by Cindy Myers
“Take it easy on the glassware,” Jameso said from the other end of the bar. “You keep slamming those mugs around, one’s going to break.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved him away. Jameso was all right. The hottest guy in town probably, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t interested in her. She’d been a little miffed at first, but he’d managed to be charming, not insulting, so she’d come to think of him sort of like a big brother.
A balding man in a new-looking Windbreaker that practically screamed tourist leaned against the bar. “Hello,” he said in Olivia’s direction, though his gaze shifted constantly, taking in the room, almost as if he was searching for something. Or someone.
“What can I get you?” Olivia asked.
“Bud Light.” He pulled out his wallet.
Olivia drew the beer and set it before him. “You want to run a tab?”
“No, that’s okay.”
“Three bucks, then.”
He laid a five on the bar. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks.” She rang up the sale and slipped the change into her pocket. “First time in Eureka?” she asked. Not that she was really interested, but it paid to be nice to good tippers.
“Yeah.” His gaze roamed the bar again. “It’s not what I expected.” He turned back to her. “I mean, it’s nice and all, just not the kind of place someone from the city would choose to live.”
“You here on vacation?”
“Not exactly.” He sipped the beer, then set it down again. “Maybe you can help me. I’m looking for someone.”
Olivia stiffened. “Are you a cop?”
“A cop?” His laugh was loud. Abrasive. “No, I’m not a cop. I’m looking for an old friend. I heard she was living here now and wanted to say hello.”
“What’s your friend’s name?” Olivia hadn’t been in town long enough to know everyone, but the stranger was right about one thing—Eureka wasn’t that big.
“Maggie Stevens. Do you know her?”
“What do you want with Maggie?” Olivia would have sworn Jameso wasn’t paying any attention to the stranger, but the mention of Maggie’s name brought him down the bar to stand in front of the stranger, his expression forbidding.
The stranger had balls, because he didn’t back down in the face of Jameso’s glare. Then again, he didn’t know about the baseball bat under the bar. Olivia had never actually seen Jameso use the weapon, but she’d never doubted he would if circumstances warranted.
“Who are you?” the stranger asked.
“Jameso Clark. Who are you?”
“I’m Carter Stevens.”
The name meant nothing to Olivia, but the effect on Jameso was remarkable: He paled, then flushed, and the muscles of his jaw tightened. Olivia got ready to duck, in case the bat came out. “Maggie doesn’t want to see you,” he said.
“If that’s the way she feels, she can tell me to her face. Do you know where I can find her?”
“No.” Jameso sent Olivia a look that made it clear he didn’t want her opening her mouth about Maggie’s whereabouts either.
When Carter turned to her, Olivia shook her head and stepped back. “Can’t help you,” she muttered.
She could see in his eyes that Carter wanted to say something, maybe something not nice, but he thought better of it. He slid the half-empty beer mug across the bar. “If you see Maggie, tell her I’m looking for her,” he said.
He turned to leave, but in a moment of sheer bad timing, the door opened and Olivia’s mother walked in, followed by Maggie.
“Hey, Olivia. Jameso,” Maggie called, smiling. She had her red hair piled up on top of her head and wore a blue gauzy top that brought out the color in her eyes. The stony look on Jameso’s face made her falter, and only then did she see the man at the bar.
“Maggie! It’s so good to see you again.” The stranger strode forward and enveloped her in a hug. Olivia thought Maggie looked like she wanted to throw up.
“Carter,” she said when he released her. She stepped back, putting distance between them. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve missed you, Maggie,” he said. “I’ve been doing some thinking, and we need to talk.”
If she’d set out to script a bad dream, Maggie would have been hard-pressed to come up with a more nightmarish scenario than standing in the Dirty Sally with her ex-husband while what seemed like half the town—including her new lover—looked on. She’d had no plans to come here tonight anyway, but Lucille had called and suggested a drink, and knowing Jameso would be working behind the bar had been an extra inducement to accept. She wanted to remind him of what he’d so recently left behind.
But any prospect for a fun, flirtatious evening vanished as soon as she stepped in the door. When Carter threw his arms around her, she’d felt paralyzed, able only to make a strangled noise in the back of her throat.
He released her, his expression filled with concern. “Are you all right? You’re not going to be sick, are you?” He took a step back.
“Maggie, is this man bothering you?” Jameso had moved out from behind the bar and stood behind Carter, glowering with menace.
The very last thing she wanted was for Jameso to make a scene. “Everything’s fine. Thanks.” She managed a weak smile. Jameso’s stony expression didn’t waver.
“Maybe we could go somewhere more private.” Carter looked around with the expression of someone who’s afraid to sit, for fear of getting something nasty on his trousers.
“Maybe a table . . .” Maggie looked around the bar, but the only empty spot was a table by the front window. She and Carter might as well have their reunion in the middle of Main Street.
Behind her, the door opened, admitting Bob and Rick. Was it coincidence, or had word already gone out on the small-town grapevine that Maggie’s ex was in town asking for her? “Hey, Maggie.” Bob waved. “Who’s your friend?”
“Maggie.” Carter’s voice held a note of warning—the same tone he’d used when they were married and she wasn’t behaving the way he wanted. The tone a disapproving parent might use with a child. It should have made Maggie angry; instead, long-ingrained habit made her cringe. She took his arm.
“Excuse us,” she muttered, as she dragged him toward the door.
Jameso didn’t say a word, but she felt his eyes on her all the way out the door. The street was full of people this time of evening. Danielle waved from the porch of the Last Dollar, and Reg lifted a hand from across the street. They had to get out of here, to someplace they could talk without an audience. “Where are you staying?” she asked Carter.
“I haven’t decided yet.” He glanced around. “This place doesn’t appear to have much in the way of accommodations. Nothing suitable anyway.” This from a man who insisted on staying with relatives on vacation because he was too cheap to spring for a hotel.
“You can follow me to my place,” she said. The cabin was one spot she could be fairly certain she wouldn’t be followed or spied on. Not waiting for an answer, she hurried to the Jeep and started the engine.
Carter was driving a nondescript rental, small and white and probably the cheapest thing he could find. Maggie tore out of town with him close behind, allowing herself a grim smile of satisfaction as her tires kicked up gravel and slung it back toward him. He’d be lucky to get down off the mountain without at least a cracked windshield. That is, if he could keep up with her.
She didn’t make it easy, driving the road at a reckless speed that would have been unthinkable a few months before, when she first arrived in town. The Jeep’s engine whined as she took the grades, tires skidding around curves. Carter faded farther and farther into the distance, the lights of his rental barely visible in the dust and growing darkness.
She parked the Jeep in front of the cabin and waited, absently fingering the rings on the chain around her neck. He rolled into the yard a full three minutes behind her. “Were you trying to get me killed?” he demanded, jumping out of the car as soon as he cut the engine.
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br /> “Don’t tempt me,” she said. Up here at the cabin she felt a little sturdier on her feet. “What are you doing in Eureka, Carter?”
“I told you. I missed you.” One hand on the car, as if he feared he might fall, he took in the surroundings. “Where the hell are we?” he asked.
“This is the cabin my father left me. How did you find out I was here?”
“I saw the address on a letter Barb sent you.”
“You were snooping through Barb’s mail?”
“It was lying on the counter when I stopped by to see Jimmy.”
“If Barb knew you were going through her mail, she’d scratch your eyes out.”
“She doesn’t hate me nearly as much as you think.” He looked smug. “She even made a pass at me at their last Christmas party.”
“She told me you made a pass at her.”
“So who are you going to believe—a friend, or the man you were married to for twenty years?”
“The man who cheated on me for the last five years we were married? How is Francine, by the way?”
He cleared his throat. “Francine is well, thank you.”
He let go of the car and took a few steps toward the cabin. “So this is the mountain retreat your father left you?” He looked smug. “I heard there was a gold mine also.”
“Yes.” Let him think what he wanted about that. “You said you wanted to talk to me, so talk.”
“Maybe we should go inside.” He started up the steps to the cabin.
“No.” She raced over to block his way. The last thing she wanted was to have him inside her home—the only place she’d ever had that was truly hers alone. “We can talk out here. Say what you have to say and get out.”
“Maggie.” His tone was placating, his smile one she once had thought charming. “I realize we’ve had our differences, but I really want us to be friends.” He glanced over his shoulder at the cabin once more, then to the battered Jeep in the drive. “I think I’m in a position where I can really help you.”
Maggie could practically see the dollar signs turning over in his head as he calculated the worth of all her possessions. He’d scarcely noticed the spectacular view, as if something she could get for free wasn’t worth acknowledging. “You don’t have anything I want,” she said. Not his money or his name or his company—all those things she’d once valued were worthless to her now.
“Oh, but maybe I do.” He stepped forward and tried to take her hand, but she jerked away. He frowned, but went on. “I can see you’ve really settled in here. Made a new life for yourself. I’m glad.”
She folded her arms across her chest, silent.
“Colorado really suits you.” He nodded. “You look great, Maggie. Really.”
He sounded sincere. Maybe even a little . . . wistful? No, Carter wasn’t the wistful sort. “Get to the point. You didn’t come all the way to Colorado to flatter me.”
“No, I came because I’ve been feeling guilty.”
The starkness of the confession caught her off guard. Guilty? Carter? “You should feel guilty,” she said.
He ignored this. “I feel I wasn’t generous enough in our divorce settlement. I was shocked to hear you weren’t able to sell the house for a profit.”
She fought the childish urge to make gagging noises. “And how do you know how much I got for the sale of the house?” she asked.
“Sales records are public,” he said. “I asked my new secretary to look it up.”
The fact that he saw nothing wrong with this snooping showed his true character hadn’t changed a bit. “You had no business doing that,” she said. “You’re not a part of my life anymore.”
“I wanted to do something to make your situation more equitable,” he said. “I was thinking I could make an additional cash settlement.”
Right. Mr. Cheapskate was going to waltz in here and offer her more money. “Fine. Write me a check and I’ll run and cash it before you can stop payment.”
“I’ll be happy to write a check. In return, you could do me a little favor.”
“I knew there was a catch.”
He looked wounded. “No catch, Maggie. I just thought that in exchange for the money, I could take the Steuben collection off your hands.”
“You want the glass?” The idea made her a little dizzy. Of all the things Carter could have demanded from her, she never would have suspected the Steuben. “You gave me that glass.”
“And since we don’t have a relationship anymore, I thought you’d be happy to give it back. It doesn’t really fit the lifestyle you’re living now and instead of all those reminders of the past, you could have a nice sum of cash in the bank.”
“That glass was a gift. You don’t just take back a gift.”
“I’m not proposing to take back the gift. I’m prepared to pay you for it. Ten thousand dollars.”
She narrowed her eyes. “The last insurance appraisal was for twenty thousand dollars.”
“Yes, but that’s replacement value. Wholesale is only half that, so I thought . . .”
“Get out.” She pointed a finger toward his rental.
“All right, all right. I won’t argue with you. Twenty thousand.” He pulled his checkbook from his back pocket. “Is the glass still in storage in Texas or do you have it here?”
“You are not getting that glass. Now get out before I push you off the side of this mountain.”
Her rage finally got through to him. “What’s happened to you?” he asked. “You’ve changed, and it’s not for the better.”
“I don’t give a fuck what you think of me anymore.”
“Maggie! Language!” His eyebrows rose.
She laughed. “Have I offended your sensitive ears?” she asked. “The man who was fucking another woman while he was married to me?”
“There’s no need to take that tone with me.” He’d reached the car now and opened the door. “I’ll come back when you’ve had more time to consider my offer. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”
“I don’t ever want to see you again!” she shouted. She clenched her hands at her sides, shaking with fury. For the first time she understood the kind of rage that could have moved her father to violence against another person. “I won’t be responsible for what happens if you come near me again.”
But she doubted he heard the last; he’d slammed the door and the rental was lurching down the road, dust billowing in the red glow of the taillights.
Maggie stood in front of her steps, swaying a little with the same sense of vertigo and incipient panic she’d felt at ten years old when her pet goldfish had died and her mother had flushed its golden body down the toilet. She’d wanted to reach into the bowl and fetch it back, even though she’d known it would be a bad idea. Having anything more to do with Carter was also a bad idea, but the reflex of years made her want to keep even an antagonistic hold on that remnant of the woman she used to be.
Chapter 20
“So what’s the story on you and this ex-husband who’s hanging around?” With the directness of an investigative reporter grilling a corrupt politician, Rick confronted Maggie two days later at her desk in the Eureka Miner office.
“There is no story. My mother always told me if you couldn’t say something good about someone, you shouldn’t say anything at all, so I’ll keep my mouth shut.” She stared at her computer screen, trying hard to give the impression that she was focused on her work and had no time for interruptions.
“So why is he still in town?” Rick perched on the side of the desk. “Olivia Theriot tells me he’s been in the Dirty Sally every night.”
“I don’t know why he’s in town. I’m not speaking to him.”
“Bob thinks he’s still carrying the torch for you, but my theory is he heard about the French Mistress and thinks you’ve come into money.”
“Right, Rick. If I’d really come into money, would I be driving a ten-year-old Jeep and working for you?”
“Maybe you’re one of tho
se eccentric millionaires who doesn’t like to flaunt her wealth. Danielle thinks he’s consumed by guilt over how he treated you and wants to make amends.”
Maggie gave up her pretense of work and glared at him. “Why is everyone discussing my business behind my back?”
“Well, we all had to decide where we wanted to be in the pool.”
“The pool!?” She rose. “My personal life is not to be a source of public entertainment.”
Rick slid off the desk and retreated to the door. “We wouldn’t open it up to anyone who didn’t know you,” he said. “If it makes you feel any better, Jameso refused to place a bet.”
Jameso. There was another man who was on her trouble list. He’d been conspicuously absent since that evening in the Dirty Sally. His avoidance of her was a wound that cut deeper than she wanted to acknowledge. She’d been a fool, thinking sleeping with her had meant anything to him. He’d got what he wanted and now he was backing off. So typical.
But that didn’t mean she hadn’t cried herself to sleep two nights running over his betrayal.
“Look at it this way,” Rick said. “The gossip mill turns both ways. We’ll be sure to let you know if we hear any dirt on your ex.”
“The subject is closed,” Maggie said.
Rick shrugged, then sauntered into his office and closed the door. Maggie waited until she was sure he was settled, then pulled out her cell phone and did what she should have done two days ago.
“Hello?” Barb answered on the second ring, though Maggie could hardly hear her.
“You sound like you’re in a wind tunnel,” she said.
“Sorry.” The sound of fumbling, then Barb returned, her voice clearer. “I’m at the salon and I was seated next to the dryers. It’s better now.”
“Should I call back?”
“No, I moved into a massage room. No one will bother us here. I’m just waiting for my pedicure to set before I put on my shoes.”
Once upon a time Maggie had spent long afternoons at the salon with Barb, reading celebrity gossip magazines and pondering the fashion implications of Cherry Bomb versus Pink Party toenail polish. She felt only a twinge of nostalgia, remembering. Opportunities to show her toes here in the mountains were so few as to make toenail polish inconsequential.