by Liz Talley
The car paused and the window lowered. Addy tilted her head toward him. “I meant to tell you I’d take Charlotte to her gymnastics class at five o’clock so you can take Chris to karate.”
“Thanks. If you can drop her, I’ll pick her up. Michael is riding home with the lacrosse instructor who lives a few streets over. His is the last class.”
“Sure,” Addy said, before pressing the accelerator and shooting out of the drive.
Lucas lowered his hand. This was it—all there was between him and Addy. Business only.
Shit.
He climbed the back steps and pulled out the key to the back door, not quite so happy to be alone in the rambling house. Somehow the thought of Addy being out of his reach was depressing.
Addy placed a tiger lily in the bouquet before plucking it out again. The bold yellow distracted from the soft pink of the orchids. She tossed it down with a sigh.
“Ain’t nothing satisfying you today.” Shelia tsked, shaking her head, making her large hoop earrings dance. “That man got you wound up?”
“What man?”
Shelia looked at her with flat black eyes. “The one you had plans with on Saturday. You picked up pastry at Buttercup’s for dinner that night.”
“Oh, well, dinner never happened. Charlotte threw up in the irises and ended any thoughts of more than work with the uncle. Probably for the best though. He’s leaving in a few days.”
“Mmm,” was all her friend said.
“He’s not anything to me. I’ve been helping out with the kids. Being neighborly is all.”
“That’s too bad. I could tell you liked him, and usually it takes you a while to warm up to a man especially after the flower on your windshield.”
True on all accounts. “You can tell that from one conversation about him?”
“I read body language. That’s our thing, right?”
Yeah, it was their thing. Women who’d been victims of violence learned to anticipate a fist or sense a harmful presence. Reading body language saved lives and allowed women to live in a world they often felt was against them. Addy learned how to recognize threat and protect herself. Actually, she felt better prepared than the average person—she recognized evil because she’d already met it. “Yeah, it’s our thing. Lucas is a good man, but that doesn’t mean he’s the right man.”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but you’re too young to give up on love. Me? I’m past my prime and happy doing what I’m doing. What Alfred did to me didn’t defeat me, but it made me awfully content to be alone. But you’re a youngun.’”
“Tell that to gravity,” Addy quipped, grabbing blue freesia to nestle into the arrangement. She affixed some moss to the base and added some small toadstools. Perfect. Whimsical and fairylike. Perfect for the Sweet Sixteen dance.
“I’m serious. I know things didn’t work out with that Stephen, but I couldn’t have told you right up front he was too much of a weenie.”
Addy laughed at Shelia’s description of the last guy Addy had been serious about. “He screamed when that spider jumped on him and tried to climb in my arms. It was funny but telling. Not to mention, he was so small I could easily cradle him.”
“That’s why this big one’s such a departure. You usually like them manageable.”
“That’s not true. Stephen wasn’t that small. And he made really good waffles.”
Shelia made a face. “Baby, if you can bench press them…”
Addy frowned. “I don’t choose guys based on their size.” Okay, so the last three guys she’d dated were slight, nerdy, and about as threatening as a puppy. That didn’t mean she intentionally chose guys she could handle easier.
Shelia guffawed. “Yeah. You know I’m right.”
“Okay. Fine. I’ve chosen guys who are a little less masculine than the Incredible Hulk living at the Finlay house. So what? Makes sense in a weird way. My subconscious probably overrode my brain, making me think on some level I could better fight them off if there was a threat.”
“That college degree comes in handy sometimes, doesn’t it?”
Addy shook her head and lifted the arrangement, placing it in the cooler sitting across from her workspace. The Mortillaro girl and her mother were coming in later that afternoon to look at Addy’s design for the “Fairies and Moonlight” Sweet Sixteen extravaganza centerpieces. The mock-up looked good, but who knew what sixteen-year-old girls liked these days.
Teenage girls. She’d been one of those. Cocksure, swaggering, glossed, and moussed. She’d worn her hair curled, her makeup thick, and her skirts short. She’d been on top of the world—a good girl who craved a little bad in her life.
Her seventeen-year-old self could not see what her thirty-three-year-old self could now see plain as day—Robbie Guidry was a stereotypical stalker type.
But to Addy, Robbie had been danger and desire.
Everything her parents would refuse her.
There were so many girls like her out there. Girls who loved a bad boy. She touched the charm of the Patron Saint Raphael at her wrist and made a mental note to call the Archdiocese about her advocacy group talking to the health classes at the parish schools about recognizing dangerous relationships.
She turned to start on another order when the shop phone rang. Addy scooped the old-fashioned corded phone from its cradle. “Fleur de Lis.”
“Why didn’t you answer your cell phone?”
“Hey, Dad.”
“I’ve been calling you all morning, and now you’re forcing me to use your business line. If you’re going to carry a cell, shouldn’t you answer it?” Don Toussant’s temperament almost as bristly as his graying moustache.
Addy glanced at the locked cabinet housing her purse. “Yeah, I forgot to pull it out this morning.”
Her father’s silence was answer enough. Addy never forgot her phone. She kept it in a pocket or sitting nearby at all times… all part of her process.
“Hate to tell you this, baby, but on top of what went down last week, the parole hearing for Robbie is Monday.”
Addy felt her stomach drop to the floor. The escalated threats now made sense. Robbie thought he was getting out and wanted her to remember he’d not forgotten her. “Oh.”
“I wanted you to know talked to Andre, and he talked to someone down at the parole board and he thinks they’ll grant parole this go around. Too much overcrowding and Robbie has been a good boy.” Anger in her father’s voice, maybe a little of it leftover for her. He’d never gotten over the fact his good Catholic girl had conducted a secret affair with a creep.
“I knew this day would come, Dad,” Addy said, her heart pounding at the thought Robbie would be out, able to contact her, able to cause trouble. She’d hoped after all the years he’d spent behind bars he would reform and want to move on, but the occasional reminders he sent to her told her differently. “I’m going to keep living my life. I refuse to live scared.”
If she kept saying it, it would be true.
“Yeah, but after the crap he pulled last week, I wish you’d reconsider the gated community idea. I’d feel better if you weren’t in that old house with your crazy aunt.”
“Dad, don’t call Aunt Flora crazy.”
“She was crazy before the Alzheimer’s. I’ve always called her crazy… to her face. Not changing now.”
Addy knew how much her father loved Flora so she let it slide. “I can’t leave Aunt Flora and she won’t move. We have sturdy locks and nosy neighbors. I feel good about where I live, Dad. It’s safe.”
“Call a security system company. At least get an alarm, baby.”
“I’ll think about it. But remember I know how to protect myself. I live smart and I listen to my intuition. I have a plan for dealing with whatever Robbie throws my way.”
“Which is?”
“Ignore him but remain vigilant. Any attention I give him is fuel for the fire.” Addy had spent years in therapy studying people like Robbie. She understood him better, and that gave her added protecti
on. Understanding threat is half the battle.
She could get lucky and not have to deal with him at all. Maybe freedom and no response to his threats over the years had worked and Robbie would leave her alone.
Probably not.
But she could hope.
“If he gives you any trouble, I’ll finish what I started with that baseball bat.” Her father wasn’t a big man. He just thought like one. “I’ll be at the parole hearing on Monday. Let’s see if my statement can sway the board.”
“Glad you got my back, Dad. We’ll hope Robbie doesn’t get his freedom. That will solve everything.”
“Hope for the best, plan for the worst.”
Addy allowed a smile to curve her lips. “That’s always been our family motto.”
“Yep. I’ll call you after the hearing. Be safe, my darling. And keep the dang phone close.”
“I will, Dad.”
Addy hung up and sighed. The last parole hearing had been a year ago, and Robbie had been declined for early release, but some jittery feeling in her belly told her this time would be different… or maybe she was hungry.
“Want some Pirogue’s today, Shelia?” Addy asked unlocking the cabinet and withdrawing her purse. She slid the cell phone into her smock pocket and grabbed her wallet. “My treat if you’ll walk over.”
“Like I’m turning down red beans and rice?”
“Only good thing about Monday.” Addy smiled thinking about the steaming mound of red beans and Andouille sausage. In New Orleans, red beans and rice was a traditional dish served on wash day which was Monday. “I’ll call ahead.”
Shelia grabbed the twenty-dollar bill and gave her a quick hug. “I overheard your conversation with your dad.”
Addy hugged her friend back. “I’m not scared.”
“Of course you’re not,” Shelia said, chucking Addy playfully on the chin.
But they both knew a lie sat between them.
“You gotta sign this permission form, Uncle Lucas, and I need ten dollars for concessions,” Chris said, wagging a crumpled piece of paper above Lucas’s head as he tried to figure out the complicated system sitting atop the satellite television box. Charlotte sat on the couch crying because something had happened to the TV in the middle “Ms. Calico and Cream Pie,” whatever that was.
“Okay, get it out of my face.” Lucas pushed Chris’ hand downward and glared at the stupid black box. “Wait, ten dollars for concession?”
“I eat a lot.”
Chris didn’t move the paper. Lucas jerked it out of his hand. “I’ll give you five dollars.”
“Awww,” Chris whined.
“But if you go get Michael, I’ll make it ten.”
“Woot!” Chris fist-pumped and galloped up the stairs shouting “Michael!” at the top of his lungs.
“Dear God. I need whiskey and a pair of noise cancelling headphones. That’s my fee for this gig. Booze and silence,” Lucas muttered to himself as he punched the input button. He glanced back at the television but found the same blue screen.
Mother Fricker.
“Creampie was gonna win a medal in the pet show,” Charlotte moaned between sniffles. The child sounded as weary as Lucas felt. Maybe she’d not gotten a nap at preschool. Lucas sure the hell didn’t. The dog had pissed on the floor again, and he had to take him into the vet. His afternoon had been chopped in half. By the time he’d shoved the pills down Kermit’s throat and settled in for a conference call with his business manager, it was time for carpool.
And Lucas was certain carpool was the devil’s afternoon recruiting ground. He probably claimed a dozen souls that very afternoon when someone had blocked the K-2 loop. Who knew soccer moms had such creative curse word combinations?
A rumble down the stairs along with shouting announced the arrival of the two boys.
“You’re such a moron, Chris,” Michael said before slinking into the family room and casting Lucas a withering look. It was always a withering look, as opposed to, say, a helpful look. “What?”
Lucas tried really, really hard to be patient, but the day had been crappy, and he was tired of being Mr. Nice Guy. Okay, he hadn’t been exactly Mr. Nice Guy, but he’d attempted to keep up the good-sport veneer he’d painted on before walking into his brother’s house last week. That veneer had cracked and the bill had come due.
“How about you lose the attitude?” Lucas said, rising and stretching to his full height of six foot four. He glowered at the kid, but the effect was lost on Michael because as usual he’d shifted his gaze away. “You’re whole sulky, moody teen thing is on my last nerve.”
Michael gave him a blank stare. “Like I care? I’m controlling what I can control, and I’m leaving you alone. You’re the one who wanted me down here, and I’m here.” The kid straightened his spine but still looked so young, maybe even vulnerable, as he tossed his hair out of his face with a practiced flip of his head.
Lucas reigned in his aggravation and took Michael’s advice—control what you can control. He needed the damn TV fixed so Charlotte would stop the whining. “Something happened in the middle of your sister’s video—I think she sat on the control—and I can’t get it back on.”
Michael sighed and took the control from Lucas. “First you have to make sure it’s on this channel. Then you go to Input, then make sure you press this and then this.”
Performing a complicated series of button-pushing, Michael nodded in satisfaction as a cartoon tabby appeared wearing a huge pink bow.
“Creampie!” Charlotte shouted, pointing at the screen.
“There, squirt,” Michael said, rubbing his sister’s hair and moving toward the foyer and stairs.
“Thanks,” Lucas called, impressed, but afraid he’d never be able to mimic what the kid had done with the remote.
“No problem,” Michael called back.
It was the most civil conversation Lucas had with the kid since arriving last week… if one could call that a conversation.
“Pay up,” Chris said, shoving a grungy palm Lucas’s way.
“You really need to wash your hands, dude.” Lucas reached for his wallet right as the doorbell sounded. He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. Dinnertime. But he hadn’t ordered pizza.
Maybe Addy would be standing on the porch with something Aunt Flora had cooked that day. He’d hated the way it had felt that morning. The vibe had been wrong, and he’d spent the day thinking about her, about how he could change things. But he had come up with no solution. Pursuing anything other than temporary friendship was selfish of him.
Besides he wasn’t a man to lose his head over a woman. Wasn’t a man to daydream about soulful eyes and dark hair. The kids and lack of sleep were pecking at him, making him loopy, making him poetic.
Ugh. He hated poetry… unless it showed in his photographs.
The doorbell sounded again, and Lucas took his boots to the front door. Two seconds later he was looking at Tara Lindsey, aka Sheldon’s mom.
“Hey,” she said smiling broadly with overglossed lips. “Thought I’d be a good neighbor and bring you guys some supper.”
For a second, he just stared. She wore tight jeans, high heels, and a shirt that dipped dangerously low. Her perfume wrapped around him, making him want to turn his head for a good deep breath of night air.
“Lucas?”
“Oh, sorry. Been a rough day. Come on in.” He stepped back and she sauntered in without Sheldon. Maybe the kid was afraid of Charlotte taking revenge. Or maybe Tara wanted to concentrate on other things like exploring what she thought to be an invitation. He shouldn’t have put his arm around her. Dumbass move.
He closed the door as Tara turned toward him. “You want this in the kitchen?”
“Yeah.” He gestured toward the back corner, wondering if the “this” was the foil-wrapped pan in her hands… or something else she wanted to give him. Uh, seemed determined to give him.
She strolled back to the kitchen each click of a heel preceded by a little hip wigg
le.
Here was an obvious woman.
Even the ten-year-old standing in the open entrance of the foyer got that. He turned to his uncle and wiggled his eyebrows.
Cheeky kid.
Lucas shrugged and followed behind the sexy kitten in eff’me heels because there was really no other recourse. The woman had brought a casserole, and the kids needed to eat.
Tara tossed her hair over her shoulder as Lucas entered the kitchen. “I brought some lettuce and tomatoes. I’ll toss the salad together real quick if you’ll grab me a bowl.”
“Awfully nice of you to do this, Tara.”
Her answering smile made him nervous. “I love the way you say things. Awfully. So deliciously cowboy.”
Cowboy. Ah, now he understood. Some women had fantasies about men in worn jeans and boots—a romantic notion of cracked leather, hard abs and a soft heart. It was almost laughable. Most cowboys Lucas knew were about as romantic as cow crap. They were surly, out of shape, and a dentist’s dream. Lucas wasn’t a cowboy, though he liked his comfortable jeans and boots fine. He was a photographer who dabbled in ranching. Big difference. “You know I’m not a cowboy.”
Her laugh was soft. “Well, to a city girl like me, you’re close enough. Do you know where Courtney keeps the cheese grater?”
Lucas spent the next several minutes opening and slamming drawers but couldn’t find the grater. The whump, whump of Tara slicing small cherry tomatoes echoed in the kitchen, along with the off-key song she sang under her breath. Somehow it felt too intimate and made Lucas feel itchy in his skin.
“I brought ranch dressing because that’s what men always seem to like, and I pride myself on knowing what men like,” she said, casting blue eyes on him.
“Do you?” This is what being nice got him. Another problem. And Lucas Finlay was full up on problems in his life.
“Yeah,” she said, setting the paring knife on the cutting board and moving closer to him. Lucas tried to step back but he hit the cabinet. Totally cornered.