He just stares at me for several seconds. Then he asks, “Is there anything about you that isn’t absolutely perfect?”
“You’re not the only person who has ever asked that question.”
He laughs. “I have no doubt about that.”
“I guess I’d better get your mom. I don’t want her to worry.”
He shakes his head. “My mom doesn’t worry. About anything. Ever.”
I wonder how that’s humanly possible. I worry about everything. Even things that don’t concern me. Like the drops of juice that Jackson just spilled all over the counter that have now joined all of the crumbs he left. I worry that no one in this house will bother to clean up after him and the mess will remain there forever.
“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes or less,” I tell him as I head out the door.
It’s exactly 3.4 miles from the Smith’s driveway to the deli. How do I know it’s the deli? Because it has a huge, battered sign on the roof that says DELI in big, fading red letters. That’s it. Just DELI.
The place is a hole-in-the-wall, just like everything else I’ve seen in this part of New Jersey. But the tiny parking lot is packed. Probably because there is nowhere else for people to get—whatever items this deli sells.
The air is filled with the aroma of fried ham. I gag a little in response. I’ve never been a fan of the other white meat, and I definitely don’t care for the smell of it fried. It’s nothing but a heart attack waiting to happen.
I notice a huge sign over the counter that reads: Voted Best Taylor Ham Sandwiches in New Jersey.
Of course it doesn’t say who did the voting or how many other places were competing for this dubious title.
A petite blonde, who looks like she’s in her mid-forties, is chatting with three men who are seated at the end of a small counter. Her nametag says: Sherry, so I know she’s Franklin’s mom. And she’s the only employee in the place so it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduce she’s the right person.
In addition to the six counter seats, there are also four tables each with three chairs. Two of the tables are occupied with two pairs of men. The guys all look like blue collar types. They’re dressed in various uniforms and have that grimy appearance that Fisher has from working with his hands all day.
The deli also has a small case with various meats and cheeses displayed as well as a small bakery with different types of rolls, bagels and even a few donuts and pastries.
Even with just the few tables and counter spaces the place feels cramped. On the West Coast even the smallest places feel bigger and more open. And classier.
This place is the definition of a dive.
When the petite blonde spots me her dull blue eyes go wide. As I approach the counter she looks me up and down like I’m some alien from another planet who just walked into her deli.
“You’re not from around here,” she states.
“You’re observant.”
“It’s a small town. I know everyone.”
“Fisher asked me to pick you up.” I’m hoping that will put her extremely tense body at ease, but it doesn’t seem to have the impact I’d wanted. The woman exudes tension from every pour of her body.
Her eyes narrow to suspicious slits instead. “I know you’re not a friend of Fisher’s. He doesn’t do blondes.”
I nearly choke at her directness. This woman wouldn’t know subtle if it knocked her on the head.
“I didn’t say I was his friend. I said he asked me to pick you up.”
“Take a seat.” She points to one of the empty stools on the other side of the counter. Opposite to where the three men are seated. “It’ll be a few minutes. Shep is running a little late.”
As if I’m supposed to know who Shep is. I reluctantly take a seat. This is not the type of place I’d ever consider spending time. The places I frequent for breakfast or lunch serve cappuccino and croissants, not fried ham sandwiches.
I watch as Mrs. Fisher chats up the guys seated at the counter. Even though she looks like she’s been put through the wringer more than a few times, despite her rough exterior, she still seems to know how to flirt. And the guys are eating it up like candy. Not that any of them are anything to look at. They’re all middle aged, pear-shaped and balding.
Because I have nothing better to do I strain to listen to their conversation. It sounds like they’re talking about a resort that just opened nearby.
Tawnee Mountain.
That may be something worth checking out if I decide to stay here any length of time.
After what feels like an eternity, but is actually only four minutes and thirty-two seconds, a decrepit old man waddles into the place. “I’m sorry I’m late,” he declares in a thick German accent.
“Shep,” one of the patrons at the counter yells. “Glad to see you’re still alive. You had me worried there for a minute.”
The other guys laugh, but Shep just waves an arthritic hand at them. The man looks like he could be a century old. His face is a roadmap of wrinkles. And I think he’s at that stage in life where all of his wrinkles have wrinkles.
“There’s someone waiting for me,” Sherry says to Shep as he hobbles up to the counter. She motions in my direction.
His eyes go wide. What is it with everyone and their look of surprise when they see me? Is it that unusual to see outsiders in Old Town? Or maybe it’s just outsiders who look like me?
“You didn’t make her a sandwich?” Shep asks when he notices there’s nothing in front of me.
“I’m not hungry,” I say quickly. And I wouldn’t eat fried ham if you paid me a million dollars.
“You’re too thin,” Shep declares. “You need to eat. I’ll make you a Taylor ham sandwich.”
“No!”
He looks stricken so I quickly say, “I have to get Mrs. Smith back. Fisher is waiting.”
She glares at me. “It’s Sherry. Like the liquor.” Then she turns to Shep. “Fisher’s got to get over to Randy Barnes’s place. He’s getting ready for race season.”
“Those boys and their jeeps.” Shep shakes his head. “I’ll never understand it.”
“See you tomorrow,” Sherry says as she makes her way from behind the counter.
Even though she hasn’t said another word to me I hop down from the stool and follow her as she heads out the door.
“If you come back tomorrow,” Shep yells. “I’ll make you a sandwich. You’ll be hungry by then.”
I hope I never have to set foot in that place again.
The second I step outside I take in a huge breath of fresh air. I need to get the odor of fried ham out of my nostrils. Not that the smell of cow manure in the air is much of an improvement.
Sherry is already standing next to the passenger side of the rental car with her arms crossed over her chest and a scowl on her face.
As soon as I unlock the door she gets into the passenger seat. She doesn’t bother with the seatbelt and I don’t push her. But it seems weird for someone who just lost her son in a car accident not to buckle up.
The drive back toward her house is silent. But right before I’m about to turn off the main road she says, “Don’t turn.”
I do as I’m told and know enough not to ask why. I just keep silent and drive.
The moment I see fresh skid marks on the road my stomach sinks. I know exactly where she’s taken me.
“Pull over,” she demands and that’s exactly what I do.
Following the skid marks right off the road I stop in front of a scorched oak tree.
I make the assumption that she wants to stay a while so I turn off the engine and we both get out of the car.
I expect to feel something. Like Franklin’s presence in the spot where he took his last breath. But I don’t feel anything. Just a slight breeze, which is rustling the leaves in the wooded area surrounding us.
There’s not even a bird chirping or a squirrel looking for food. The area is desolate.
Maybe the animals can feel death in the air.<
br />
“Olivia always thought they’d be together again,” Sherry says.
I’m not sure how to respond so I don’t say anything.
“She always said Franklin was her soulmate. That they’d be together forever.”
“I don’t believe in soulmates,” I tell her.
She laughs. “I guess there’s no such thing as forever, is there? Even for girls like you.”
I walk up to the big oak and touch some of the burned area. I want to believe that Franklin died before the car burst into flames. Did he know at a certain moment that he was going to die? What was his last thought?
Did he even think about me? Or did he think about Olivia?
Maybe he thought about Jackson.
How could he have kept such a big part of his life a secret? The more I learn the more I feel like I never really knew Franklin at all.
“We’d better get back.” Sherry marches toward the car.
“Why did you bring me here?” I ask as we get back into the car.
She shrugs.
“I’m the one he was engaged to. I’m the one he asked to marry him.”
She glares at me. “You thought you’d spend the rest of your life with him, but Olivia’s the one who did. Kind of ironic, isn’t it?”
Rage is building inside of me, but I do my best to try to let it go. I need to remain calm, and civilized even in the face of her tactlessness bordering on cruelty.
Fisher and Jackson are tossing a ball when I pull into the driveway. Sherry looks ready to bolt from the car, but I place a hand on her forearm to stop her.
As she rips her arm from my grasp she glares at me. It’s a look that says don’t even think about touching me again.
I clear my throat. “Can you tell me if any funeral arrangements have been made yet? I’d like to be there.”
“There’s a memorial service on Saturday. At the Old Yellow Church. I can’t stop you from being there.”
“Why do you dislike me so much? I loved your son.”
She points out the window at Jackson. “That little boy doesn’t have a mother and father because of you.”
I feel like I’ve been struck. “I thought it was an accident.”
“The day of the crash, he told Olivia about you. He told her he had met someone else. They had been fighting all day. Even fighting when they got into the car. They were fighting about you.”
Franklin and I were together for nearly four years. All through college. And he just told her about us? I feel like I’m going to throw up. Was he with her all that time when I thought he was with me?
Is that why she had been planning to move to Massachusetts when he started law school? Because she thought they were still together?
Franklin was my fiancé yet I’m starting to feel like the other woman. Does Sherry see me as some kind of home wrecker who stole him from Olivia and Jackson?
“I didn’t know about any of this,” I mutter, as if it’s going to make any difference.
Sherry slams the passenger door and practically runs into her home. I’m not sure what to do. I’m overcome with uncertainty.
A tap on the driver’s side window snaps me out of my stupor. I roll down the window and Fisher pokes his head inside. “Give her some time to cool down.”
“She’s already icy cold to me. I’m not sure I want her to cool down anymore.”
“She’s going through a lot right now.”
I nod. Who isn’t?
“She told me the memorial service isn’t until Saturday. I’ll need a place to stay until then. Can you point me in the direction of the nearest hotel?”
He laughs. “There’s a beautiful new resort that’s only about five miles from here. Tawnee Mountain.”
A glimmer of hope. Maybe things are starting to turn around.
“But…”
I shake my head. “Of course there’s a but. Nothing around here is simple.”
“They’re hosting a huge convention this week. From what I’ve heard there’s not an empty room in the place.”
“If I didn’t have bad luck I wouldn’t have any,” I complain.
When he smiles I can actually see a small dimple in his cheek. Franklin never had one. Of course it was always hard to get Franklin to really smile. He’d usually give a tight grin that looked forced.
“You can stay at my place.”
“You have a place?” I can’t help the surprise in my voice. I’m not sure why I thought he still lived with his mom.
He furrows his brow. “I’m here a lot helping Mom out with Jackson. But I do have my own place.”
Do I really want to stay with Franklin’s twin brother? I hardly know him. “Why would you offer me your guest bedroom?”
“Because you said I wasn’t a nice guy. I want to prove you wrong.”
I must still look unsure because he adds, “There’s not another hotel for a good thirty miles.”
I gulp. It was difficult enough finding my way to Old Town. I’m not sure I want to venture out that far for a place to sleep.
“I promise to be a good boy and not do anything inappropriate.”
“Do I look worried?” I frown. “I heard I’m not your type.”
“And who told you that?”
“Your mother made it pretty clear that you wouldn’t be interested in someone like me. And I’m sure she would have preferred it if Franklin hadn’t taken an interest in me either.”
“It takes her a while to warm up to new people,” he assures me.
“I’m not convinced that she’ll ever accept that I was a part of Franklin’s life.”
“She truly did want Franklin to succeed and have a life outside of Old Town, but she also wanted to hang on to her golden boy. And I think she saw a lot of herself in Olivia. She thought of her as a daughter.”
“I realize I’m an outsider. I was born and raised in Beverly Hills. Old Town is like another world. Just because I’m not like you or your mom, or even Olivia, doesn’t mean I didn’t love Franklin with all my heart. He meant the world to me.”
He taps the window frame with his palm a few times. “My offer stands. If you want to stay at my place you’re welcome to my guest room. It isn’t much. It certainly isn’t Beverly Hills. But it’s paid for. And it’s mine. Just let me know.”
As he moves away from the car I make an uncharacteristically quick decision. “I’ll stay with you.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I feel like I want to scoop them up and shove them back down my throat.
“You will?” He sounds as surprised as I am by my statement.
We both stare at each other for a long moment. This is the first time that I actually notice how his bright blue eyes sparkle in the sunlight. They’re the same color as Franklin’s, but for some reason Fisher’s eyes seem to glimmer with a little humor and mystery.
Franklin’s always seemed muted and restrained. Maybe because there was so much he was trying to hide behind those pale blue eyes.
“Give me a few minutes to phone Randy Barnes. I’ll tell him I’ll catch him tomorrow. Then I can take you over to my place so you can get settled in.”
“Thanks.”
He smiles. “Don’t thank me until you see the place.”
Two
Fisher instructs me to stop in front of a rundown bungalow with a large front porch that looks like it’s almost ready to fall down. The small block is lined with bungalows that look very similar to Fisher’s house.
“This is it,” he says as I turn off the engine.
I don’t want to say anything derogatory because he’s been nice enough to invite me to say with him, but the place has definitely seen better days.
And those days were fifty years ago.
“I haven’t had much time to fix it up yet,” he says as we make our way to the trunk of the car.
As I reach for my rather large suitcase he quickly grabs it out of the trunk for me. “How long were you planning on staying? It feels like you packed enough for a year.”
&
nbsp; “Hardly¸” I scoff. “I only thought I’d be here a few days.”
I follow him as he drags my suitcase up the few stairs and on to the porch.
I hesitate for a few seconds, not sure if I want to risk having the thing crumble down on top of me. Or perhaps even falling through one of the rotting slats on the floor.
“It’s safe,” he assures me.
I’m not convinced.
Shaking his head, he says, “Wait there.”
After he takes my suitcase into his house he hurries back outside. Before I realize what’s happening he lifts me into his strong arms and carries me across the rotting front porch and over the threshold into the house.
“I thought you were only supposed to carry someone over the threshold when you married them,” I state as he places me ever-so-carefully back down on the floor.
“You looked like you were having a little trouble with that front porch and I didn’t want you standing out there all day. Unlike my brother I’m not planning on getting married for a real long time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are there any prospects?”
“There are plenty of women who would jump at the chance to fly to Las Vegas and visit the Elvis Chapel with me. I just don’t see the point in getting hitched at such a young age.”
“If you fell head-over-heels in love with someone you might see things differently.”
When he places his hands on his hips I notice how tight fitting his well-worn jeans are. I try to look anywhere but at his crotch. But it’s like telling yourself not to think about an elephant. Once the word is stuck in your mind it’s almost impossible to think of anything else.
Now all I can see is the bulge in his jeans.
“And what makes you think I’ve never been head-over-heels in love?” He glares at me.
“Call it a hunch.”
I glance around the sparsely furnished living room. He’s only got a few pieces of worn and mismatched furniture and a few family photos scattered around the place.
My eyes wander to a framed photo of Franklin and him. They look like they were only about eight or nine years old.
“Are you hungry?” Fisher asks.
I glance over at him. “Are you offering to cook for me?”
Finding Fisher Page 3