The Next Little Thing: A Jackson Falls Mini

by Laurie Breton

  The Next

  Little Thing

  A Jackson Falls “Mini”

  25,000-word Novella

  (Book 3.5)

  Laurie Breton

  c. 2013 by Laurie Breton

  All Rights Reserved.

  Books in the Jackson Falls Series

  COMING HOME (Book 1)

  SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY (Book 2)

  DAYS LIKE THIS (Book 3)

  THE NEXT LITTLE THING (Book 3.5)

  And coming in late 2013:

  REDEMPTION ROAD (Book 4)

  Casey

  May, 1992

  Portland International Jetport

  Portland, Maine

  Rob's plane was late.

  Hands tucked into the pockets of her coat, Casey Fiore MacKenzie slumped on her tailbone in a rock-hard chair in the airport waiting area and balefully contemplated her swollen ankles. She'd reluctantly given up her little black high heel boots a couple of months ago in favor of running shoes with good arch support. This far along in the pregnancy, her center of gravity had shifted, and the last thing she needed was to fall on her rump and go into labor early.

  But she was ready for it to be over. The swollen ankles, the aching back, the gargantuan appetite, the bipolar mood swings. The beach-ball belly that other people—strangers, for the love of God!—thought it perfectly acceptable to pat, rub, fondle, as though she were some exotic animal on display at the zoo.

  While she watched, the aforementioned belly bulged with an arm, a leg, possibly a foot. Baby MacKenzie had been unusually active all morning. Maybe she knew her daddy was on his way home. More likely, she simply took great pleasure in tormenting her mother.

  This would be Rob's last trip before the baby came. Over the past few months, he'd spent a lot of time on the West Coast, networking, schmoozing, calling in markers as they worked to build this new venture of theirs, Two Dreamers Records, one brick at a time.

  He hated the schmoozing, so contrary to his nature. There were few men more straightforward or disingenuous than her husband. Maybe it was that very disingenuousness that made people listen when he spoke. He might not like schmoozing, but if the situation warranted, Rob MacKenzie could, to use a well-worn cliché, sell a refrigerator to an Eskimo.

  But there'd be no more traveling for a while. When she'd given birth to Katie a dozen years ago, Danny had been in London, leaving her to face childbirth alone in Los Angeles. Husband Number Two had no intention of leaving her high and dry like that. Nothing would keep Rob MacKenzie from experiencing the birth of their child. Four weeks away from her due date, and with her history of early delivery, Rob would be staying put for the foreseeable future.

  Over the public address system, a mellifluous female voice announced the arrival of his flight. Clutching the cracked and ancient leather bomber jacket her husband would part with only when they pried it from his cold, dead fingers, Casey struggled to sit upright, planting both feet firmly on the floor and inching her backbone upward until gravity allowed her to hoist herself aloft. Although it was early May, the raw wind that had sent her scurrying back indoors for her wool dress coat felt more like mid-March. Winter was reluctant to release its hold on Northern New England, and Rob had left for sunny L.A. without a coat, because it just wasn't in her free-spirited husband's makeup to think about things like that.

  The first passengers began trickling in. Rob strode into view, lanky legs rapidly covering ground. Dressed in jeans and a blue Oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up, he carried a single backpack that bounced in time with his distinctive, loose-jointed stride. It struck her, that inexplicable Thing that happened inside her every time he walked into a room. Beginning in the vicinity of her heart, it spread like warm honey to her pelvis, her breasts, and then to her extremities. Eight months pregnant, she still wanted to lap him up like a cat with a bowl of cream. For her entire adult life, she'd thought she understood all the facets of love between a man and a woman. After all, she'd spent thirteen years as Danny Fiore's wife, and they'd loved each other with an unhealthy obsession. But what she felt for Rob—this thing that kept growing, day after day, month after month—made her feelings for Danny seem like a dress rehearsal.

  They made eye contact, and he headed in her direction. Five days he'd been gone, five days that felt like years. She hated it when he was away, missed the back-and-forth banter between two like-minded individuals, hated sleeping alone, missed the comfort of that long, lean body next to hers at night. She tolerated it because she was a practical woman and not a whiner, and because his trips were a necessity. But that didn't mean she had to like them.

  He reached her, said, "Hey," and leaned in to give her a kiss. His mouth was soft against hers, his breath warm on her face. Clutching fistfuls of his shirt, she kissed him back, inhaling his scent, his very essence. They ended the kiss too soon, both of them hyper-aware of the fact that in spite of their attempt to live a quiet rural existence far from the madding crowd of Los Angeles, they still possessed an occasionally disarming celebrity status. Hers by virtue of having spent a baker's dozen years married to one of the biggest rock stars in the known universe. His by virtue of having been Danny's bandmate and lead guitarist. Both of them by virtue of all those hit records they'd co-written and co-produced for her late husband.

  People knew who they were. And although the Portland International Jetport wasn't exactly rife with paparazzi, they still tried to maintain discretion in public. Neither of them wanted to become a lurid headline on the front page of the National Enquirer.

  He lovingly fingered the leather jacket she held and said, "What a woman. You brought me my coat."

  "It's cold out there, Flash. I don't want you freezing to death. Somebody has to take care of you. God knows you're not capable of doing it for yourself."

  He gave her that grin, the one that always turned her inside out. "Have I ever mentioned what a great little wife you are? I think I'll keep you."

  She raised a single eyebrow. "Great little wife? Keep that up, MacKenzie, and you'll be sleeping on the couch for the foreseeable future."

  "Hah. Like that'll ever happen." He took the jacket from her, shrugged it on, and looped an arm through hers. "Let's get out of here, babe. I can't wait to show you what Poppa's been up to."

  Inside the parking garage, he unlocked the Explorer and helped her into the passenger seat. While she busied herself adjusting the seat belt around her swollen belly, he walked around the car and opened the driver's door, plunked his backpack on the seat, unzipped it and took out a cassette tape. "What's that?" she said.

  "Ear candy." He tossed the backpack on the floor behind his seat, climbed in, and closed his door. Sliding the tape into the deck, he said, "Prepare yourself. This is so hot it's orgasmic."

  "Hey! Watch the adult language around Junior."

  He patted her belly and said, "Junior's bound to hear a lot more adult language from his dad before he reaches the age of eighteen."

  "I hope you realize that she's going to be raised in a ladylike manner, just like her mom was."

  "My wife, the prude," he said with affection. "I can't wait to see how red your face turns the first time he asks Mom what orgasmic means."

  "Not a problem. I'll just tell her to go ask Dad because he's so much better at explaining that kind of thing."

  Rob snorted softly and said, "Shut up and listen. This will blow you away." He popped the tape all the way in and turned up the volume. "This is raw," he warned. "Just a homemade tape. No studio. No finesse."

  Blues bubbled out of the speakers, hot and steamy and raw, sung by a male voice so sweet, so ragged, it sliced her insides wide open and left them a
bloody mess. She closed her eyes to focus on the music. "Oh, my," she said.

  "Isn't that the most beautiful thing you ever heard?"

  Eyes still closed, she said, "It is."

  "Better even than sex."

  She opened her eyes and just looked at him. "You know," he said, "this is almost—not quite, but almost—as good as sex."

  "Nice save."

  "I thought so."

  "He's amazing. Who is he?"

  "His name," Rob said, popping the tape out of the deck, "is Raymond J. Walker. And he's all ours, babydoll. All ours. Let me introduce you to the first artist to sign with the brand-new Two Dreamers label."

  "Hot damn, Flash! You pulled it off! Where'd you find him?"

  "Playing at a little club on the Strip. I went there for dinner, and there he was, up on stage, providing the dinner music. I almost blew a gasket when I found out he hadn't yet signed with anyone."

  "Why hasn't he been picked up by some big label?"

  "Beats me. Maybe because they're nothing but corporate idiots? Their loss, our gain. So I set up a meeting with him, and I wined and dined him. You'd be so impressed. I actually wore a dress shirt and a tie."

  "No way, José. You lie, my friend. You don't even own a tie."

  He smirked. "For your information, Miss Muffet, I bought it for the occasion. And I gave him the hard sell. I told him why signing with us would be the right thing to do. I emphasized the hands-on nurturing he'll never get from a big label. I pointed out that with us, it's not about the money, it's about the music. I also made sure he understood that although we may be a small, start-up venture, we're not greenhorns. We've both been in the business long enough to know what we're doing."

  "You invoked Danny's name."

  "I invoked Danny's name because it gets results. It opens doors. It makes people sit up and pay attention."

  "That wasn't meant as a criticism."

  "I wasn't sure how you'd take it."

  "Are you kidding? I have absolute faith in you. You're doing what you have to do to get our label off the ground. Danny would approve, wholeheartedly."

  He took her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, and kissed her fingers. Said, "This guy writes most of his own material, but I have a few ideas that I want to work on with him. I'm still blown away. I just can't believe somebody like that hasn't been signed. I mean, yeah, of course I remember what we went through all those years ago, and how long it took to get noticed, but it just seems so crazy that somebody with that kind of talent could be out there pounding the pavements, looking for a rec—” He stopped abruptly, mid-word.

  "What?" she said.

  "I'm rambling. I don't mean to ramble. I'm sorry."

  "But you ramble so eloquently. And it means you're enthused. I like it when you're enthused."

  "It means," he said, using a single finger to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, "that I'm all about me, and not even thinking about you. This is where I'm supposed to say, ‘And how was your week, dear?'"

  She patted his cheek. Said, "Funny boy. Lonely. My week was lonely."

  "Poor wifey. Maybe we can fix that."

  This time, in the privacy of their own car, they shared a real kiss, one that lasted long enough to leave her breathless and fidgety. She cupped his cheek, ran fingers through his hair, opened her eyes and looked into his. "Better?" he said softly.

  "Immeasurably."

  "We aim to please." He studied her face. Said, "You look tired."

  "You're supposed to tell me I look beautiful, MacKenzie. Try to follow the script."

  "You look beautiful." He kissed the tip of her nose. "And tired."

  "I have swollen ankles and aching feet. I feel like I'm carrying a ten-pound bowling ball duct-taped to my ribcage. Other than that, I'm just fine."

  "Well, you know what they say about duct tape." He waggled his eyebrows. "It's good for any number of uses."

  "Why do I feel as though you're imagining something hideously salacious when you say that?"

  "You know me too well. Listen, babe, it'll only be a few more weeks. And I'm staying put, so you'll have somebody around to take care of your every need. If you want to spend the next three weeks sleeping, you can."

  "Oh, don't I wish."

  He started the car, and they left the garage, picking up the Turnpike headed north. "Have you talked to Doucette?" he asked.

  Thom Doucette, their contractor, had been promising from day one that the new house would be finished long before the baby arrived. There had, of course, been the inevitable delays: wrong paint colors, back-ordered Italian tiles, an unexpected section of ledge they'd had to blast in order to make way for the foundation that was twice the size of the house that had originally stood on the property. Now, they were cutting it close. The baby was due in four weeks, and they still needed time to move, time to get settled, before the arrival of the newest family member. She and Rob's teenage daughter, Paige, had packed everything that was non-essential. Now they were living out of cardboard boxes. She was ready for that to be over, too.

  "That's my welcome-home gift to you," she said. "We're meeting him at 10:30 to do a walk-through. Then he's handing the keys over to us."

  "Hallelujah! About time. Did you go over there while I was gone?"

  "I haven't been inside since the last time we were there together. Paige and I did drive over on Wednesday evening and we sat in the car, just looking at the place. The exterior painting is finished. It looks beautiful. We absolutely chose the right color scheme. Now that they're done moving ladders around, the landscaper can come in and do his thing."

  "I hope you're not pushing yourself. This is a lot of change coming all at once, at a time when you shouldn't have to deal with extra stress. How are you feeling? How's your blood pressure?"

  "Stop worrying. My blood pressure is golden. How's yours?"

  "I have to admit, I'm a little stressed. New house, new business venture, new baby. It's a lot to juggle."

  "Hey," she said softly, holding out a hand. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, took her outstretched hand in his own, and they threaded fingers. Still looking at him, she leaned her head back against the seat. After a moment of silent contemplation, she said, "Would you have ever thought, when I was eighteen and you were twenty, that we'd wind up here?"

  "Honestly? Not in a million years."

  "Me either."

  "Any regrets?"

  "Are you kidding, MacKenzie? This is where we're supposed to be at this point in our lives. I can’t—and I won’t—regret any of the past, because it brought us here, to this present. You and me and Junior."

  He just smiled and focused on his driving.

  Doucette was waiting for them at the house. Rob wheeled the Explorer into the freshly-paved driveway and pulled to a stop behind the contractor's Dodge Ram pickup. He turned off the ignition, and they sat looking at the house. They'd been fortunate to find an architect who could work with them on short notice. They'd sat down with Phineas Welch and told him exactly what they wanted, and through some magic neither of them understood, he'd created it for them. Once the plans were approved, Doucette had taken over, using his own brand of magic to turn Welch's blueprints into the exquisite home that sat in front of them. Queen Anne Victorian in style, the house sported cheerful yellow paint trimmed with plum and sage green. The end result was a modern-day painted lady, complete with a wraparound porch, a variety of roof lines, just enough stained glass to add warmth, and a fanciful turret.

  A house like this could have turned out pretentious. Instead, like the couple who'd planned it, their new home was warm and welcoming.

  As they walked together up the flagstone walkway, she said, "I talked to the landscaper yesterday. He should have it all finished within a week."

  "Let's hope so. Right now, it looks pretty rough."

  "You just have to use your imagination and picture it with green grass and blooming flowers."

  She'd wanted to bring her beloved rosebushes o
ver from the other house, but the landscaper had convinced her that since money wasn't a consideration, she might as well start fresh. So she'd left them there for the kids. Her oldest nephew, Billy, and his wife, Alison, were buying the house she and Danny had owned. They needed the space for their growing brood, and it felt right, keeping the house in the family. She'd loved that house, had loved every minute she and her first husband had spent renovating it, but it was time to move on. The house was filled with memories. It was time to put that life behind her and move fearlessly into the future.

  Hand in hand, they stepped up onto the porch, crossed to the front door, and entered the house. Thom Doucette stood in the living room, holding a clipboard and a set of house keys, fiddling with the thermostat on the wall. He straightened, apparently satisfied with the results of his fiddling. "Guys," he said. "Big day today. I bet you thought it would never get here."

  "That," Rob said darkly, "is an understatement."

  "I promised you the house would be ready before the baby came." Swinging the clipboard loosely by his hip, Doucette nodded in Casey's direction. "And here we are."

  While the two men stood discussing guy stuff—plumbing, insulation, heating—Casey walked the perimeters of the living room, admiring the gleaming hardwood floors, the fieldstone fireplace with its oak mantel, the delicious bay windows with their spectacular view of fields and ponds and mountains. Being the mildly OCD person that she was, and realizing that time would be short before the arrival of the new baby, she'd left nothing to chance. She'd measured walls and furniture and had actually drawn up a diagram of each room in the house, with each piece of furniture in its proper place and carefully labeled. Just in case.

  Returning, she passed her husband and lightly touched his arm. He glanced up and smiled at her with his eyes. Leaving the men to their conversation, she moved on to the kitchen, her favorite room in the house. It was a bright, sunny space, with French doors that led to a rear deck, acres of polished granite countertop, a six-burner gas range, oversized dishwasher, and a massive side-by-side fridge. The backsplash was fashioned of colorful handmade Italian tiles that had cost a fortune. The flooring consisted of simple ceramic tiles in a warm shade of terra cotta. At the center of the room sat a broad work island that would be the ideal place for breakfast on busy mornings. Later on down the road, it would be a cozy spot for their kids to do homework while she cooked.