Making It Right

by Kathy Altman

  Kerry’s head continued to throb as she dressed in jeans and a plum-colored top. She eyed her navy sweater, then decided to wear something with a little less wear to it. After spending too long staring at the contents of the closet, she grabbed the sweater after all and headed into the bathroom for a couple of ibuprofen.

  But once she had her medicine cabinet open, she changed her mind about the pills. According to her doctor, one dose was acceptable in the first trimester, but why risk it? She’d do her best to tough it out.

  She called Gil’s cell number. “I’m heading over now,” she said with forced cheerfulness when he answered. “I’m letting you know so you can unlock the door. I’d hate to have to knock on the glass and smudge your windows.”

  He chuckled, and her headache eased. If that was one thing she’d learned, it was that fingerprints on the storefront windows drove Gil crazy. Like Snoozy, who was the reason Ruthie cleaned the plexiglass on Mitzi’s pen twice a day.

  Gil was waiting for her as she crossed the street. He held the door open, wearing the lopsided, endearing grin he’d worn the night they’d met. Her pulse quickened from a stroll to an all-out run.

  Damn those dimples.

  The quiet enveloped them as the door closed. It made the rasp of her breathing sound that much louder. She hurried back to the office, but of course she couldn’t outrun her breathlessness.

  “You’ve been busy.” She stashed her purse in the file cabinet and draped her sweater over the back of the chair. She inhaled deeply and smelled the usual coffee, but also bleach and lemon cleanser. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Not so much.” He gave the coffeepot a questioning heft and poured her a cup when she nodded. “You?”

  “I did okay.” She toasted him with the May the Froth Be with You mug and sipped. Though she hadn’t had her coffee yet, she didn’t really want any, since her stomach had decided to pick a fight with the toast she’d forced herself to eat. Still, maybe the infusion of caffeine would calm the pounding in her head.

  Despite her stomach’s advice to set the coffee aside, she was grateful to have something to keep her hands occupied. Something besides smoothing Gil’s rumpled blond hair or grabbing the collar of his dark green polo and pulling him in for a good-morning lip-lock. What she wouldn’t give for another chance to taste his skin.

  She dropped her gaze. “What’s on the agenda for today? Want me to continue taking inventory?”

  “How about we finish what we started yesterday?”

  Kerry’s hand jerked and coffee sloshed. Luckily she’d drunk enough that none made it over the rim. “What do you mean?”

  “Discussing your ideas for improving the sales floor.” There was a smugness in his eyes, but a vulnerability, too. “What did you think I meant?”

  He knew very well her first thought had been about that near-kiss. She shook a finger at him. “Keep that up and I’ll spread the word that Gil Cooper’s a big fan of lipstick imprints on his front windows.”

  “Diabolical. But all I have to do is spread the word that I clean the windows with water from the toilet.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “But effective.”

  “How about we get down to business?”

  “How about?” he said softly.

  Even as hot sparks of awareness bounced around in her chest, she ignored the innuendo and led him back out front.

  “You could use a couple of speed bumps,” she said. When he lifted an eyebrow, she explained. “Displays that grab a shopper’s attention. Slow him down, so he’ll spend more time in the store. Or her, of course.”

  “Got any specific ideas?”

  “Display a few of your smaller projects. Like a wooden welcome mat, or a wine rack. Impress the woodworkers who come in, make them feel like they need to compete. They’ll ask you what you used and voilà. You have a sale.”

  “That’s clever.”

  “That’s retail.” She led him over to the electrical aisle. Damn it, she should have taken that ibuprofen after all. “Then there’s the butt brush problem.”

  “The what?”

  She gestured with the mug. “This aisle isn’t wide enough. Studies have shown that shoppers will avoid an item, even if it’s the only thing they came in for, if checking it out brings them too close to another customer’s butt.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  “No, I’m not. It’s real. I swear. I can get you the links to a couple of online articles if you want to—”

  “Kerry. I believe you.” He was smiling as he pushed at his glasses. “By the way, Eugenia called and asked about you this morning.”

  “She did?”

  “She wanted to make sure you were okay after the other morning.”

  After the way her dad had reacted to the news of her pregnancy, he meant. “That was sweet of her.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. She asked if we’d decided where we were sending the kid to college. She was teasing, but when I told her about the baby fund she said she’d like to contribute.”

  “That’s—” Her chest hitched. “Gil, that is so thoughtful.”

  “Right?”

  Right. Absolutely. And of course Eugenia wouldn’t expect to be reimbursed. Still, the weight of Kerry’s debt threatened to smother her. She clutched at the neckline of her top and yanked, giving herself room to breathe.

  As Gil scrunched his brow, the cowbell sounded. They both turned to see a small elderly woman walk in. She wore a brown wool coat, a pink crocheted beanie over chin-length gray hair and bright purple sandals that matched her sunglasses.

  “Gilbert,” she said. “Did any stepping stones come in?”

  “Yes, they did, Mrs. Yackley.” To Kerry, he said, “Why don’t you get back to taking inventory while I handle this? I’ll check in with you later.”

  Relieved, Kerry nodded. While Gil went off to help Mrs. Yackley, Kerry went back to the office to get rid of her coffee and pop those pills.

  * * *

  GIL LOADED THE last of Mrs. Yackley’s terra cotta flagstones into the back of her SUV—how such a tiny woman could climb into the driver’s seat without a step stool, he would never know—and thanked her for her business. He jogged back inside and stopped, just inside the door, listening to the tones of the cowbell fade.

  When was the last time he’d been so pumped about the store?

  Easy. It was so long ago he couldn’t remember. And of course the reason he was eager to be back on the clock had nothing to do with hardware.

  He rubbed his hands together. He had invoices to pay and an order to build, but he felt like doing a little inventory instead.

  “Kerry?” No answer but the muted rumble of a car passing outside. She was probably in the restroom.

  Then he heard a sound at the far end of housewares. Something that sounded a lot like a whimper. What the hell?

  At the end of the aisle he found Kerry in a crouch, her hand to her head, her hair hiding her face. The clipboard lay beside her, the pages loose and scattered.

  “Jesus, what happened?” He squatted beside her. “Kerry. Did you hit your head?”

  She was pulling in deep, shuddering breaths. Slowly she tipped forward until she was on her knees, one hand braced on the floor, the other still pressed to her head. “Just...give me a minute,” she whispered. “I’ll be okay.”

  He placed a hand on her back. “Are you crying?” He popped up and passed a scowl around the store. “Did someone say something to you?”

  She huffed a feeble laugh. “No, it’s just...sometimes I get these headaches.”

  Shit. He grimaced. “You have a migraine?”

  “Something like that,” she whispered, and bent lower, as if wanting to rest her head on the floor. “If I could just stay here a minute..
.”

  “Screw that. You need to be in bed.”

  “Yes,” she said faintly. “Okay.” She started a slight rocking motion. “Could you grab my purse for me, please?”

  His blood went cold. “Is the baby okay? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

  She shook her head, then moaned. “I’ll be okay, I just need to lie down. Could you get my keys?”

  “You’re in no shape to walk to the door, let alone cross the street.” She was forgetting he didn’t need her keys, anyway. “Come on. Let’s get you up.”

  He pulled her to her feet as carefully as he could. She slapped weakly at his arm.

  “I can do it,” she snapped. She straightened, took one step and sagged into a rack of gardening gloves.

  “Like hell,” Gil snarled. He braced one arm behind her back and the other behind her knees. Despite her protests, he lifted. He grunted, lurched sideways, and pushed himself upright with a shoulder to the wall.

  Really frickin’ heroic, Coop.

  Kerry whimpered, and closed her eyes.

  “I won’t drop you,” he said.

  “Even when I throw up?”

  He paused, and eyed the distance to the bathroom. “Do you need to?”

  “It could happen.”

  “Can you wait until we get upstairs?”

  Her eyes shot open. “You’re not taking me home?”

  “I can keep an eye on you here.”

  “I need my own bed.”

  He took a moment to hoist her higher, then strode toward the stairs. “If we continue to stand here arguing then I will drop you.”

  As he started to climb the stairs she dropped her head to his shoulder. Tenderness, and a sharp need, spiraled through him. Jesus, he was in trouble.

  “You’re sweating,” she said.

  “You’re heavy,” he shot back.

  She stiffened, then hissed in a breath, and he knew his words weren’t the problem. He hated that she was in so much pain. He hated even more that if he didn’t put her down soon, they were both going to end up hitting the floor.

  At the top of the stairs he kicked open the door and staggered across to his bed. He set her down on the unmade sheets, on the side of the mattress closer to the bathroom. Immediately she rolled to her side and hung her head over the edge.

  Frantically he glanced around, then lunged at the gift his ex had given him the year before, a peace lily the size of a bar stool. He turned the pot upside down, dumping the contents on the floor, and placed the planter within spewing distance of Kerry.

  “There,” he said, brushing his palms. “Let loose.”

  She laughed weakly. “You did not just do that.”

  “I’d rather clean up dirt than puke. Especially if the puke has chunks.”

  She moaned and dug her fingers into the sheets.

  Okay, so no more vomit jokes.

  He pushed a hand through his hair and crouched beside the bed. “What do you need?” he asked. “Should I call your doctor?”

  “No,” she said faintly. “I took some ibuprofen. I just need to keep it down. Do you have ginger ale?”

  “I’ll check.” Before frisking his kitchen cupboards, he took a detour to the bathroom and wet a washcloth with cold water. When he placed it gently on Kerry’s forehead, the small, relieved sound she made had him feeling like he could carry her up and down the stairs a dozen more times.

  Okay, fine. Ten.

  Make that two.

  If he had help.

  Five minutes later, he’d unearthed a bag of stale pretzels. If he tried to feed her those she’d hurl for sure. Instead he made her a piece of wheat toast and added that to the glass of lemon-lime soda he’d already arranged on a meat platter.

  He set the “tray” on the nightstand and brandished a straw. “Thank God for fast food,” he said. He unwrapped the straw and dropped it into the glass of soda. “Sip of soda, bite of toast. Let’s start out slow.”

  Obediently she sipped, then took a small bite of toast, the look on her face as she chewed making it obvious she wasn’t enjoying it. Finally she swallowed and lay back down, wincing as her head hit the pillow.

  “What about the store?” she asked.

  Screw the store, he wanted to say. “I’ll go back downstairs as soon as you’re settled,” he said. He returned the glass to the tray and knelt at her feet. He untied her shoes and slipped them off one by one, and peeled off her ankle socks.

  She flexed her toes and sighed. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You’re welcome.” He lined up her shoes by the bed and tugged at his ear. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have your jeans, too?”

  She answered with a half-hearted snort.

  “Another time, then. Ready for some more toast?”

  All in all, she managed four bites and half a dozen sips. They were awkward ones—she ate and drank while lying on her side, her head half off the bed. When it looked as though the toast and soda would stay down, Gil freshened the washcloth on her forehead, closed the blinds on either side of the bed and jogged downstairs to retrieve her purse. Which weighed a frickin’ ton.

  Back upstairs, he tucked her phone under her pillow. “I’m just a call away,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I should be fine in an hour or so.”

  Right. And he wouldn’t spill anything on himself today.

  He worked the blanket and sheet free and pulled them up to her shoulder, then backed away from the bed. She looked so miserable. He wanted to stay. He wanted to hold her until she felt better.

  But what he needed to do was leave her the hell alone so that time, and the ibuprofen, could do their thing.

  He moved toward the stairs. He’d give Ruthie a heads-up. Kerry might be feeling better in a couple of hours, but no way she’d be up for the lunch shift. Dinner, maybe. Though he hoped she’d stay put. She needed the rest.

  Yeah, that’s why you want her in your bed.

  He grimaced at his own thoughts and swung around. And froze.

  A man stood at the top of the stairs, in dress pants, a shirt and tie, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a can of orange soda.

  “Jesus Christ,” Gil gasped, hand to his chest.

  “Yo, G.” With a grating snick his brother popped open the can. “Is this a bad time?”

  Gil hovered at the bottom of the stairs, reluctant to move further into the store in case Kerry called out. His brother meanwhile wandered the aisles, poking at inventory and adjusting displays, much as Kerry had on her first day of work. Except her expression had been more thoughtful than derisive.

  “You’ve made some changes, but I’d recognize this place blindfolded.” Ferrell ran a hand down his bright blue tie. “You almost didn’t recognize me, though, right?”

  Gil narrowed his gaze, but his brother’s hand remained tremor free. His eyes looked clear, his body lean but not gaunt.

  Hope, sharp and sweet, made his shoulders feel suddenly lighter.

  “Not with that moustache, no.” He pushed out of his inertia and moved toward Ferrell, his hand outstretched. “You look good.”

  “So do you.” Ferrell tested Gil’s grip and grinned. “You’ve been working out.”

  “Trying to get back into a routine.”

  “Because of her?” Ferrell motioned with his chin at the stairs. “Who is she?”

  Gil wasn’t ready to go there yet. “A friend.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ferrell flashed a sly smile before spreading his arms, indicating the empty store. “Looks like you’ve got some time on your hands. How about you show me how much Snoozy’s has changed?”

  “How long will you be in town?”

  “Just passing through.” Ferrell made a sh
ow of tugging at his cuffs. “I have a job interview in Cleveland tomorrow, but what do you say to a couple of brewskies, for old times’ sake?”

  Gil hesitated. He hadn’t seen his brother in years, and their most recent conversations had been hostile and unproductive. Yet here they were, politely and casually talking face-to-face.

  Something was up.

  “Ferrell.”

  “Yeah, G.” He turned his back on the rack of gadgets he’d been studying, and that’s when Gil saw it.

  Ferrell was scratching his right arm as though he’d been attacked by a ravenous swarm of mosquitoes.

  “What’s up with your—” Before Gil could even get the question out, Ferrell was digging at his neck. When he realized what he was doing, he dropped his hand, but it was too late.

  Son of a bitch.

  Gil caught his breath at the sudden bruise-like ache spreading across his chest. “You are still using.”

  Not quite pulling off a sneer, his brother shrugged. “So I take the occasional hit. I told you I have an interview tomorrow. I go in there all stressed and cranky and no way I’ll get the job.”

  “You get behind the wheel like this and chances are you won’t make it to Cleveland alive.” Gil concentrated on unclenching his molars. “Stay here. Let’s get you some help.”

  “Screw that.”

  “Ferrell.” Gil shoved his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t start grabbing things off the shelves and heaving them at the floor. “I want to help.”

  “No, you want to make the rules. I don’t need help, I need money.”

  And there it was.

  Gil looked him square in the eye. “You can shake this.”

  “I don’t know, bro.” Ferrell propped an elbow on the cash register. “Can you shake your ‘friend’ upstairs?”

  “That’s different.”

  “She’s a drug, same as heroin. Eventually she’ll wreck you.”

  Gil yanked his hands from his pockets and strode toward the counter. His brother’s eyes widened as Gil approached, but he didn’t move.

  “Is there really a job?” Gil demanded.

  Ferrell scratched his ribs. “I’m not in a good place for the whole nine to five, you know?”