twinge or a blink. Maybe I had the whole two-timing thing wrong.
She was first to break the silence.
“David is looking over some paperwork for me. I hope we didn’t startle you.”
“Well, gosh,” I said, putting a hand over my chest, “I guess getting caught with one hand in the cookie jar did shake me up a little.”