She pushed past him and when he grabbed her breast, she whirled. Her fist connected with his cheek with a satisfying crunch. All her frustrations, anger, and fear manifested in that one punch. Oscar fell back against her father’s car, setting off the alarm. The blaring klaxon all but deafened her.
“If you ever touch me again, you little SOB, I will haul your skinny ass to jail for assault.”
The back door burst open and her father stood silhouetted in the doorway. He raised his hand and pressed the key fob to disengage the alarm. “What the devil is going on out here?”
“Tell your pet pervert if he touches me again, he’ll draw back a bloody stump.”
David stepped outside and took several steps in her direction. “Touch you?”
“Yeah, first he offered to shack up with me in the apartment, since you promised it to him, and then he copped a feel of my tits.”
“Don’t be crass, Kelly.”
“There’s nothing crass about the truth, Father.”
“Your language is far too reminiscent of a…”
“Of what? A guttersnipe?” The snorting giggle her father’s expression created burst through her nose before she could stop it. “Or would you prefer me to use the current vernacular, Father? Perhaps you fear I am nothing more than a common ho?” Blood suffused her father’s face and a far-too-familiar tic twitched the corner of his right eye. She held up her hands in mock surrender. “I apologize. Just do something about the little dweeb you hired. He’s creepy.”
David’s gaze stabbed Oscar and held him pinned like a deer in headlights. “You’re fired.”
“But…but…You can’t do that!”
The whiny tones grated in Kelly’s ears. His voice was worse than nails scraping across a blackboard. She hitched the backpack a little higher on her shoulder, turned on her heel, and trudged to the steps clinging to the side of the two-story detached garage. Her father was more than capable of dealing with Oscar. She was frazzled, worn out, and close to tears. Burkes never cried—at least not in front of each other.
She struggled to get the key in the lock, the door open, and a light turned on. She had a stubbed toe and a bruised shin to show for her endeavors. Once she found the switch over near the small kitchenette, the naked sixty-watt bulb barely illuminated the stark reality of her new life. Without bothering to strip the sheet covering the couch, she dropped onto it and gave in to the tears.
Chapter Three
Mike clicked the off button on the hand-held phone and set it next to the cash register. The phone company still had no listing for Kelly and he’d tried every permutation of her name he could think of. Nothing. Maggie Carpenter slid her empty tray onto the bar and flashed one of her trademark smiles. Maggie would mother the entire world if she could.
“Still no luck?
He shook his head.
“Why don’t you just call her parents?” He was pretty sure his expression mirrored the dismay he felt at that suggestion, and knew it did when Maggie smiled. “Hand me the phone.”
“No way, Maggie! Nuh uh.” His fist closed around the phone and he backed away from the bar.
Before she could cajole him into surrendering it, the front door rattled open, the bell above it jangling merrily. A group of regulars from the phone company bustled through the door. For a moment the bar filled with excited voices and the clatter of chairs as they grabbed their favorite table and settled in. He was already pulling drinks and setting the icy glasses on Maggie’s tray—two waters with lemon, two iced teas, and one draft beer. The beer was reserved for the one member of the group now retired. The five came in every Wednesday like clockwork. The ever-efficient Maggie returned with their lunch orders and snagged her tray.
Mike exhaled, his chest easing with the relief he felt at dodging Maggie’s bullet. He had no doubt that she would have called Elizabeth Burke and chat like old friends. Maggie was a master at eliciting information. He ducked into the kitchen to start fish and chips, a Reuben sandwich, and two burgers. By the time he finished and returned to stack the baskets on an empty tray, Maggie was waiting on the other side of the bar with a sad smile.
“What?”
“She’s still living in the apartment above the garage at her parents’ place.” Maggie sighed. “She’s never had the phone line activated.”
Mike blinked at her. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more?”
“She has a cell phone, but it was issued by Lighthouse Catering—business use only.”
He glanced over at the table of rowdy customers as he passed the tray to her. “I don’t even want to know how you found out.” He pulled another draft and had it waiting when she returned with the empty tray. She started to speak but he shook his head. “Nope. I mean it, Maggie. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Know.” After she walked off he muttered, “Much.”
For the rest of the afternoon, he stewed about the information regarding Kelly. George Light, owner of Lighthouse Catering, wasn’t a bad guy. He dropped in for a beer sometimes and his crews often came in after working one of the affairs the company was famous for. Given Kelly’s social contacts, he could see her working in the front office scheduling and planning soirees. He chuckled, the sound dry and brittle to his own ears. “Soiree. Yeah. She’d be comfortable hobnobbing with all the rich people who use Lighthouse.”
“Were you talking to me, dear?”
He turned to stare at Maggie. How much had she heard? He really should stop talking to himself out loud. He was getting as bad as his dad about that. He grinned, feeling the tips of his ears burn. At least he wasn’t muttering about Maggie like his father did. “No. Just muttering to myself.”
“Of course you were.”
He didn’t quite know how to take her statement but his dad’s entrance saved him. He noticed, and not for the first time, that Maggie’s cheeks flushed as she glanced at his father before she sailed off with her tray.
Big Mike watched Maggie walk away. “I interrupt something?”
Mike noticed his father’s color was a bit flushed and grinned. “Nope. Nothing important.”
****
Kelly squared her shoulders. She could do this. She had no choice. Despite her mortification at being turned away at Millicent Winter’s front door, she recovered her composure by the time she walked around the back of the house to the “servant’s entrance.” Mrs. Winter was famous for her catered bridge luncheons and Kelly had attended several with her mother. She wasn’t much of a bridge player but the luncheons were more about gossip and fashion than playing cards. The Winters’ mansion was only a few blocks from her parents’ and she’d been grateful she didn’t have far to walk. Force of habit had her turning up the wide front walk and ringing the doorbell.
With a few catering events under her belt, she should have remembered she was “hired help” now. The Winters’ maid sent her around back while looking down her nose and pointing toward the corner with an imperious finger. Now, as Kelly artfully arranged petit fours on silver trays, she wondered if she would make it through the afternoon. She recognized several of the voices filtering in from the main salon—all friends of her mother. At the thought of Elizabeth’s pinched, disapproving features, Kelly cringed. She’d never hear the end of this.
Her supervisor bustled through the butler’s pantry on her way to the kitchen.”Grab that box of canapés and get them ready.”
“No problem.” Kelly shifted the tray she’d just finished and snagged the next one in the stack.
A few minutes later, the beverages were ready to be served—coffee, tea, and champagne in delicate fluted stemware. The fine crystal sang a clear, bright song whenever one glass touched another. She prayed she wouldn’t be the one with that tray. Her hands trembled slightly and she knew she’d make a mess of things if she had to serve the drinks. Luckily, the supervisor shoved the tray of hors d’oeuvres into her hands and with a deep breath to fortify her nerves, Kelly stepped into the front parlor. The fashionable women of Summerville gathered in small kno
ts or perched on antique chairs. She flowed through the room offering her tray. After the champagne and nibbles, Mrs. Winter herded the ladies to the bridge tables where a light lunch of finger sandwiches and salad was served around hands of bridge.
Not one of the women ever looked up at Kelly. And none spoke to her. A blessing in disguise as far as she was concerned. Until later, when she thought about it. Servers were invisible, simply anonymous drones there to look after the matrons. By the time the bridge games and gossip ended, the aftereffects cleaned up and the van loaded with gear, leftovers and the other servers, Kelly was ready for a stiff drink. She stood in the driveway and watched them pull away. The dark clouds overhead spit a couple of fat drops of rain in her face.
“Thanks,” she muttered to the sky. She zipped up her company-issued windbreaker, shivering as the cold wind sliced through the thin material. She flipped up the hood and trudged down the drive as the skies opened.
By the time she got home, Kelly was drenched. Her teeth chattered and her hand shook as she fitted the key into the lock. She shed the jacket and left it in a sodden heap in the kitchen sink. Her black leather loafers squeaked as she continued on into the bathroom. Her feet hurt, her back ached and she felt frozen all the way through. She twirled the faucets on the old-fashioned tub. Stripping out of her clothes, she did take the time to hang up the black trousers and the white blouse that comprised her catering uniform. She’d been lucky to find an old pair of slacks in a box of her things stored up in the attic. She’d stolen one of her father’s white Oxford shirts and a black bow tie. He’d never missed either item.
Barefoot and naked, she stepped around the cold puddle she’d dripped onto the floor and climbed into the claw-footed tub. Sinking into the hot water, she closed her eyes. Another hurdle passed.
Working for the catering company turned out to be her last option. She’d pounded the streets for several weeks but she was met with skepticism and a certain amount of suspicion. After beginning the work search in Rochester, she’d had to scale back to Summerville, then to places where she could walk or catch a ride, as she couldn’t afford a car. The only job offer she received came from Lighthouse Catering. She learned to wear no makeup and to pull her now mousy-brown hair into a severe bun. Going to a hairdresser was a luxury she could no longer afford. Her once stylish highlights and chic cut long ago bit the dust. She cut her own hair now—shaggy bangs to hide behind and hair long enough to twist up out of the way.
Whenever she looked in the mirror, the face staring back at her was almost a stranger. She’d lost weight but added muscle. A wry smile teased the corners of her mouth. Her former friends should give up their personal trainers and chic gyms and go to work for a catering company. She stretched again as the hot water finally warmed her chilled skin and soothed the ache in her legs and feet. Her eyelids drooped and a little snore escaped.
She froze, her heart racing. The water lapping around her breasts felt tepid so she’d been asleep for a short time. The floor outside the bathroom door squeaked again. That’s the sound that woke her. She eased up out of the water and grabbed the towel hanging just above her head. She jerked carefully and caught it as it snaked off the rack, unmindful that the ends trailed into the water. Kelly tucked her feet under and pushed up, wrapping the towel around her. She stepped out of the tub and crept to the door. Had she closed it all the way? Surely she had, to conserve the steamy heat from the hot bath water, but the door was open a crack. She held her breath and listened.
Was that her front door closing? Terrified, she jerked the bathroom door open and ran on tiptoes to peek around the corner into her living room. Everything appeared normal. Clutching the towel around her, she skittered to the door. It wasn’t locked. She twisted the lever for the lock and leaned her forehead against the door, gulping in breaths as she tried to steady her heartbeat. She listened but heard nothing from the wooden steps outside. On a hunch, she ran to the window that overlooked the driveway and peeked through the blinds. Snow had already blanketed the grass of her parents’ yard and the driveway. Were those footprints? She peered through the window. A dark shadow detached from the trunk of a tree about halfway down the drive and flitted toward the gate.
Goosebumps prickled along her arms but she couldn’t decide if she was scared or cold. She didn’t recognize whoever was out there; she couldn’t even tell if the figure was male or female. Seriously creeped out now, she double-checked the door locks and even put the old-fashioned chain on. She pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie before returning to the bathroom to drain the tub.
Rummaging in the refrigerator for something to eat, the sharp knock on her door caused her to bang her head on the top rack. Rubbing the sore spot and muttering a few curse words, she crossed to the door but peeked out the peep hole. Michael Doogan stood there with a pizza box and a six-pack of Guinness.
She fumbled with the locks but finally got the door open. She couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. Her nose twitched at the scent wafting through the cardboard. “Pepperoni?”
“With onion, black olive, Italian sausage, and extra cheese.”
Kelly blinked rapidly, her eyes prickling and filling with moisture. “You remembered my favorite pizza?”
Michael grinned and winked. “Would you be embarrassed if we call it the Kelly at the pub?”
She laughed. Hard. For the first time in what felt like years. “Get in here before it gets cold!” She tugged on his jacket to pull him inside and stuck her head out. His Yukon was parked below, but not blocking the spot where her father usually parked. She could no longer see the footprints running parallel to the driveway. Just my imagination. With a light heart, she shut the door and locked it.
Michael was already in the tiny kitchen. He pulled two cans from the six-pack and shoved the rest into the small refrigerator. Rummaging in her one cabinet, he found two plastic cups from a local fast-food place and snagged her roll of paper towels. She watched him, amazed that he seemed so at home here and despite his size, he moved easily in the small space.
“Grab the box?”
She liked that he asked rather than ordered, unlike Geoff. Thoughts of her ex-husband intruding now surprised her but she took a moment to contrast and compare. The last time she’d seen her ex, he was stepping into a hired limousine. Dressed in Armani, he looked like a cover model for GQ magazine. His dark hair with the deftly tinted highlights, his personal-trainer-enhanced body, and his arrogant, tanned features told everyone exactly who he was—prep school educated, Harvard MBA grad, scion of a wealthy family on the fast-track to screwing hundreds out of their hard-earned money. She shuddered, forcing the anger into the recesses of her heart.
Michael settled onto the couch, flipped the top on the pizza box and pulled a paper towel from the roll. He deftly snagged a piece, managed to twist the strings of gooey cheese, and flipped them on top of the pizza as he handed her the slice. She gratefully accepted and took a bite, mmming around the hot cheese and tangy pepperoni. He popped the tops on the beers and poured them into the plastic cups.
“I like your china.”
She laughed. “I’m glad you found the good stuff in the cupboard.”
He glanced around the bare-bones living space. “No TV?”
Kelly blushed. “Uhm…I gave it up for Lent?” She tried to laugh off her apparent poverty and realized that Michael suddenly understood her situation when he blushed, too.
“I’m sorry, kiddo. Things are still rough for you. I should have been bringing pizza more often.” She bristled but he reached over and squeezed her hand. “I know you are proud. I know you want to handle this yourself. But friends can still treat you to pizza occasionally, right? And if you’d stop by the pub, Big Mike would serve up his signature fish and chips any time.” She started to speak but he continued. “Nope. Don’t even say it, stubborn woman that you are. Big Mike has a mother hen complex.”
He’s not the only one, she thought, but hid her smile. No, Michael was nothing like Ge
off. He was big and reminded her of a teddy bear. He was good looking in an All-American-boy-next-door kind of way. His hands were large and rough, unlike Geoff who never missed his weekly manicure. When Michael smiled, the room lit up. When her ex smiled, she heard the theme from “Jaws”.
Kelly watched him take a bite of his slice and as she watched him chew and swallow, odd things happened to her body. Things stirred in places she’d long thought of as numb. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had touched her breasts…or lower, and yet she was thinking all sorts of sexy thoughts about Michael’s hands and his mouth. She swallowed hard and concentrated on eating her pizza. Opening herself up to such things was a Very Bad Idea™. She needed to get some money saved up, get a real job, and get her debts paid before she could ever consider getting into another relationship. She glanced over at Michael and realized he was staring at her. She took another bite of her pizza, praying her expression hadn’t given away her thoughts. She chewed without tasting, swallowed and reached for her beer to wash it down. She cut her eyes in his direction. He was still watching.
“What?” She stared at him as he flushed. Oh, goodness. Had his thoughts strayed, too? She choked back a giggle. Of course they had. He was a man. She took another bite and watched him watch her, a hungry light gleaming in his eyes. Instinctively, she knew that look wasn’t because he craved another slice of pizza. She felt heat rise in her cheeks. “What?” she asked again, only this time her voice was low and husky.
“Ready for another piece?” He used another paper towel to gather up a second slice, only this time he held it out for her to take a bite. His eyes dared her to play along even as his mouth teased her with full lips and a little smirk.
She raised her chin in challenge. “You lookin’ for a piece of me, hot stuff?”
“Oh, I want more than a piece, sweetheart. I want all of you.”
Promises, Promises (Class of '85) Page 3