by Dana Mentink
A loser like you, he’d known she’d meant.
But her rejection had been another coal on the fire of his determination to succeed. And he had. Wildly. Brilliantly. In every way that no longer seemed to matter. He forced out a breath.
Stephanie stared into the box for one more second until her body language changed, slumping, like air being let out of a balloon. She pulled out a bottle of some viscous amber fluid, wrapped in an old bread bag.
He couldn’t make any sense of it. “What is that?”
Round-eyed, she deciphered a greasy note adhered to the side. “Sweetness has a pollen allergy. When you find him, bathe him twice a week, Agnes.” She blinked at Rhett. “It’s doggie shampoo.”
He kept his features controlled, expressionless. “Ah.”
She collapsed onto the bench, and Sweetness shoved forward, tongue searching. She let him lick her hand. Not a good sign. Rhett peered into the box.
“Hey, good news. Your phone and purse are in here. Agnes must have found them in her car.”
Even that news did not cheer.
He sat down next to her and, after a moment of hesitation, slung an arm around her shoulders. She melted against him in a way that made his breath hitch. “Sorry. I know you got your hopes up, though it was pretty unlikely she would have left her manuscript at a mini-mart.”
She sniffed and leaned her head on his shoulder. The weight of it felt good against him. The silky strands of her hair tickled his cheek.
“That was pretty sensitive of you, up until the second part.”
He smiled. “Am I becoming sensitive?”
“No danger of that yet.” They stayed there for a while, sitting in the shade, enjoying quiet comfort, or so he thought until she pulled from his embrace and grabbed her cell phone and purse. “Phone’s dead. Can I charge it in your truck? I can tell my boss we’re halfway to Washington. That will appease him maybe.” She brightened. “Yeah, a small delay only. The plan is still in place. I’m not going to let this get me down.”
Stephanie Pink was back in action. Adorable, though he’d never tell her that. Rhett eyed the sky, now heavy and clouded over. “Might not get halfway today.”
“Why not? It isn’t even lunchtime. We can drive until dark.” She socked him playfully on the shoulder. “Pedal to the metal, Road Man. We’ve got to get your sister, and I’ve got a dog to deliver.”
Her resilience unfolded in wondrous fashion before his eyes. It matched his own, or nearly. “I appreciate your determination, but…”
The first drops of rain splatted down, and she looked defiantly into the sky. “Oh, do not tell me that is a storm brewing.”
“Radio says it’s going to be a nasty one. Good for the drought,” he said, going for warmth and good cheer.
“Drought, schmout. We’re on a timeline.”
Chuckling, he led Sweetness back to the truck. “But I can’t drive this thing in pouring rain. The tires are old and we’re headed up into the mountains.”
Stephanie stood, poker straight, her face blazing with determination. “It’s not going to be that bad. You’ll see.”
A roll of thunder shook the ground.
“Noah’s neighbors probably thought the same thing.”
This time her sock to his shoulder was not so playful.
Nine
They drove approximately twenty miles before the rain began to hammer down in impenetrable sheets. Rhett slowed, pulling the rig into an empty parking lot attached to a broken-down warehouse. Stephanie wiped away a spot of condensation with her sleeve and peered out the side window. The corrugated roof of the structure was rusted and the windows boarded up. Broken bottles and shards of twisted metal collected the falling rain.
“This is not scenic,” she said. “And I think they were lying about this drought business.”
“It’s another half hour to the nearest campground and I don’t want to risk it.”
An abandoned warehouse—the narrative opportunities were endless. It was the perfect spot for a mobster shoot-out or a smuggler to hide his stolen goods. She’d have to tell the Chain Gang about it. They’d know the titles of a dozen books that would take place in such a locale. Stephanie allowed her imagination to teeter off into that secret fantasy, her imaginary bookstore. It would definitely include a whole section on books to creep you out, complete with cushy chairs in which to read them. And snacks. Lots of ’em.
Rhett interrupted her thoughts. “We can wait it out in the trailer.”
She didn’t want to slog out into the deluge, but there did not seem much help for it as Sweetness was now standing on her lap, his nails pressing into her thighs, ready to exit. The truck interior was getting stuffy with the scent of warm dog. She pocketed her partially charged phone. As soon as she opened the door, rain plastered her hair against her skull and soaked her thrift store clothing.
As she struggled to exit, Sweetness yanked the leash from her hand, running in zingy circles, lapping at puddles and sprinting from scent to scent. Stephanie was coming to realize that dogs simply had no common sense. She and Rhett scurried to the trailer.
He opened the door and held it for her. After much hollering and a final piercing whistle from Rhett, Sweetness finally acquiesced to join them, immediately giving a mighty shake of his coat that sprayed them both along with everything in the vicinity.
Rhett wasted no time in pouncing on the dog and towel drying him, which sent Sweetness under the kitchen table in a pout. Rhett laid a towel on the floor of the closet and carefully hung up his jacket. He handed Stephanie a clean towel, and she dried herself off as best she could before she went upstairs to put on a dry shirt and pants. The rain thundered against the metal camper roof.
When she returned to the kitchen, she found Rhett checking the weather report on his phone.
“It’s supposed to rain like this until tonight,” he said. “We’re going to have to stay here until it passes.”
“Here? In a parking lot?”
“Here in a trailer expertly parked in a parking lot, to be precise. You’ve got a bed, food, and a bathroom. Not exactly roughing it.”
“No electricity?”
He held up a lantern. “Battery powered, and I’ve got two flashlights.” He handed her one.
“No hot shower?”
“This isn’t the Ritz, Stephanie. If I can eat a bologna sandwich, you can skip a hot shower for one night.”
She drummed her fingers on the table, considering. “But if we wait until tomorrow to push on, we’ll lose practically a whole day.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“If you’re afraid to drive…”
“I’m not afraid,” he said, fixing her with eyes the color of faded blue jeans. “I’m being prudent. That’s something that pays off down the line. Firing from the hip all the time gets you nowhere.”
She glared at him. “It works for me.”
“Didn’t you say something about a suspended license?”
She sat back, her arms folded across her chest. “I…” Cheeks hot, she stopped. Memories of the wedding cake surfaced. It seemed like a lifetime ago that she’d actually lost control to the point of plowing into that lovely symbol of all things matrimonial. She wanted to say something to defend herself, fire off a clever retort, but her clenched throat muscles prevented it.
He looked at his feet and let out a breath. “There I go again with the insensitive thing.” He grimaced, sinking down on a kitchen chair. “I’m sorry.”
His face was serious, his rain-dampened hair beginning to curl in spite of his attempts to smooth it down with his palms. She noted his lush eyelashes and strong chin. “You’re not used to saying ‘I’m sorry,’ are you?”
“No.” He cleared his throat. “The Spencer thing…that must have hurt. What happened? If that isn’t an insensitive thing to ask, I mean.”
She shrugged. “I loved him and thought he loved me. He probably thought he did too, but actually he was using me to get his manuscript close to
an agent.”
“Spencer is a writer?”
She could almost smile when she thought of Spencer now, the hair that brushed the collar of his tailored shirts, the full mouth often twisted in dreamy contemplation. That was progress, that she could remember him without her blood pressure spiking into unhealthy levels. “He fancies himself a young Hemingway, a man’s man. His lifelong goal was to be a master of the ‘one true sentence.’ When we met, he was writing for the paper and taking flying lessons when he could afford them. He tried paramedic work too, but it was too ugly for his taste. Too much vomit and blood. That kind of thing plays out much better on the page than in real life.”
“Spencer sounds like quite a character.”
“Oh, he is charming, and when he wanted to, he could make me feel like the only woman on the planet.” She blushed at the admission. She’d read somewhere about the power of inconsistent reward in animals. It worked in people too. A crumb of devotion, a morsel of love was enough to keep her running in circles for more. Embarrassing. “He’s the youngest of six children, the only boy, so all of his sisters dote on him too. ‘Being a good man is a hard trade, Stephanie,’ he used to say. He stole that from Hemingway, along with other things.”
Rhett’s expression was inscrutable, but she figured he thought she was plain nutty. She was beginning to believe he might be right. Had she really devoted her every moment to loving such a man as Spencer? It was as if she were reading a novel about someone else’s life when she recalled how she’d combed the city to find the one tiny coffee shop that served Wattleseed Caffee Lattes, the Australian concoction that he’d latched on to after researching a chapter for his book.
She’d been so pathetic, pining for texts he never sent, waiting around for calls that never came. Giving away all of her heart to a man who kept his firmly to himself. How had she not seen it? How could she have been so desperate for love that she would sacrifice her self-respect? She’d craved a love like Agnes found in Sea Comes Knocking, a rugged man, a noble man. Instead she’d chosen a cartoon character.
Rhett still gazed at her.
She waved a hand. “Anyway, his book is one of those man against nature things about a fisherman climbing a volcano to rescue his falcon.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Is it any good?”
“Apparently. He landed representation with the Jackson Agency two nights before our wedding. That’s when he realized he didn’t really love me all that much.”
“You’re better off without him.”
“I know, but somehow I didn’t think of that when I ran over the wedding cake and flattened a parking meter. At least it taught me not to give my heart away again, ever.” It was suddenly hard to breathe. “I don’t usually work things out ahead of time. I’m famous for jumping into situations without thinking. You wouldn’t believe how many hobbies I’ve taken up and never finished.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “There was metalworking, weaving, stamp collecting, and the worm thing.”
“The worm thing?”
She sighed. “Trust me, you don’t want to know.”
He cocked his head and the watery sunlight coming through the window traced his strong profile as he studied her. “But you have this plan to be an agent. That wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. When did you come up with that?”
“When I was fifteen. My brother and I hatched it together. Pink and Pink Literary.” The sudden pain in her heart edged into her throat, and she swallowed hard. “Anyway, except for that goal, I’m impulsive. Way too impulsive, which causes me no end of trouble.”
“I think things to death, and that has gotten me in plenty of trouble too.” He reached out, tentatively at first, and then he put his hand over hers, his palm warm and strong as it glided over her fingers, hovering there one moment, then two, before he pulled it away. “The book sounds ludicrous, by the way. Who would read that garbage about volcanoes and falcons?”
She laughed. “You’d be surprised.”
“I wouldn’t, that’s for sure.”
She found herself missing his touch, enjoying the rare smile that graced his full lips.
“I wouldn’t either,” she said.
Around the dinner hour, the skies were dumping rain on and off. Rhett figured he might as well attempt to rustle up a meal to save himself from another bologna sandwich horror. Stephanie had vanished upstairs with Agnes Wharton’s book and a flashlight. He did not see how someone could actually read for hours on end, especially someone as fired up with energy as Stephanie, but at least it kept her from watching the clock.
He was trying not to track the time either as he waited for a text that would cement his schedule. There was only one crucial deadline for him—a meeting at Bethany’s house on Friday, pending the confirmation. It was then his plan would come to fruition, the divinely inspired plan to restore his family. A whisper of goose bumps prickled over his skin. So close, so soon.
His phone buzzed. Checking the number to make sure it was not from Evonne, he answered.
“Where are you?” Don Walker demanded.
He smiled, picturing the whip-thin Don sitting behind a massive desk that made him look even smaller than his five feet one. “Somewhere near the Oregon border. How goes it, Don?”
“You know how it goes. We’re poised on the cusp of a major acquisition, and we need our CEO back.”
“We’ve been through this. I’m not that guy anymore. You are.”
“I’m not ready for this and you know it, Rhett. Fun’s over. Time to get back to work.”
“Don,” he sighed. “I’m not coming back, so you’re going to have to step up and deal with it.”
“Look, I’ve been plenty patient about whatever this…thing is you’ve been wallowing around in. The ‘follow God’ notion was fine for a while, but now it’s time to snap back to reality. Take a pill, go see someone if you have to, but I need you back here where you belong.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.” He hardly understood himself.
“That’s good because I don’t. What happened to Karen shook you. I get that part, but you can’t undo the damage this way.”
“Yes, I can.” The words blurted out. “God’s giving me a chance to do that.”
“Throwing away your life’s work isn’t going to change the past. God gave you a billion-dollar business to run. Did you ever think of that? You’re going to just turn your back on that bounty? Isn’t that a sin or something?”
“You’ll handle the acquisition. It will work out.”
“They don’t have confidence in me. We need you, Rhett Hastings, master of the deal, cutthroat take-no-prisoners negotiator.”
The tiniest part of him leaped up at the thought of stepping back into the boardroom, where he was indeed ruler of his domain. That’s the problem, Rhett. You’re not the ruler and you never were. He fought against the desire to line it out for Don, to tell him exactly how to handle the negotiations, the step-by-step moves that would net his company a great deal. Again the craving recurred, the desire to slide into wingtip shoes and make high-powered, adrenaline-filled corporate decisions where things were black or white. In the boardroom he was not some Spencer-like wannabe. He was a powerful man’s man, and everyone who entered knew it.
But that’s not what You want for me anymore, right, God? He tried to dredge up the feeling again, that unshakable certainty he’d experienced in the days following Karen’s accident when he’d clearly understood her medical situation. He’d gotten down onto his knees then, praying and reading a Bible he’d borrowed from his housekeeper.
God, forgive me. What should I do? How can I help my sister?
And God gave him a plan for how to restore Karen’s life. Just like that, it settled in Rhett’s mind and heart with all the certainty of an ironclad contract.
He realized Don was waiting, the silence perhaps giving him the false sense that Rhett was reconsidering. “You’ll be fine, Don.”
“But—”
“Got to go no
w.” He disconnected and stood in the gloomy kitchen, hands gripping the chair, breathing. You’re doing the right thing. You’ll see the results soon enough.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his temple. Sweetness clicked across the floor and stared at him.
What does a dog see? he wondered. Dogs didn’t care if you were wearing wingtip shoes or flip-flops from the dollar store. They looked at you and saw the intangibles, the man inside. Rhett was not a corporate mogul to this dog. He was merely a provider of pancakes, but something in the dog’s deep gaze made him think the animal could discern something more. What did Sweetness see inside of Rhett Hastings?
He crouched down.
“I’ve been plenty bad, Sweetness, but I’m trying to make it right now.”
Sweetness stared at him a while longer, his brown eyes looking deep down, perhaps glimpsing the better man who would be visible to everyone in a matter of days.
Sweetness reached out a paw and rested it on Rhett’s knee. A vote of confidence, or perhaps a request for pancakes. Rhett gave him a dog biscuit and Sweetness dropped it on the floor, licking it from end to end before he started the serious business of chewing it.
Rhett was perusing the odd assortment of foodstuffs Stephanie had acquired when he heard the sound of water dripping in a place where no water should have access. The leak turned out to be in the living room, dampening a corner of the lumpy couch. Sliding the furniture aside, he put a bucket into position to catch the drips and pulled on his jacket again. Armed with a few supplies, he readied himself to climb up on the trailer roof.
Don would laugh himself silly, Rhett thought. No, more likely he’d be calling some mental health professionals. Former CEO Rhett Hastings, the man who had built a company from nothing, corporate shark and business magnate, was ready to take on a leaky roof with duct tape and a trash bag.
“How hard could it be to fix a little leak?”
He remembered an old story about a kid sticking his finger in a hole in a dike. Had it ended well for the kid? He couldn’t recall. Didn’t matter.
Rhett had determination and duct tape.