Jami glanced at her mom, who’d tied a kerchief over her mouth and nose as she pulled aside yet another dusty, dingy sheet. Jami couldn’t see what lay beneath. It had taken the last month to convince Isadora that her attic badly needed a clean-out, and Mom had offered to help. Jami still wasn’t sure why she’d really come except that being in Masterson gave her an excuse to check up on Jami. And Cole. Because Jami had done the unthinkable again and given away her milk for free. She’d moved in with Cole.
Her Mom wasn’t going to change. Jami didn’t expect her to anymore. Quite frankly, she loved her just the way she was. Just as Jami had come to cherish Isadora.
“She was born of a June Cleaver clone and completely missed the sixties, Isadora. But she’s sweet anyway, don’t you agree?”
“But she thinks Tom Jones is soppy.” Isadora rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know what soppy means, but Tom definitely is not that.”
“Thanks for letting her stay with you.”
“Well, I didn’t tell her about Mr. Rogers dying in that room. I think she’d have a manic meltdown.”
“Yes, but she loves your lentil soup.”
Isadora harrumphed.
“Mom, what’s this?” Oscar held up a rectangular item that Jami couldn’t make out in the dim light of his attic corner.
Isadora had a lot of help. Oscar, Andrea and Darryl, Betty, and Jami’s mom. Frank had even joined in, too, along with Ruby, who was now racing all over the attic, chasing dust motes as if they were butterflies.
“Training those two cooks is a pain in the as—” He cut himself off, glancing at Andrea and Darryl as they bent over an old steamer trunk. “A pain in the patootie,” he groused at Cole and flexed his tattoos.
That was another thing her mother was still getting used to, Frank’s tattoos.
Cole snorted. “Anyone can make a Ruby’s Special, Frank. It’s not rocket science.”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes, but—” Jami said, wending her way through the tight aisle to get to Cole’s side, “you’re just put out because you actually have to pay double for what Cole did.”
Cole rapped his knuckles lightly on Frank’s bald head. “Dude, you’re such a tight wad.”
Cole had been spending a lot of time at the studio. Making music. Jami’s heart turned over in her chest. He laughed more. He joked more. He’d taken Andrea and Darryl over to his studio to hear him play. He’d never forget his daughter, never stop missing her, but he was a different man from the one who’d slammed his door in her face all those weeks ago. He heard music again.
Despite Frank’s grousing, she’d seen the tear in his eye when Cole played him a new tune called “Ruby Sunshine.”
She’d been a little worried about Cole helping with the clean-out. A bit too much of a reminder of cleaning out his daughter’s room. But together, they’d made it through that day in his house, and he hadn’t even seemed to have a twinge today.
“Oh my Gawd,” Isadora shrieked.
“It’s true,” Andrea replied.
Somehow Jami had missed seeing everyone crowd into Oscar’s dark corner.
“Let’s see it in the light,” Betty said, grabbing the rectangle and holding it up to a sunbeam.
A painting, Jami could now see.
“Well,” Betty mused, pushing her reading glasses up her nose, “I do believe that says D’Entraygues. But I’ve never heard of him.”
Oscar’s chin quivered. He was dying to ask how much it was worth, but he and Isadora didn’t talk about money anymore. The day after Jami found him prowling in the attic, he’d ’fessed up to Isadora. Isadora still hadn’t given him the money he needed for the down payment, but he’d stopped needling her. They simply agreed not to talk about his wife. An uneasy truce, maybe, but it was a truce nonetheless, and Oscar had been to visit her twice in the past month.
“They talked about D’Entraygues in art class,” Andrea insisted. “He’s famous.”
“Well, then how much is that painting worth?” Betty asked, ever the practical one.
“I’m sure that’s the artist’s name of one of the paintings I saw on Antiques Roadshow,” Jami’s mom said, when Andrea just held up her hands. “It was estimated at fourteen thousand.”
They all—except for Darryl who’d found a couple of action figures from Aliens—simply stared at the stack of pictures against the attic wall. There must have been ten.
“Are they all by that guy?” Frank asked.
Oscar leaned down to look at a couple. “No. There’s someone named Leighton, and”—he squinted—“Beauville.” He flipped through the stack. “I can’t read all the names.”
“Where’d they come from, Isadora?” Betty prodded.
“I have no idea. This crap’s been up here for, like”—Isadora gave her typical Valley-girl shrug—“forever.”
Again, the entire assembly stared at her. Oscar didn’t say a word. Jami held her breath, but she wanted to shout. Come on, Isadora, let him have them. But heck, she was sort of proud of Oscar for not asking.
Cole grabbed Jami’s hand and pulled her close as if he knew she was dying to say something. Still, she believed that what came next was up to Isadora and couldn’t be rushed.
Isadora took a step closer. “You know, if you get them all appraised...” She trailed off, holding her breath, then plunged on. “You can have them.” Her breath rushed out along with the rest of the sentence. “And use them for the down payment on that house.”
Wow. The too-expensive house the daughter-in-law wanted. That was a huge step for Isadora.
Oscar suddenly seemed a little...younger. As if he’d dropped a couple of years in just the last few minutes. “Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate that.”
Isadora waved a hand at the rest of the attic milieu. “In fact, you can have it all.”
That wasn’t just a huge step, it was a little...crazy.
“Except for the furs,” Isadora added. Jami knew she didn’t want Oscar’s wife touching her precious furs.
“What on earth are you going to do with the furs?” Betty grumbled. Yet she was at the armoire herself stroking the thick soft fur.
“We’re going to play dress-up for Scrabble night,” Isadora replied with the slightest edge of affront.
“You’re going to wear furs to play Scrabble?” Frank scratched his head.
“There are some things a man just doesn’t get,” Jami whispered to Cole.
Then Isadora grabbed Andrea’s hand. “Come on, sweetie, pick out which one you want.”
Andrea had been inducted into the Tuesday night Scrabble game a couple of weeks ago. Betty was already teaching her to make her own rules. It was a good thing. Jami didn’t want it to take the girl thirty-five years, as it had with her. She hoped Andrea would start making friends her own age, too, but a friend was a friend, no matter the age.
“Oh my God,” Jami’s mother shrieked, almost in perfect imitation of Isadora’s earlier shout about the paintings. “Look at this.” She held up the wedding dress Jami had found that day she came up here with Cole. Three more of the little beads clattered across the attic’s wood floor, with Ruby in hot pursuit and Frank fast on her tail.
“It’s exactly like the wedding dress my grandmother wore,” her mom whispered with awe.
Indeed, held up like that, though yellowed with age, it was still gorgeous. Elegant without the frou-frou stuff. Many of the beads were missing, though, and there was a slight tear at the high waist, another along the hemline.
“It’s pretty,” Darryl said with as much wonder as the females in the attic.
Her mother’s eyes shone with a tear. “My grandma was gone long before I had any of you. But she was the best baker. She taught me how to make butter tarts when I was just a girl.”
Betty stroked the satin skirt. “Those beads could be fixed. I know a seamstress who’s a marvel at restoring old clothing.” Betty always knew someone who could do the perfect something.
“It would be gorgeou
s on Jami,” Isadora whispered.
Jami’s heart started to pound. It darn near burst out of her chest when Cole took her hand. “It would be perfect on her.”
Her gaze flew to his. Betty, her mom, and Isadora suddenly went wild making plans.
They’d been living together for a month. She knew where she wanted it to lead. He knew, too. But even she hadn’t been ready to set a date. Good God, not shades of Leo, was it?! His eyes never leaving hers, Cole raised her fingers to his lips.
“Come here, I want to show you something.” He pulled away while the others fiddled with the dress, Frank chased his darling Ruby through the dust bunnies, and Oscar simply stared at the stacked paintings, his jaw slightly slack.
By the side of a battered steamer trunk, Cole said, “Open it.”
Jami lifted the lid. Amid musty clothing, three stapled bags lay side by side. He actually remembered how she’d found him.
“Grab,” he whispered, his Kahlua-and-cream voice washing over her, his unique scent filling her head.
Yet her heart pounded, and she was scared. Fear of the unknown. Commitment. Marriage. Babies. Losing the most important thing in the world. What if Cole could never let go enough to have another child? What if they fell out of love? Out of the frying pan and into the fire. She suddenly saw that being afraid of the fire wasn’t so bad. The bad part was letting the fear keep you from jumping into the heat of things.
Jami closed her eyes and grabbed.
She shook the bag. It rattled. “It’s light, but it’s not clothing.” She sniffed it. “It’s not food either.” Yet her heart was beating double-time because she knew what the sack contained; she’d heard the same sound in Used But Not Abused.
Ripping the staples out, she reached inside, her fingers finding the edge of a CD jewel case. The bag fell from her hand, drifting down into the trunk. Cole had a CD program and had created the front cover, a picture of the two of them. God, he was beautiful, and he was laughing down at her. He’d used the same font as his earlier CDs. Touching the lettering, she wanted to cry as she read the title, Baby, You Found Me.
“You like it?”
Running her fingers over the cover, she couldn’t say a word. If she did, she’d cry. All she managed was a nod. His first album in seven years. He had a long way to go to regain the career he’d lost, but he was making music, and for her, that’s all that counted. The rest would come. Turning it over, she gazed at the photo of his daughter emblazoned across the back. This was the Stephie she wanted him to remember. The songs, three in all, first was “Ruby Sunshine”—Frank would love that—and second, the title song. She couldn’t wait to hear it. But the last, she knew he’d worked the hardest on. “Stephie’s Song.” His daughter would forever live in the music and lyrics of her song.
“There’s something inside.”
Opening the case, a piece of paper he’d placed on top of the CD almost slid out before she caught it. He took the case as Jami unfolded the message.
“Colton Amory’s list of things to do before he dies,” she whispered aloud. “One, make love to you all night long.” She smiled. “It sounds like a song title. And you’ve already done that to me.”
“And way more than once, too.” Up close, surrounding her with his body, he nuzzled her hair. “Go on.”
“Two, feel my child kick in your womb,” she said, her heart climbing into her throat.
He dropped his hand to her stomach, caressing her, and read the next aloud. “Three, hold our newborn in my hands.”
Her heart reached her throat. “Cole...”
“Shh,” he whispered, “Just read them.”
“Four, buy her a horse when she’s old enough.” The enormity of his list overwhelmed her. “You read the rest.” Otherwise she’d cry.
“Five,” he murmured directly into her hair, “give her away at her wedding. And six, hold her newborn child in my hands.”
“Oh, Cole.” Jami turned and threw her arms around his neck, her body starting to shake.
Cole stroked the hair back from her face. “I love you, baby. I’ll never stop being scared of losing you or our child, but I promise not to let my fears get in the way of making the moments on that list come true.”
“I love you,” she whispered. “But what’s in the other two bags?”
Cole quirked a half smile. “Do you really want to know?”
Jami thought for a long second. “No.”
She’d chosen the right bag, just as she had that day in her favorite thrift store back home. Serendipity, fate, destiny, whatever, the universe had provided exactly what they both needed.
Of course, Cole had probably stuffed each bag with the same CD and note. But whatever.
She kissed his nose. “Let’s go home. I want a live performance of ‘Baby, You Found Me.’”
He placed her hand over his chest. “You were the one who found me, sweetheart. And I’ll never let you go.”
###
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Enjoy the following excerpts and meet the author!
She’s Gotta Be Mine
Kinky Neighbors
Double the Pleasure
About the Author
She’s Gotta Be Mine Excerpt
Jasmine Haynes also writes as Jennifer Skully, funny, sexy, poignant contemporary romances. Here’s an introduction to Jennifer Skully’s Cottonmouth series!
She’s Gotta Be Mine
Cottonmouth Book 1
Copyright 2011 Jennifer Skully
Cover design by Rae Monet Inc
Dumped? For her husband’s high school sweetheart he hasn’t seen in twenty years? Roberta Jones Spivey isn’t going to lay down for that, no way. Instead, she decides to reinvent herself. The new Bobbie Jones—new haircut, new name, new attitude—will follow her soon-to-be ex to the small Northern California town of Cottonmouth. And there she’ll show him—and his sweetheart—what a big mistake he made.
What better way to show him what he’s missing in the brand new Bobbie Jones than taking up with the town’s local bad boy—who’s also reputed to be a serial killer. Nick Angel is devilishly handsome and sexy as all get-out. In a word, perfect.
It’s all going exactly according to plan...until a real murder rocks the little town of Cottonmouth. Of course, Nick didn’t do it...did he?
~Previously published in 2005 as Sex and the Serial Killer~
Excerpt
A mixture of red dye and sweat trickled down her forehead, hovered on her eyebrows, poised to drizzle into her eyes. Soon to be blinded by runaway hair products, Roberta Jones Spivey could force nothing more than a mousy squeak from her throat. She was about to go deaf, too, from the hairdryer blasting her eardrums, and still, she couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to shriek. Any moment now, her hair would spontaneously combust. They’d smell the smoke first, then the aroma of singed hair, but by the time any of the umpteen stylists scurrying about The Head Hunter’s main salon came to her rescue, she’d be bald. If not charred to a briquette.
Help me before my demise becomes a fifteen-second slot on a tabloid show. Now was not the time for a panic attack.
Drip, drip, drip, from her eyebrows to her eyelashes. In a last ditch effort to save herself, she squeezed her eyes shut. Burning tears leaked out to mingle with the caustic fluids. She clamped onto the chair’s arms, a death grip, terrified that if she touched the stuff, she’d end up rubbing her flesh off, too.
Someone. Please. Notice me.
The bowl of the dryer was suddenly jerked up, cool air from the overhead fans wafting across her scalp.
“Bobbie, honey, why didn’t you tell me the color was running?” Mimi was the only person who’d ever called her Bobbie.
Roberta dragged in a breath of air to explain, then collapsed in a spasm of coughing as the stench of chemicals, dyes, perm solution, and her own terrified sweat swooped down her throat.
Mimi’s shoes clicked-clacked away, then back again.
“Here, drink this.”
Water had never tasted so good. All Roberta had wanted was a new look. Okay, so she needed a new life, too. Instead, she’d almost died, and her heart was still pounding like the Pony Express. She handed the empty paper cup back to Mimi, who crumpled it, executed a perfect free throw into the trash can, then tugged at a few squishy locks on Roberta’s head, and pronounced, “You’re cooked.”
Roberta was cooked all right. Roasted, basted, filleted, flambéed. And limp as a wet noodle to boot. Residual quivers made her knees wobble as she tried to stand up.
Mimi put a hand beneath her elbow. “Bobbie, honey, you okay?
“I’m fine.” Well, except that Warren had walked out on her three weeks, six days, and seven hours ago. On April eighteenth. Three days after tax day. Two days after he’d left for his little mission up north. In Cottonmouth, California. He’d dumped her with nothing more than a phone call telling her he wasn’t coming back. Ever.
Roberta blew out a breath. “Yeah, Mimi, I’m just fine.”
“Good, for a minute there under the dryer you looked a little panicky.” Mimi patted her arm and led her to the rinse bowl.
“I didn’t want to bother you while you were busy.” Her, panic? Just because her husband of fifteen years had left her for his long-lost, recently-located-through-the-Internet high school sweetheart? The love of his life. The teenage bimbo who’d broken his heart, then disappeared off the face of the earth—or at least left the San Francisco Bay Area for parts unknown. Cookie. What kind of name was that anyway? It made her think of some hairy blue monster on a morning kids’ show. Warren was bound to see he’d made a mistake.
Okay, so she’d made a mistake, too, by actually helping him search the Net. And mailing the hundreds of letters—because he was nervous about calling all those women looking for the right one. And letting him drive to Cottonmouth all alone that fateful weekend. She’d only wanted to help him solve his problem. Because his problem was her problem.
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