Shelter from the Storm

by Samantha Sommersby

  “Sometimes.” He shrugged, then poured her some of the red wine. “Seems fitting to listen to Italian opera when making a Bolognese, don’t you think?”

  She hopped onto the barstool at the counter. “Smells yummy.” Jennifer peered into the pot.

  “You can’t go wrong when a recipe starts with sautéing garlic and onions in olive oil.” Mac continued to stir. “Leastwise that’s what my mum used to say before she died.” He shook his head and with it the melancholy of the mood that seemed to be forming. “Listen, I’m sorry I barged into your bedroom. At the time it felt like the right thing to do. I just couldn’t not reach out to you when you were in such obvious pain. But I know a closed door, especially your bedroom door, is a boundary I shouldn’t cross.”

  “Forget it.” Jennifer took a sip of her wine.

  “Forget it?” Mac looked perplexed. “If we’re going to live together, we need to have respect for one another’s space and—”

  “You mean you’d still consider living with me? Even after seeing psycho Jennifer? Even knowing I’m going to have a nine-year-old moving in here?”

  “Unless you don’t want me to. Maybe you’d rather have the place to yourself now?”

  “Rather, yes. But I can’t afford it, especially if I’m going to have another mouth to feed and clothe. You know what real estate prices are like here.”

  “That I do.” Mac began browning the meat in a second skillet and turned the flame off under the onions. “It’s settled? You’re definitely going to take her?” He took out a clean kettle, dumped the onions into it, and then dropped the first skillet into the sink.

  Jennifer quickly assessed the number of glasses, plates, skillets and pots he had pulled out. “Who do you think is going to do all these dishes?”

  “I’ll do all of the cooking and cleaning this year, you take it over for next year. How’s that?”

  “I’m not falling for it. There’s only a few hours left of this year.”

  Mac refilled his wineglass. “Here’s the truth. I love to cook, don’t mind most house chores, but I hate having to do the dishes.”

  “I can see why,” she teased, looking around the kitchen.

  “If we could work out some sort of trade that would be great, but, not tonight. Tonight I’ll do the soddin’ dishes without complaint.” Mac looked back at the sink and frowned. “Or, I’ll come back in the morning and do them. How’s that?”

  “We’ll work something out.”

  Jennifer nodded toward the stack of boxes containing her newly purchased office equipment. “Guess I’ll be exchanging those for bedroom furniture the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ve got my own bedroom set in storage.” Mac added the browned meat to the pot. “Give your sister the room you were going to give to me. There’s already a bed in it. I can move my stuff into the smaller room.”

  “You don’t need to give up your room. But, if you prefer your bedroom set… I mean, if it’s nicer…”

  Mac opened a drawer and peeked inside. “Can opener?”

  “The second one over there.” She pointed to the drawer next to the sink.

  “I wouldn’t say what I have is nicer. I picked the set up from a consignment shop when I was a starving graduate student. It’s done me fine for years. Needs a new mattress though.”

  “Keep it in storage.” She got up off of the barstool and moved over to the fireplace. “I’ll get Sara new stuff. Maybe I’ll buy myself a small desk. I can put it in the corner over here.” She gestured to the right of the French doors that led onto the balcony. “I don’t really need an entire office. We can keep most of the stuff for the business over at Rachel’s.” Jennifer unlocked the doors to the balcony and stepped outside.

  Mac finished opening the cans of tomato paste and sauce. He poured them into the pot and added the herb mixture he had brought over with him. Then he stirred in a cup of Chianti and set the pot to simmer before grabbing his wine and joining her.

  He paused for a moment at the threshold, noticing how beautiful she looked standing there in the moonlight. The night air was cold for Southern California, almost bracing. There was a breeze coming from the west tonight, off of the ocean, and it made her robe flutter around her legs. She stared out at the dark city below, almost as if she commanded it. He’d seen the crack in her exterior earlier. Now she was back in control, confident, seemingly unaffected, untouchable. He preferred the real girl behind the mask.

  As he approached her from behind, she shivered. “Cold?”

  Jennifer nodded. “How did your mother die?”

  Mac stopped. Her back was to him. “Cancer.” He placed his wineglass on the ledge of the banister surrounding the balcony.

  “Was she a good mother? Did you…love her?”

  The question might have surprised someone else, not Mac. He’d seen more than his share of bad parents and battered or neglected children. He placed his hands on her arms, running them up to her shoulders and back down again in an attempt to warm her. “I loved her very much.”

  Jennifer leaned back into him, her body pressing into his in a way that was comforting, intimate. “My mother was horrid.”

  He didn’t say anything. He just enjoyed the moment and waited for her to continue. Eventually she did.

  “She was a drunk. I hadn’t spoken to her in years. I think I’ve spent most of my life hating her, trying to get away, trying to move on. I thought I had put it all behind me. But now, somehow… Now that she’s gone…”

  “It feels like a piece of you is missing.”

  “Why?” She sounded so lost.

  “Because,” Mac pushed down the impulse to wrap her in his arms and pull her even closer, “she was your mother.”

  He let a moment or two pass.

  “Why don’t I go stir the sauce? Come in out of the cold. We’ve got at least an hour before dinner’s ready,” he said.

  Jennifer followed him back inside and closed the door. “Is there anything you want me to do?”

  “I’ve got it under control. It’s just pasta and bread.” He picked up the loaf from the counter and waved it triumphantly in the air.

  “You bought bread from The Bread Company? You can definitely be in charge of cooking!”

  Mac stirred the sauce. “Have you tried their cinnamon rolls?”

  Jennifer sat on the sofa. “No, and I’m not going to. Rachel got addicted to them last year. The resulting five pounds and her disposition during the detox that followed wasn’t pretty. You’ve been warned.”

  Mac joined her in front of the fire. “Tell me about Sara.” He bent down and unlaced his boots.

  “My sister?”

  “Yeah.” He pulled them off, tossed them aside, then propped his stocking feet up on her coffee table. When she failed to respond after a few seconds he turned to her. “Well?”

  Jennifer pointedly looked at his feet on her table. “Make yourself at home.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Mac slouched down farther and wiggled his toes. “I promise I took my shoes off, Mum, and the socks are clean.”

  Jennifer frowned.

  “Tell me about Sara. I’m not hurting the bloody table.”

  “I’ve never met Sara.”

  “What?” Mac sat up and twisted to face her. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve never met Sara.”

  Mac continued to look at her.

  “I was gone before Sara was born.”

  “Gone?”

  Jennifer sighed. “My mom was always a drinker, but after my dad left, it got worse. He was never around, but those child-support payments came every month, like clockwork. They kept her in booze.” Jennifer stood and began to pace in front of the fireplace. “My senior year in high school was hell. She knew on my eighteenth birthday the payments were going to stop. She was hospitalized twice that year. Overdoses. She applied for disability and was turned down. Then she started to get desperate, she—”

  “What? Go on.”

  “Why am
I even telling you this? I never talk about my past, especially with strangers.”

  “Your snot was on my shirt. We’re no longer strangers. Besides, social worker.” Mac pointed to his forehead. “I swear it’s embossed right here. You’d be amazed at the things people feel compelled to share with me. Take Mrs. Champieux, for instance.”

  “The sweet old lady who lives down on the first floor?”

  “In the apartment by the mailboxes.”

  “What about her?”

  “Did you know she used to be a man?”

  Jennifer scoffed. “You’re making that up!”

  “Swear to God.” Mac held up his hand. “Just don’t tell Mr. James. She asked me not to. Seems he’s taking a shine to her.”

  “Mr. James?”

  “They’ve been going to church together on Sundays for a year now and, well, she wants to take the relationship to the next level but she feels it’s only right she tell him first. She needed a sounding board.”

  “Next level? You mean…sex?” She whispered the last word.

  Max rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “You have something against sex?”

  “No! But Mr. James must be close to eighty.”

  “Old people have sexual needs. I’m not sure the desire for intimacy…connecting ever dies. The fact is—he rings her bell! I think it’s kind of sweet. She’s going to tell him tonight. She’s making him dinner and has this whole seduction scene planned. She’s been saying the Rosary for a month, praying he doesn’t have a heart attack when she breaks the news.”

  “You’re not making this up?” Jennifer narrowed her eyes and looked at him suspiciously.

  “Nope, now finish your story.”

  She sat back down. “Tell me something about you first.”

  “Last night I had a really hot dream about Angelina Jolie,” he replied before taking a sip of his wine.

  “Mac, even I’ve had hot dreams about Angelina Jolie.”

  “Okay, how’s this? I was once in love with a woman. She had a drug habit. It got bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Really bad. The drugs were all she saw, all she wanted, all she needed. I became invisible. She became someone else. I couldn’t reach her. It broke my heart.”

  “What did you do?”

  He stared down into his glass. “One night I gave her an ultimatum. She didn’t choose me. I understand what it’s like to live with an addict. Nothing is as important as the next high. Certainly not the feelings of a lover—”

  “Or the needs of a daughter,” Jennifer interjected.

  Mac nodded. “Or the needs of a daughter.”

  “You’re good at this. You make it look easy.”

  Mac smiled, leaned back and gave her his full attention. “I believe it’s your turn.”

  “My mother started looking for someone, anyone to pay the bills and keep her in booze,” Jennifer began. “I was young and naïve, but even I could tell what she was doing. She’d bring them home. Sometimes they’d be there the next morning. Eventually, she got pregnant.”

  “With Sara?”

  “With Sara. She was thirty-seven and I was seventeen. She had no idea who the father was. She tried to pass it off on several of them with no success. And then she scored. The guys name was Cliff Corbin. He knew the child wasn’t his; I overheard him telling my mom he couldn’t have children. Apparently that’s why his last marriage had split up. He agreed to marry her, but stipulated he wouldn’t adopt me, or the baby. He moved in two days later. I left the next one. I never went back.”

  Mac reached for her hand. “What happened? Why did you leave?”

  Jennifer gave him a shaky smile. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you, but not tonight.”

  “Fair enough.” He released her hand. “Cliff was the one who gave CPS your name.”

  “I’m surprised they were still together.”

  “They were still legally married, but they weren’t together. It seems he and your mum split a while back, don’t know the circumstances.”

  “Sara will know,” Jennifer said, solemnly.

  “She’s only nine, blondie. She might not—”

  She leaned her head back and rested it on the top of the sofa. “Sara will know,” Jennifer repeated with certainty. After a minute she turned to Mac. “How is this going to work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will they just let me have her?”

  “The judge will want to make sure we’re placing her in a good home. L.A.’s probably already done some preliminary checking on you. Once they hear you’re interested, they’ll transfer the investigation down here and things will get serious.”

  “What do they investigate?”

  “They’ll do a complete criminal history check, make sure you’re not in the database as a perpetrator of abuse yourself. Then they’ll do a home visit and assess whether you meet the requirements to be licensed as a foster parent. They’ll check me out, too,” he explained.

  “I don’t want to be a foster parent.”

  “It’s just procedure. It doesn’t mean you have to accept any more children.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Depends. Want me to call L.A. and give them the thumbs-up or do you want to sleep on it?”

  Jennifer stood and made her way to the kitchen. “I was never going to have children.” She poured the last of the wine, then gave the sauce a stir. “When my father left us, I remember deciding then and there I would never get married and have kids. I vowed I’d never be dependent on someone or allow someone to be dependent on me.”

  Mac slipped into the kitchen behind her. “How old were you when he left?” he asked, as he preheated the oven.

  “Twelve.” Jennifer moved back to the other side of the counter and resumed her earlier position on the barstool. “I was twelve.”

  “And now you’re?”

  “Twenty-seven.” She rested her chin in her hand.

  “Well, blondie, you’re a woman now. You’re entitled to change your mind. You’ve got to know your mum’s life wasn’t like it was because she got married or had kids.” Mac filled up a large pot with water and lit a flame under it. “It’s more complicated than that. The interdependency you’re referring to that comes with relationships? It isn’t always a burden.”

  “You sure about that?”

  He added some salt to the pot. “Sometimes it’s actually a blessing.”

  “But what if it’s really awful? What if I’m really awful?”

  Mac leaned across the counter and looked Jennifer directly in the eye. “You don’t have to do this. It’s all right to say no.”

  “I’m nothing like my mother.”

  Mac smiled. “You’re Jennifer.”

  “What if being Jennifer isn’t good enough?”

  “Do you want to do this?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it’s awful, you’ll just keep working on it, both of you will, until it’s good. And then you’ll work on it some more, until it gets even better. It’s a process. There aren’t any quick answers.”

  The lid on the pot began to rattle. Mac picked up a potholder, removed the lid, and poured in the penne pasta.

  “Mac?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You should really think about doing this professionally.” Jennifer took another sip of wine.

  “Cooking?”

  She set her glass on the counter. “Not cooking.” She gestured between them. “This. I mean, you’re a licensed therapist, right?”

  “Yeah. This isn’t therapy. This is just two people, talking.”

  “What I meant was, you could be earning big bucks in private practice.”

  “I don’t care how much you beg, I’m not taking you on as a client. It’d be a conflict of interest, what, with us living together, and all. Plus? You couldn’t afford me.” Mac put the bread in the oven. “Unless you’re willing to negotiate on the dishes?”

  “I’m serious! Why are you working
for CPS?”

  “You mean aside from the hot chicks, light workload, fast company cars and large expense account?”

  “Yeah, aside from all that.”

  “To make a difference.”

  “It’s as simple as that?”

  “I guess when it comes down to it, I’m a simple guy.”

  “Do you have time to call L.A. before the pasta’s ready?”

  “You sure? This isn’t something you have to decide tonight. You can sleep on it.” He reached across the counter and tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “You can take as long as you need.”

  “I’m sure. I think maybe I can make a difference. I want to try. Besides, she’s my sister.”

  Chapter Three

  1/3/04 5:30 p.m., San Diego, CA

  Jennifer walked into her apartment after a long day of work. She and Rachel had been at it all day, helping the daughter of one of the town’s wealthiest plan her dream Valentine’s Day wedding. They had already been working on the account for months. Jennifer was beginning to hate pink, really hate pink.

  She dropped her purse on the counter and went over to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. The lights were off in both the kitchen and living room. The entire place was quiet. She was alone. She leaned back against the door to the refrigerator, flipped on the overhead light to the kitchen, closed her eyes and released a sigh.

  “You’re home late.”

  Jennifer jumped, dropping the water bottle on the floor.

  Mac leapt back. “Good thing it wasn’t open.” He retrieved the bottle and handed it to her. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Sorry.” She gave him a sheepish smile. “It was a tense day. I thought I was alone.”

  “I was in my room, reviewing my new case files. When I started, it was light out. I must have drifted off a bit ago. I woke up when you came in,” he explained. “Why was today so awful? Couldn’t the bride decide what color napkins she wants?”

  Jennifer frowned. “It’s an important decision. And you have no idea how many shades of pink there are.”

  “Some things are better off left to the imagination.”

  “A bride wants everything to be perfect on her wedding day.”

  “Talk about an unreasonable standard.” Mac tilted his head, indicating he wanted her to move.