Evil had a way of seeping through the best of packages and spoiling the contents. They had both died despite the good brother’s efforts. Caroline had felt the boiling surge of anger that day for the first time. It rose from deep within her, daring her to lash out at the injustice. But she had been too much of a coward. “I should have done something.”
Her father frowned. Was he disappointed in her, too? “What could you have done differently?”
She had no idea. “Anything. Something. They were children. They weren’t involved in what was happening over there. It was a war they hadn’t started and couldn’t fight.”
“True.” The check came; her father snatched it up and dug out his wallet.
“It wasn’t even a war, Dad. It was a skirmish—something that hadn’t even made the news here. It was like they’d never existed.” She choked on the last word. Hell, that was what had bothered her most.
After dropping a few bills on top of the check, her father held the picture in front of Caroline’s eyes. She met his gaze rather than stare at the lifeless bodies. He tsked. “They did exist. And because you were there to take this photograph, their sacrifice was recorded. That’s what journalists do. You couldn’t have stopped it, and had you tried, you would have been in the same grave. Then no one would have known. Honey, there was nothing you could have done and lived to tell.”
He was wrong. “I was a journalist—I was protected.” He knew they had safe passage—he’d scoffed at the Geneva Convention in his publications for years.
He cursed. “You think anyone doing that,” he tapped a finger on the pile of photos, “cares whether you have journalistic free passage? I know you’re not stupid. They would have killed you, buried you with those kids, and slept like logs afterward. Another journalist missing in a foreign country, presumed lost. Come on, you knew it too. You did your job—and you did the right thing.”
“I did nothing.”
“You told the story.”
A knife seared through her heart. “No, I didn’t. I was afraid, and as soon as I hit native soil, I warehoused the story and came running home to hide. Face it, Dad, I’m not a journalist. Not even close. I’m not like you. I can’t handle the death and brutality day after day. I want to shoot every damn one of those baby killers. And I don’t even own a gun.”
He slapped a hand on the table and slid to a stand. “You don’t need a gun. You have a camera and a brain. You ready to go?”
She nodded. Once they were back in his car, he laid a hand on hers. “I hate to tell you this, honey, but other than the fact you look more like your mother, you’re exactly like me. By the way, I liked hearing you call me Dad. You can do that more often if you want.”
They changed the subject before he dropped her off. She was thankful for the company and a chance to talk about anything that kept her mind off her ghosts. She wished he hadn’t delved into the painful memories. Why was it soothing to know he had ghosts of his own? That was borderline sick. She shook the thought away. There was one truly great thing about her new life: the serenity of knowing the worst thing she’d ever deal with was a grumbling customer or a late shipment.
Not death.
Chapter Fourteen
Roger shifted on his couch and blinked at the glow of his laptop screen. Was that dollar amount real? Holy shit. The website showed an income—an income—from the slew of pictures he’d uploaded. Carter was right, but he’d never tell him. To top it off, the money was automatically deposited in his bank account. He pumped his fist in a tiny celebration. “Yes.”
A soft whimper forced him to change focus. He’d been wrestling with finances and work projects for too long. He glanced at the gray whiskers and clouded eyes of his old friend. “Hey, Conan. You need to go out, buddy?”
Ruff. That was affirmative.
Roger grabbed the leash and waited as the dog lumbered toward the door. Eventually he’d need to accept the inevitable and take the fateful visit to the vet. Not today. Or anytime soon. He couldn’t handle such a monumental decision. Besides, as long as Conan could walk, Roger wasn’t cutting his time on earth short. It was wrong.
Outside, the dog maneuvered down the ramp Roger had added when the steps became too difficult. It had taken only a few times for Conan to realize the ramp was his. He was a smart dog. Old, but not stupid. I’m gonna cry like a baby when he dies.
A cool breeze scattered leaves across the sidewalk. Roger dropped to sit on the steps while the dog shuffled around the same territory he’d marked earlier in the day. Heaven forbid another dog try to take over his yard; it’d take all night for him to repair the damage.
Roger’s cell jolted into action inside the house, and he jumped up to answer. Conan lifted his head, drool dribbling from his chin into the grass. Roger glanced at the screen and debated answering. History proved that not answering his mother didn’t deter her efforts, and that she’d just call again in a few minutes. He turned off the volume, grabbed a glass of water, and returned to the peacefulness of his front step.
Fifteen minutes later, the sound of tires crunching on the loose pavement of his driveway woke him from a daydream. He really needed to get the driveway fixed, but he liked its dual functionality. It gave him advance warning of pending confrontation. Ahem, company. He grimaced at the silhouette of his mother in her aging Buick.
“Why don’t you answer your phone, son?”
He shrugged. “It’s inside.”
Conan glanced at Ruth, sighed, and lumbered up the ramp to wait by the door. He was thrilled to see her, too.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Were those heels on the sidewalk? His mother seldom wore heels; they hurt her corns. Her feet came into view. Nope. Sneakers. Still, the clatter continued.
Where was it coming from? Ruth jogged toward him. “I wanted to warn you, but I didn’t get here quite fast enough. Remember that young lady, Marina, that I mentioned meeting at the vet? The one who’s a decorator? I told her to come by and take a look—it’s on me.” A decorator for his house? The thought was laughable. On her? Yeah right.
Oh, hell, just shoot me. He’d told her not to ever try matchmaking him again, and damned if she hadn’t ignored his words. His mother meant well but was always seeking a “suitable” woman who had as much personality as a piece of grass in the winter.
A sharp growl came from behind, and Roger rose to his feet and pushed the door open for Conan. “Now? You told her to come by today? Mom, I can’t—I have plans.” Actually, he had a blank slate but wasn’t telling her.
“Oh, sorry. You can just let her in, and she’ll take a look, and then you guys can get together later to go over her ideas, right? Maybe one night this week.” Ruth reeked of hopeful conniving and fake pleasantries. There was no way in hell he’d let a random woman peruse his apartment. Not happening.
Tap. Tap. “Hi there!” Marina called out. Stilettoes, twiggy legs, and a too-short skirt rounded his mother’s vehicle, and Roger shut his mouth as the sleek and shiny woman approached. “Thanks for letting me stop by. I’m so excited about this project. I haven’t done a bachelor’s place in a long time.”
Today wouldn’t bring an end to his dry spell, either. He forced himself to smile. “Um, I’m not really prepared for company ... I’m leaving in a bit.” He tried to think of somewhere to go. Maybe over to Carter’s to watch the game. The Astros played at one. “I can’t afford—”
Marina waved a manicured hand. “Don’t worry about it. Our parents go way back, and it’s on me.”
“I’m not a charity case either.”
Her eyes flared defensively. “I didn’t mean ... I wasn’t saying you were. It’s just ... your mom thought we should meet.”
“My mother thought? Really? She can think for herself, not me, and I’ll do the same.” Roger yanked the door open and retreated inside. Their hushed murmurs sounded like static as he slammed the screen shut. Marina and his mother weren’t deterred by his gruffness—they simply followed him inside. What to do? He wasn’t in the m
ood for a fight. He just needed peace and quiet. Roger plodded out of the living room to his bedroom and clunked the door closed. He twisted the lock into place and grabbed a book from his bedside. Perhaps they’d leave if he hid out long enough.
The rattling and grinding of chatter in the main rooms annoyed him so much, he slammed the book shut, grabbed his keys, and headed back outside. After stowing Conan in the vehicle, he thrust the car in reverse and wheeled away from the house. Whatever happened to a man’s home is his castle?
The phrase was obviously made famous by a man who didn’t have an overbearing mother and a bevy of sisters. Without a destination, Roger found himself standing on a pier overlooking Thompson Lake. A few years earlier, Conan wore out the lake’s beach chasing Frisbees and seagulls. Now, the dog only plodded to the water’s edge and soaked his feet.
God, I need a break. A vacation from this massive load of responsibilities, family, work—crap ... everything.
Conan yelped. Roger searched the beach. Where’d he go? He was here a second ago with his feet in the water. The big guy was too old to swim and too slow to run far. Roger rotated. Twenty yards down the froth of water, the dog was tangled ... in seaweed.
Even a trip to the shore wasn’t without peril. Roger worked the dog’s legs free and took him home. On his front door was a sticky note that appeared to be from his home office desk. Had they rummaged through his things? He grimaced.
Let’s meet Thursday eight p.m. at Flannigan’s Brewhouse to discuss my thoughts for your spaces. Thanks so much for the opportunity—see you there!
His nastiness hadn’t deterred the woman one bit. No signature and no phone number to cancel either. Great.
Chapter Fifteen
Caroline learned that Roger worked with Abby’s heartthrob the hard way. Abby and Caroline decided to take turns doing plant maintenance at their office after Abby talked the text-o-hunk, Carter into paying them to install and maintain plants for their building.
Caroline nearly bulldozed Roger outside the bathroom of their office. She feigned ignorance and apologized politely as if he were any other stranger, not looking him in the face. But he wasn’t.
Caroline had been mildly surprised to learn about Roger’s suspicion that Abby’s voluptuous curves were medically induced. She hadn’t remembered him being so snide or judgmental when they were in college. People change. God knows she had.
She wasn’t shocked that he’d finished school and now managed projects like the one Carter was involved with. He’d always seemed the type to do big things.
At their shop, she plucked a broken stem from a pot of dahlias and stuck a fertilizer stick near the base. Touching the dirt, she decided it wasn’t necessary to add water yet. The click of computer keys at the counter signified Abby’s bookkeeping efforts were in full force. Abby had been tied up in knots for weeks over the texting confusion. Caroline would have sympathized if not for the fact that she kept making it worse by continuing the charade. The sound stopped for a second, and Abby sighed. “You know, I can’t keep doing this.”
“What?”
“Texting, chatting, all the deception. It’s wrong.”
“You’re right. It’s wrong.” Caroline admitted.
“If I tell Carter, he’ll hate me.” Abby was obviously wrestling with her conscience. “Look how upset he got about me sleeping with Jackson.”
Caroline spun around. “You slept with Jackson?”
“God, no. But when they made that snide remark about my chest, I fired off a response…and…well, Carter thought it was from him. It kind-of inferred that I had.”
Caroline frowned. “Oh. You need to be careful how you phrase that, or a customer might get the wrong impression.”
Abby plucked a pen from behind her ear and wrote something on a notepad. “What’s worse? Pretending that it actually happened in order to not hurt him and lying—or actually doing it?”
The door whisked open and the FedEx deliveryman, in tight shorts and a crisp white shirt, rolled through with boxes for the store.
Caroline plopped a hand to her hip and gave her a skeptical frown. “You’re kidding right? You know, for a guy who seemed so much fun in the beginning he sure gets riled up about stuff.”
When the packages were signed for, Caroline pulled the paperwork and tossed it on the counter to add to Abby’s records. Abby sighed. “I can’t exactly fault the guy for having a problem with his best friend sleeping with his girl. That’d be like me going after one of your boyfriends.”
She had a point. Caroline lifted one of the packages and shot her a snarky grin. “Seriously? We don’t shop in the same supermarket when it comes to men, girl. I doubt that’d ever be an issue.”
“Good point.”
Caroline shifted the package to her hip, grabbed the other one and took them to the stock room. She unpacked the contents and started toward the front. “Say, you think we could make requests on who delivers the FedEx packages? That guy was seriously—Oh.”
When the hell had Roger walked into the store? Had he heard her comment?
“Caroline.” He nodded.
“Dickwad,” she acknowledged.
“Hey, he’s a customer!” Abby retorted.
Okay, it wasn’t exactly a customer-friendly response, but it was Roger. Why bother.
“You’ve changed, Caroline.”
She forced her face to remain calm. “Yeah, well people usually do when they get older.”
Roger coughed. “I didn’t say it was bad, just different.”
Abby’s eyes volleyed from Roger to Caroline as she absorbed the conversation. “You guys know each other?”
Roger nodded. “Sort of. Ask her. We, uh, hung out in college a while before Caroline ran off to find herself.”
His voice seeped sarcasm, and for some reason it tilted Caroline over the edge. “I didn’t run off, and I certainly wasn’t looking for myself in the process. I was pursuing my career, remember? I’m a journalist. I mean, I was a journalist.”
After a volley of choice words between the two, Roger stomped toward the door and yanked it open. He stared at her for a heartbeat. “God, you’re angry. Did your hair start spiking up like that when your personality began bristling too? Or is that something you caught over in Germany or Scotland, like the foot and mouth disease they had in 2001?”
That was it. Caroline rattled off a couple of f-bombs along with some other fancy phrases and stormed to the stock room. If she stayed in the vicinity of Roger for one more minute, she’d—she’d—punch him in the nose.
Retreat was safer. She unpacked boxes and applied price tags until her nerves calmed. She barely registered that Abby continued talking with him for a few minutes before he left.
“Soooo, Roger, that was interesting.” Abby tapped a pen against the counter. “Can I help you with something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” He strode to the counter, pulled his cell from his pocket and showed her the display. Since he was the one responsible for mixing up the numbers, he should have felt a little guilty about using it to his advantage. He didn’t.
“Okay, you caught me.”
She rattled on with all sorts of excuses and avoided his questions. Did she really think he believed her story? Roger walked outside when a customer interrupted. He watched through the window and waited until the person left, then called her cell. When Abby answered, he convinced her to meet him outside when the store closed. His intention of mixing the numbers was to get Abby and Carter together, not cause a freaking technology nightmare. The two of them were a disaster. Abby met him later, but after their conversation, things seemed even more convoluted than before. How the hell could he help Carter if Abby continued to add layers and layers of technology confusion?
He considered the dilemma on the way home. Hell, their communication issues weren’t his problem. At least he’d tried. He hit road construction and sat for over twenty minutes while flashing lights and signs prevented his movement. The bright colors were alm
ost as blaringly obnoxious as those striped leggings Caroline wore. His lips twitched, and he felt a smile stretch across his face in amusement. She’d changed all right, but the wild innocence and crazy bravado was still there. She had simply hidden it under all those crazy layers of fabric. And tons of misdirected anger.
It took him a few more stoplights, but he finally figured out how to handle the situation with Caroline. Reading her blog had made him realize how much he needed closure. To see if there was even a glimmer of a chance that they might be able to salvage something from the past. Or maybe he was a glutton for punishment. He called Abby and set up a time to meet. It was easy to bribe her into arranging a short sit-down with Caroline. After all, she was riddled with guilt over how to resolve things in her own relationship and practically overjoyed to focus on someone else’ communication needs.
When Roger pulled into his drive, his cell bleeped a text. He glanced at the screen.
Hi there, Miranda here. It’s Thursday. Are you still coming?
Oh shit.
He debated cancelling, but his mom would call in a few minutes if he dared—and he wasn’t ready for another bashing session. Besides, Miranda was simply trying to do her job. You couldn’t fault her for that.
He typed in a response and quickly let Conan out before jumping back into the car. He’d see what she wanted to do, then politely refuse her services and end the evening. He glanced at the clock on the dash. If he timed things well, he could get back in time to watch the Astros game at seven.
Flannigan’s Brewhouse was a local favorite with most of his friends. Good food, lots of specials on draft beers, and decent feature bands on weekends. Thursday nights had become the favorite time for young bands to debut on the small stage. He’d never heard of the group playing this night, but he wasn’t picky. He wasn’t staying.
He’d taken four steps inside when a perfectly manicured set of nails wrapped around his wrist and yanked him onto the dance floor.
“Yay. You’re here.” Miranda’s crazy-ass heels put her almost at eye level with him. The pile of curls she’d layered into a knot on her head gave her an extra inch. Scary.
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