by Gina Ardito
“Okay,” I told him. “Where?”
“There’s a meeting at four at St. Lawrence Church. In the rectory basement. Can you be there?”
I stole a look at the grandfather clock in the corner of the shop. Thirty minutes. Yeah, I could make it easy. “I’ll see you there.” I didn’t bother to return to the kitchen to tell Gary, figuring Siobhan could let him know for me. The idea of seeing Max again clouded my senses enough. The last thing I needed was another woof-fest to fluster me. I wanted to be solid, focused, when I reached the church. Max still hadn’t apologized for treating me like a leper last weekend. And sure, he was a world famous celebrity while I was a small town nobody. But Gary had made me realize something I hadn’t thought about before: I didn’t have to be defined by what my parents did or how others saw me.
I no longer intended to consider myself a victim with a shady past, doomed to failure and misery. I deserved a life—a real life that included respect and love. The sooner the Maxes of the world learned I wasn’t lying down in the gutter for them to step over anymore, the better.
I gave Siobhan the heads-up, and she looked at me askance. “You’re not going out anywhere you shouldn’t, are you, Terri?”
I knew what she was trying not to say. Was I slipping out for booze? I shook my head. “Going to a meeting.”
Her frown flipped to a beaming smile. “That’s terrific. Keep up the good work!”
“Thanks.” Not that I needed Siobhan’s approval, but a tingle of pride ran through me just the same.
I grabbed my coat and headed to the church. Max was already there when I arrived.
“Terri!” He pulled me into a warm hug, even before I got my coat off. “How’ve you been? I’ve missed you.” His eyes were a little too bright, his pupils a bit more dilated than normal. And the words came out too rushed.
For a traitorous moment, I suspected he was high on something besides life, but I quickly banished the idea. If he was using drugs of any kind, would he come to an addict’s meeting? Most of us could smell the slightest drop on another user.
After pulling out of his embrace, I studied his glossy eyes and the odd grin on his face. My warning instincts screamed things were not what they seemed here. Something was off—really off. “Max, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing? I shrugged off my coat and slung it over my arm. “What’s the bad news?”
“I saw the doctor yesterday.”
I’d just hung up my coat, and I whirled to face him. “Ohmigod. What is it? What’s wrong?” Please don’t let it be something terminal. Max was still so young, so talented, and he was finally getting his life right, kicking all the drugs and booze, getting clean. I said a silent prayer he’d survive whatever he was about to face.
“He says I’m suffering from a severe deficiency,” Max replied, his head down, his posture slouched.
Oh. Well, that didn’t sound so bad. Maybe all he needed were some vitamins or supplements. I could help with that. I knew the owner of the local nutritional store. “What kind of deficiency?”
He grabbed me again and lifted me off the ground, and I squealed in reaction. Seriously, no one had picked me up since I’d been twelve. “I’m not getting enough fun these days.”
Disappointment fired up my veins, and I stumbled back, out of his reach. “You pulled me away from work for a joke?”
He had the nerve to cackle. “Oh, come on, Terri. You own a tea shop. It’s not like I pulled you away from something important, like brain surgery.”
“Or acting?” I retorted. How dare he minimize my career as if it somehow wasn’t worthy? “You know, I might not save the world with my jasmine tea recipe, but my simple shop could give a person a haven to relax after a stressful event, to connect with loved ones unseen for months, or to warm up some cold bones on a blustery day. And that’s enough for me.” No matter what Mr. Big Time TV Star thought.
“Easy, sweetheart,” Max said, his hands raised in surrender. “Don’t be mad. I’m joking. I missed you. You’re the one person who keeps me stable, you know? I’ve come to rely on you.” He took my arm, and his tone became wheedling again. “Come on. Let’s go grab a cup of coffee and a cookie before the meeting begins, okay? Truce?”
Once again, an alarm bell rang in my head. Something was definitely off with him, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. But until I could figure it out, I’d just have to stay alert. “Fine. Truce.”
I let him lead me to the refreshment table where the usual ginormous coffee urn sat, ready to pump out brown sludge to undiscerning palates numbed by years of too much alcohol, next to a couple of open boxes of silver-dollar-sized chocolate chip cookies. Spoiled now from Gary’s pastry delights, I had no trouble bypassing the sweets in favor of a bottled water from an old metal washtub crammed with ice cubes.
And then I did a double-take. Maybe my imagination had conjured him up, but I coulda sworn I saw Gary in the front of the room. I shook my head and took a healthy swig of icy water.
Ridiculous. He was at the shop. Anyway, I hadn’t told him I was coming here so he couldn’t possibly have followed me. I’d have to tell him he had a doppelganger, though. He’d probably get a kick out of it.
Max took my hand and squeezed. “Hey! Where are you? You keep spacing out on me.”
I shook myself to focus on him. “Sorry. I thought I saw someone I knew. It…threw me for a sec.”
“And was this someone you thought you knew a guy?”
“Uh-huh.” He couldn’t possibly be jealous, much as my feminine imagination wanted to think so. I put that dreamy part of me into neutral and offered him a lighthearted wave. “He’s just a friend, but, anyway, it wasn’t him. I must have been mistaken.”
“Well, don’t do that. Don’t look at other guys when you’re with me. I always have to be your leading man. If I’m not the center of attention, my fragile ego gets shattered.”
I gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. “Toughen up, cupcake.”
“Ow.” He rubbed the area while frowning at me. “I’m serious. All actors are insecure noobs. You know why most of us go into this line of work? To escape. We either had a miserable childhood or survived some major trauma in our past. Why else would we prefer to live other lives over and over? Because pretending to be a prince or a schoolteacher or a homeless man is more appealing than remaining in our own skin.”
His impassioned speech reached inside my heart and squeezed tight. “Which one are you?” I could barely get the words out through my dry throat and glugged more water, not only to ease the ache, but to give me something to do before I acted on stupid instinct and pulled him into a bear hug.
“I played a schoolteacher in some paper towel commercial years ago. And I’m a Greek prince in ‘Lost in Urbanland,’” Max replied with a smirk. “I haven’t done the homeless man gig yet, but you never know. If the writers decide I should lose my throne and my fortune…” He shrugged.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He took my arm and led me to a seat in the back of the room near the exit.
That alarm rang in my head once more, and I studied him carefully as he settled beside me. Did his gait seem a little unsteady, his hands a bit shaky? Or was I seeing things that weren’t really there?
Once the attendees all found chairs, the meeting began with the usual greetings and announcements before the guest speaker took the podium.
A tingle of familiarity jolted my nape as the man rose from the front row. And when he faced the crowd, my jaw dropped.
“Hi, I’m Gary. And I’m an alcoholic. I have eight years and nine months sober.”
♥♥♥♥
Jayne
Amid more fuss than the preparations for the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, we managed to convince Mrs. Zemski she needed acute medical attention at Morrison General Hospital. But when Dr. Florentino ordered her admitted, the battle began anew. Dr. Florentino, though, wasn’t the ang
elic pushover she appeared to be. Don’t ask me how she did it—particularly with the language barrier, but something about the way the doctor conveyed the seriousness of the situation tore down Mrs. Zemski’s stubborn wall. Within an hour of our arrival, Mrs. Zemski was comfortably ensconced in a semi-private room, deep in slumber.
Assured his mom was in capable hands and would receive the best care, Iggy was ready to take me home again. Sometime close to midnight, he walked me to my door, where, still, no one loitered.
“Amazing,” I said as I scanned the bushes and fence line. “I don’t know what your friends did to chase the reporters away, but I’m stunned.”
“Don’t be. It’s a temporary lull. You and I both know it.”
“Yes, but I’ll take it. This is a welcome reprieve, no matter how long or short it is.”
His hand slid around my waist. “Glad we could help.”
I wanted to step out of his hold, but through sheer exhaustion I’d lost the will to fight. From her usual window seat, Midnight meowed a greeting. “That’s my cue.” I fumbled in my purse for my house key. “Goodnight.”
“Hold it. I’m coming in with you.”
I dug up some excess energy to stand my ground on this issue. “No, you’re not.”
“Yeah, I am. I’ll sleep on the couch. Don’t worry. I’ll be out before you get up tomorrow. I’ve got an exam at eight.”
“An exam? Don’t tell me you’re sick, too?”
He chuckled. “A school exam. I’m going for my masters.”
“Oh.” He was a student? The idea had never occurred to me. In fact, what did it say about me that I’d never bothered to ask him if babysitting me took away from a job, or school, or a life? “What are you studying?”
“Forensic engineering.”
Wow.
My expression must have shown my surprise because he poked my shoulder. “You thought I was all brawn, no brain, huh?”
“No,” I said too fast, then tried to cover up. “I just…never heard of forensic engineering. It sounds complicated. You know what? You should go home and get some sleep in your own bed. You’ve had a rough few days. And now, your mother—”
“Is getting the best of everything under the watchful eye of Morrison General’s angels of mercy. I’ll call my sister in the morning to let her know what’s going on. But in the meantime, you heard Dr. Florentino. Nothing to be done for her except keep her comfortable. Her regular physician will see her tomorrow, order some tests, and we’ll see where we stand then. For now, she’s okay. Which is more than I can say for you.”
“I’m fine.” I swept my arm to gesture at my empty yard. “There’s no one here, remember?”
“A temporary reprieve. You said so yourself.”
“Temporary enough to get me through the night. Go home, Iggy. We both need some ‘normal’ tonight. Okay?”
He said nothing for a long minute while I listened to Midnight’s serenade and jangled my keys in impatience. “Okay,” he said at last. Before I had a chance to reply, he swooped in and covered my mouth with his.
The kiss took me by surprise, pulling me under, in a wave of emotion I’d thought I’d buried with my husband. His lips were soft for such a hard man, and I allowed myself a good minute to enjoy the long dormant sensations swirling through me.
Midnight’s strident meows pierced my eardrums and broke the spell. I yanked out of Iggy’s embrace as if boosted by rockets. I flattened my palms against my cheeks and gasped at the heat that seared me.
“I…umm…” I stumbled through my goodnight speech. “I should go inside. Thank you…I mean…for helping me out tonight, not for the hospital…I mean…I hope your mom’s okay. Good luck on your test tomor—”
“Jayne,” he interrupted with a knowing smirk. “Go inside. Get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nodded. While I stood rooted to the porch, house key dangling between my fingers, rapt, he sauntered down the walkway to the curb, whistling. I didn’t move until his taillights glowed red in the trees as his car turned the corner.
Only then did I open my front door, step inside, and breathe normally again. After settling Midnight, I climbed into bed and slept straight through with no interruption—a rarity—until eight am.
When I padded into the kitchen for my morning coffee, I discovered my good luck continued—still no reporters.
Maybe today would be a good day. I had the day off and had planned to stay locked inside the house, doing domestic chores, as tradition dictated. But, if the reporters stayed away, I could actually get outside for a while. In public.
The possibilities excited me. Maybe I could run a few errands? Nothing too major to anyone else, yet, for me, a sharp deviation from my normal routine. I might even find a salon and indulge in a real haircut, instead of taking a pair of scissors to my own split ends. And while I was there, I could take an extra hour to indulge in a much-needed manicure. No. Taking so much time would only tempt the fates. What if I got caught with my hair or nails wet and had to scurry out the back door of one of those places?
I shivered.
I could always go grocery shopping. Not nearly as indulgent as the salon, but after years of paying for the market to deliver, doing my own food shopping would remind me of life before David’s death, as banal and mundane as it might seem to outsiders.
Then again, if I really wanted to indulge, if the weather held out, a hike on the local nature trail sounded wonderful. Fort Lake, the town’s claim to Revolutionary War fame, was a popular place for picnic, sporting, history, or nature enthusiasts, with miles of walking paths, thanks to the efforts of the local Chamber of Commerce. I’d never been there, of course. I only heard about it from pet owners who’d mention it in passing: “Oh, we took Cookie to Fort Lake yesterday. He just loves to run through the woods there. I do, too. It’s so peaceful and lovely, especially with the tourists gone for another season.”
I’d lived in Snug Harbor for two months now and only left my house to go to work at the veterinary office. Long past time I ventured out and met my neighbors.
The screech of brakes pierced my eardrums as the first news van pulled to a halt at the curb outside.
I sighed. Then again, maybe my first instinct for the day was still the better idea.
“Come on, Midnight. Let’s go start the laundry.”
Chapter 13
Terri
I sat rigid in my chair. It really was Gary—my Gary. Okay, technically not my Gary. He was the tea shop’s Gary. Gary the former scary bartender. An alcoholic. A boozer like me.
Why hadn’t he said anything?
Maybe he didn’t feel like sharing his secret all those times I was blotto. Who could blame him? But when he came to work at the shop, why didn’t he say something like, “Hey, I know how you’re struggling. I’ve been there,” instead of making me think he thought I was a loser desperate for a second chance? I mean, I was. But so was he.
Come to think of it, all the times I was drunk and he called me those awful names, was he reminded of what he used to be? Was that why he’d get angry? Was he on a dry drunk? A hundred questions floated in the ether around me, none of them very comfortable to face. I squirmed under a sudden urge to get out, get away before he saw me. But of course, it was too late.
Thank God for Max, who pinched my arm and whispered a hoarse, “Quit it. Sit still. I’m trying to listen.”
His admonition refocused me on Gary’s story.
“…From there, it was a quick slide. If I opened a bottle of wine at nine a.m., so what? We’d lived in France. It wasn’t a sign of a problem. It was de rigueur. Classy. Elegant. We were so very French. Claire and I were soon up to a half dozen bottles a day. And when the wine took too long to give us that careless euphoria we craved, we switched to vodka martinis and tonics. But the problems in our marriage just got bigger and louder. So did our fights.
“When Claire discovered she was pregnant, she quit drinking.” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that.
Cold turkey. I made the effort, too, but couldn’t pull it off. I’d tell myself—and her—I was under more stress than she was, worrying how to make my salary cover three when the two of us barely scraped by. I’d like to say she handled the pregnancy well. But I’d be lying. Mood swings, crying jags, angry outbursts. She blamed it all on hormones, and I accepted that. But I know now, she was going through alcohol withdrawal.
“One night, she woke up, screaming about bugs crawling in our bedroom. Everywhere, she insisted. On the walls, in the bedding, on her face. She clawed her cheeks until blood ran in these fine lines…”
He paused to sip from a bottle of water. In the audience, no one moved. Even Max seemed subdued by Gary’s story. All of us sensed it would get worse, but none of us wanted to believe it could.
“Finally,” he continued, “Claire gave birth to a seven-pound baby boy. Healthy, thank God. We named him Christian after my grandfather. The minute he was in the nursery and Claire was in her hospital room, she insisted I get her a glass of wine. Happy to have my drinking buddy back, I was only too eager to fetch a bottle and two glasses from a local shop. One glass led to two, and then a third. Claire never looked back after that. When it was time to take my wife and son home from the hospital, both of us were too drunk to drive. The obstetrician called us a taxi, but not before giving us a stern warning that we should seek help, if only for Christian’s sake. Claire laughed it off, but…”
Another pause, another sip. And then he brushed his hand near his eye. To wipe away a tear? If he did, I couldn’t blame him. I was barely holding it together just listening to his tale, and I wasn’t the only one in the room moved by his memory. But he’d lived it.