Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3)

by Gina Ardito

  “Good morning,” he said without looking up. “Breakfast is coming right up. There’s fresh coffee in the pot.”

  Wow. He’d made himself at home pretty quick.

  I watched Midnight, who remained a whisker from Iggy’s ankles, even when the man strode to the refrigerator and pulled out a brick of cheddar cheese. Apparently, my cat was smitten with our visitor. “How much bacon did you feed him?”

  “The cat?” Iggy attempted to deny it, but the twitch of his lips gave way to a guilty grin. “One piece.”

  “One piece?” Uh-huh. And I can eat only one potato chip. I feigned displeasure with my fickle feline. “You’re such a cheap date, Midnight.”

  “So…” He nodded at the cat. “Midnight.”

  I knew what he was getting at. “Yeah.” I ran a hand over the cat’s long-haired, snow white coat, and he arched his back in pleasure. His rumbling purr vibrated against my palm. Oh, yeah. Bacon and affection? My furry friend was in heaven. “His name’s a reminder that things aren’t always what they seem.”

  “Clever.”

  “Not really. More…” I stretched my brain for an appropriate term that didn’t include a foul word. “…bitter experience.”

  “I get that.” He returned his attention to the pans on the stove before mumbling at the eggs, “Sorry I woke you last night.”

  “You didn’t.” I picked up the coffeepot and filled a mug to keep him from seeing the lie on my face. Here was something we had in common: expertise at deflecting attention from ourselves with menial tasks. “I couldn’t sleep anyway. I was actually on my way downstairs to grab a novel from my bookshelf when you began shouting.”

  I took my mug to the table and sat, blowing on the pool of coffee before taking a sip.

  Iggy slid a plate in front of me. The fluffy scrambled eggs dotted with red and green diced peppers framed by two strips of crisp bacon were a true work of art. Too bad I had no appetite for such a heavy meal. “I…umm…don’t usually eat breakfast.”

  “Mistake number one,” he said as he set a second, fuller, plate at the seat across from me and sat. “You need protein to fight the good fight. What time do you go to work today?”

  “Noon. I’m working 12-9 tonight.”

  “Good.” He scooped up a forkful of eggs. For such a large man, he ate with a polite delicacy suited for a fine Regency manor house. “After breakfast, we’ll go to the sheriff’s office to file a complaint with Sam about those cockroaches outside.”

  “No, we won’t. I already told you, I’m not bringing the police into this.”

  He frowned. “That’s mistake number two.”

  “That’s your opinion. Adding police complicates the situation. Trust me.” I knew better than anyone. Shining the law enforcement light only brought more unwanted attention.

  “Fine,” he replied with no emotion while he continued enjoying his meal. “Don’t go with me. I can report them myself.”

  I slammed my fist on the table, making the dishes clink and startling Midnight, who hissed in reaction. “You will not talk to anyone! This is my problem. You can deal with your issues however you want, but don’t come marching into my world and try to take over all the decisions in my life. I don’t care if Dom asked you to keep an eye on me. The last thing I need is another man screwing around with me and mine. I’ve lost everything, thanks to a bunch of pig-headed males who all assumed they either knew what was best for poor li’l- ol’-girly-me or used me for their own selfish devices. I’ve had my fill of all of you. I know better than anyone what will happen if you involve the police. I know how best to deal with the press.” My temper threatening to boil over, I shoved the plate of eggs to the side. “And I know how to eat, too. I’ve been feeding myself for a long time and haven’t starved yet.” While Midnight pounced on my neglected bacon, I shot to my feet, clutching my robe at my throat. “I don’t need a babysitter. Don’t worry about the dishes when you’re done eating, Mr. Zemski. Just let yourself out through the back door, please. Don’t contact the police, and don’t speak to the reporters, either, if you don’t mind.”

  I left him there to finish his meal while I stomped upstairs where I locked my bedroom door before turning on the tap for the shower. Was I rough on him? Maybe. But I’d reached my limit on men trying to protect me.

  In one bizarre moment of insanity, my husband had plotted and carried out his own murder. Why? Because he wanted to protect me from discovering we teetered on the edge of bankruptcy, thanks to some financial miscalculations, and he hoped, if he looked like the unfortunate victim of a robbery-slash-carjacking, his double indemnity insurance would make me whole again.

  If he’d bothered to let me in on his plan, I would have assured him that we’d weather the financial storm together, that no amount of money was worth his life. And I would have warned him that if he made a deal with the devil, the devil would always find a way to get his due—and burn the dealer at the same time. In David’s case, the devil came in the guise of Vincent Pittman, junkie and part-time car thief. After Pittman’s arrest for my husband’s murder, he spilled the whole ugly story to his lawyer, and the press ran with it. Basking in his fifteen minutes of fame, Pittman added the fable that I’d been in on the entire scheme from the get-go and had promised him a portion of the life insurance money in exchange for his help. Now, according to that barracuda reporter outside, before he died, he’d dared to claim that he and I were lovers?! Like he was revealing some deathbed confession? The unmitigated gall.

  And yes, I was more furious with the fact the lies would not die than I was with Iggy Zemski’s interference. Iggy happened to bear the brunt of my frustration, my anger, and my fear. I was finally becoming comfortable in this sleepy seaside town, finally beginning to think I had a chance to resume a normal life. I should have realized, no matter where I went, the black cloud of suspicion would hover over me.

  After stripping off my robe and pajamas, I stepped under the steaming spray and let the hot needles of water pound my skin until I turned pink. When I finally turned off the water several minutes later, I heard the back door slam.

  Good.

  So long, Mr. Zemski. It was fun while it lasted—not.

  Chapter 9

  Terri

  I raced into my aunt and uncle’s house and thundered up the stairs without even saying hello. Manners be damned, I was on a severe time constraint.

  “Terri?” Aunt Andrea said from the den. “Is everything all right?”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, never pausing in my climb. “I have a date. Last minute. Gotta rush.”

  Before she could question me further, I reached the top landing and made a dash for the bathroom, pulling off my jacket as I ran.

  The house was a dormered Cape-Cod-style. Years ago, Aunt Andrea and Uncle Larry had built a one-bedroom apartment for me on the second floor. I had a nice-sized bedroom, bathroom, living room, and mini-kitchen area. What I didn’t have was a private entrance. In my drinking days, hoping to stumble past my aunt’s eagle eye could often be more than my meager brain cells could master. In my sober days, the big drawback to my living arrangement was I had to use the laundry room in the basement or schlep my stuff to the laundromat. Going up and down a few flights of stairs was a better option than a car ride in rain, snow, or humidity with a roll of quarters in one fist, to sit in a dimly lit, overheated room that smelled like bleach and stale cigarettes for several hours with a bunch of strangers.

  Once I got to my bathroom, I flipped on the hot water tap in the shower and quickly stripped. As I stood there, stark naked, a low cry from behind had me whirling toward the bathroom door. In my haste, I’d left it open, and my aunt stood there, trying in vain to raise her lower jaw.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have barged in,” she said, averting her eyes. “I just wanted to make sure I understood you. Umm…is that a tattoo?”

  Whoops. Forgot about that. I sported a souvenir from one of my blackout nights on my lower back. About an inch above my vertical sm
ile, Dumbo, wearing clown makeup and a pointy hat, bathed in a washtub full of sudsy water. Soap bubbles floated across both my hips. Thanks to his location, I tended to forget about my elephant friend’s existence—much like the details of how he came to decorate my body.

  “Yeah.” I grabbed a towel off the rack and wrapped it around me. When did they start making bath towels so short? If I clutched this itty bitty terrycloth scrap around my chest, my hoo-ha peeked out. If I lowered it to cover my belly, my boobs popped over the towel’s edge like one of those Kilroy Was Here drawings.

  It didn’t matter. By the time I stopped struggling with the towel, Aunt Andrea had stepped away from the door and spoke to me from the hallway. “Did you say you have a date tonight?”

  “Yes. In about an hour and a half. And don’t ask who. I’m not sure I should say yet.”

  “Are you sure you should be dating anyone right now, dear?”

  “It’s not a date-date. Nothing serious,” I assured her—and myself. The rules of rehab were fairly strict about starting any new projects or relationships too soon. Funny how Aunt Andrea had been full-steam-ahead about the project, namely my tea shop, but her red flag went up over a possible date. “He’s just a friend who needs me for a few hours.”

  “Well, okay. Just be careful, all right?”

  “I will, I promise.” I waited until I heard my aunt’s footsteps descending the stairs, then locked the bathroom door, dropped the towel and stepped under the steaming spray. After a quick cleanup, I padded with my meager towel to my bedroom closet to take wardrobe inventory.

  “Dressy but casual,” I murmured as I took stock of what hung inside. I finally opted for a white cashmere sweater I’d picked up at a local consignment shop and a pair of tan suede jeans I’d scored on an auction website for a ridiculously low price.

  Forty minutes later, when I surveyed myself in the mirror, I was pretty pleased with the results. The sweater and jeans combo, paired with some heeled boots, pulled off “dressy, but casual” in spades. My makeup was pretty good, and I’d not only used the blow dryer on my hair, I also took the curling wand to the lower sections to give my tresses some body and a softer look.

  “Not bad,” I said to my reflection. “Not bad at all. I just hope this isn’t a movie premiere and I’ve screwed it up.”

  “Terri?” my aunt called from downstairs. “There’s a limousine outside! Is that for you?”

  A limo? He’d come in a limo? Max sure didn’t believe in keeping a low profile, did he?

  “I’ll be right down,” I shouted.

  As I grabbed my leather jacket, the most bizarre thought occurred to me. A lot of cows sacrificed their lives to make me look good tonight. I hoped their sacrifice would be worth it. Fingers crossed, I picked up my purse and raced down the stairs to the front door. “Bye, Aunt Annie! Don’t wait up.”

  “Be careful,” she reminded me.

  I closed the door behind me and stopped. A limo. A real limo, sleek and black, sat parked by the curb outside my house. The driver stepped out and walked around to my side to open the passenger door. I swear to God, I felt like Cinderella on her way to the ball. When I was close enough, he tipped his cap to me. “Good evening, Miss.”

  “Good evening,” I replied and slid inside.

  Max sat in the middle of the roomy back seat, surrounded by gray leather and gleaming walnut accents. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a candy-cane-striped tie. Uh-oh. I’d misjudged the “dressy but casual” memo. I pondered whether or not I had time to run back inside and change when Max saluted me with the glass tumbler in his hand. “Wow. You look terrific.”

  My stomach jolted. Was he drunk? Wasn’t that what I was supposed to help him avoid? How on earth could I do that if he’d started hitting the sauce before I even got here? “Thanks.”

  “Can I offer you a water?” he asked.

  Oh, thank God. I let out a relieved sigh, settled into the seat beside him, and allowed my muscles to relax into the cushy leather. “Yes, please.”

  He reached into the bar area to his left and pulled out a plastic bottle. I eyed it—and him—with suspicion. “What are you drinking?”

  “Same thing,” he said. “But I’m drinking mine on the rocks. Don’t want my friends to know how serious my drinking problem has become.” He winked. “Let ‘em think it’s vodka.”

  “Gee.” I widened my eyes and batted my lashes in mock shock. “You think they missed all the articles in the tabloids about your drunken tantrum, which led to the total destruction of a five-star restaurant on Wilshire Boulevard, resulting in your recent stay at Betty Ford?”

  “Touché.” He raised his glass again, tilted it against my water bottle, and the ice tinkled at the impact. “That’s why I need you. You keep me grounded. Remind me when I’m being a dumbass.”

  I had no way to respond to that. If I agreed, I’d insult him, but he was being a dumbass. Did he really think his addiction was a secret? What kind of delusional world did he live in? I opted to change the topic. “Where exactly are we going tonight?”

  “A dinner party at my producer’s house. Meet and greet kinda thing. Bunch of industry people. But don’t worry. No one will mistake you for a Hollywood mover and shaker. Not in that outfit. I’ll just introduce you as my assistant.”

  Confusion and hurt stung me. “You didn’t give me much to go on,” I murmured, staring down at my pants. Just when I thought I’d made the right choice, he comes along and destroys all my self-confidence with one cutting remark.

  He took my hand, squeezed. “Aw, that’s me being a dumbass again, putting my foot in my mouth. I just meant Hollywood people tend to overdress for everything. Lots of designer fashions, lots of jewelry, lots of tanned skin. It’s their way of flaunting all they got. But you? You’re a natural girl. What you see is what you get. And what I see when I look at you is fabulous.”

  I smiled up at him, grateful. Pathetic, isn’t it? Hey, don’t judge! I don’t know any woman who wouldn’t give up a kidney to have her favorite Hollywood idol tell her she’s fabulous.

  “And if our hosts don’t approve of you or your clothes,” Max added with an elbow to my forearm, “better for us. We can make a quick getaway and spend some time alone. I’d much rather do that anyway.”

  I gave a nervous laugh. He couldn’t possibly be genuine.

  “In fact, I’ve got a great idea.” With exaggerated motions, he peeled off his suitcoat, balled it up, and tossed it in the corner of the seat. “I’m dressing down too. Screw these phonies and their dress to impress crap. Maybe, we’ll get kicked out even faster. Wahoooooo!” Laughing, he yanked off the tie, swung it around his head like a lasso, and chucked it on top of the suit jacket. In rapid speed, he undid the first four buttons on his collar to reveal that golden chest I recognized oh, so well from too many nights with the rewind button on my television remote.

  Down, girl, I told my overeager self. Just because he said I was fabulous didn’t mean we were anything more than “sober buddies.” It wasn’t like we traveled in the same social stratosphere. In fact, I’d bet that shirt was imported French cotton, softer than a kitten, and the tie probably cost more than my first car. Still, his high spirits were contagious. Giggling, I remarked, “You’re crazy!”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m being myself for the first time in decades. Maybe you bring out the boy in this battered old man. Did you know I was named ‘class comedian’ in my high school yearbook?” He didn’t wait for my reply before adding, “My analyst thinks I use—used—bad behavior to mask my loneliness. And when the comedy didn’t soothe my hurt, I dove into a bottle to numb the pain.”

  My heart melted at his confession, and I pictured a younger, gawkier Max, aching from some big, dark secret and cracking jokes to overcome the sadness. Maybe a secret as dark as mine. Not exactly like mine. Generally, murder-suicides that occurred in families with kids were more likely to occur when the kid was either a victim or a witness to the event. I don’t know if my dad choosing
to kill my mom when I was out of town was intentional or just a quirk of fate. I would never know. That, alone, could drive a strong, sane person to dive into a bottle, to borrow Max’s phrase.

  “Do you think he’s right?” I asked. “Your analyst, I mean.”

  Max shrugged. “I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about it.”

  I would have liked to pursue the topic, but at that moment, the limo driver rolled down the privacy window. “We’re here, Mr. Trayham.”

  The change in Max was instantaneous. “Right.” He straightened his shoulders, buttoned up his shirt, and replaced the tie and jacket—all in the time it took for the driver to park, get out, and open our door. Gone was the fun-loving, vulnerable, human Max I enjoyed getting to know, replaced by some sour-faced automaton with flat eyes and a jutting jaw. “Let’s go.”

  My stomach jerked again.

  He didn’t take my hand, didn’t walk beside me. In fact, I wound up about six feet behind him like some ancient-times handmaiden. When I caught my head bowed as we stepped into the marble foyer, I forced myself to look up and around, but not gape. Not that anyone noticed me. Once we got inside this beautiful Tuscan-style estate overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, he abandoned me to my own devices. While he glad-handed his way around the room, air-kissing the glitterati, I wound up hanging out with the wait staff, listening to the gossip about their employers while arranging crudités on a tray, to keep from hitting up the bartender for a shot of vodka.

  I can honestly say it was the worst date of my life. And remember, I’m the gal who once spent the night passed out in the bird nesting area of our local beach when the guy who’d taken me out for the evening got what he wanted from me, then left me to “sleep it off.” So I’m no stranger to bad dates.