Because of Joe

by Because Of Joe [Contemporary Rom. ] (lit)

  Because of Joe

  by

  Liz Flaherty

  NovelBooks, Inc.

  Douglas, Massachusetts

  This is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the characters, incidents, and dialogs are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright (c) 2003 by Liz Flaherty

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and review. For information, address NovelBooks, Inc., P.O. Box 661, Douglas, MA 01516 or email publisher@novelbooksinc.com

  NBI

  Published by

  NovelBooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 661

  Douglas, MA 01516

  NovelBooks Inc. publishes books online and in trade paperback. For more information, check our website: www.novelbooksinc.com or email publisher@novelbooksinc.com

  Produced in the United States of America.

  Cover illustration by Brent Bowers

  Edited by Karen MacLeod

  ISBN 1-59105-074-X for electronic version

  ISBN 1-59105-099-5 for trade paperback

  With love and thanks to Lynn,

  my sister and my friend,

  who introduced me to Pensacola Beach and bushwackers,

  and convinced me that walking endless miles on the

  first would negate the calories of the second.

  You lied, but that's okay.

  See you next summer.

  Chapter One

  She didn't think about it all day. Not really.

  When her younger son Micah folded his six feet into his car to begin the long drive back to college, it didn't even occur to her that his light brown hair and muscular legs and sweet half smile were just like his father's. If she'd allowed it to happen, she knew she would have seen cutoff denims and aviator sunglasses instead of the long baggy shorts and black wraparounds her son wore, but she didn't do that. No, sirree.

  When Micah's twin sister Marley dropped into the passenger seat and blew her a kiss and hollered, "Love you more'n cotton candy at the county fair, old lady," she didn't remember how many times Marley's father had yelled the same thing over the top of a car before he drove away. Or, maybe she remembered-just a little-but the recollection only brought a wistful smile and a twinge, not the gut-wrenching pain it used to.

  When her older son Ben phoned, the soft consonants and long vowels of the south flowing through his voice as they had from the first moment he moved across the Mason-Dixon Line, she didn't close her eyes and think how much like his father he sounded. She didn't have to close her eyes-the thought came unbidden and unwelcome and she had to force her attention toward the philodendron that was scaling her kitchen wall like a benevolent kudzu vine.

  You've been apart as long as you were together. Get over it, for God's sake.

  When Joe called later to tell her happy birthday, hearing him speak didn't bring to mind the day she'd met him. The Bad Day. That long, hard day that had been the beginning of the end. If only they'd been smart enough to know it was the end, instead of taking something that had been killed outright and trying to breathe life back into it until there was no air left for any of them.

  But she didn't think of any of that. Not one single time on this, her legal birthday, the day she turned forty-two. Or, at least, only a little. Really.

  After the phone rang again that afternoon, though, she remembered it. And while she was flinging things into a suitcase, and as she waited in line at the airport to get on the plane bound for Pensacola, she thought about it. She got so lost in the memories that she forgot to move when the line did, and the man behind her bumped her with his carry-on.

  "I'm so sorry," she said automatically, moving ahead and then turning to him, and something in her eyes must have given him pause, because he apologized for bumping her, then picked up the bag she'd left sitting on the floor when she moved. He tossed it into the overhead compartment above her seat, then looked down at where she'd already taken her seat. "Will you be all right?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said. "Thank you." And she would. She could do this thing that had been asked of her. Four days at the most, and she would be headed back to Hamilton County, Indiana, for the life she'd created from the ashes of a former one. She'd go back to work in the corporate offices of Glad Rags, force herself to cut back her rampant philodendron, and walk four miles around her country block three times a week to try to regain control of a body that gravity was sending south.

  She would see Harlan Maguire buried, give what comfort she could to his wife, then flee as she had before. There was nothing wrong with a little good, honest cowardice. Nothing at all.

  She sat in the front row of first class and was grateful to be alone there, sipping white wine and staring out into the gathering darkness. She accepted the pillow and blanket the flight attendant offered and closed her eyes, thinking she must rest before facing what waited in Florida. But there was no ease in the scenery that seemed to present itself like a motion picture on the backs of her eyelids, so she looked out into the black night again.

  "Please, come." Ellis Ann Maguire's voice had trembled. She'd sounded older than the sixty-six Rags knew her to be. "I need you."

  "Where is Tell, Mama?" She shouldn't have called Ellis Ann Mama; she wasn't entitled any more, but the word had slipped out before she could stop it.

  "He's here, but I want you, Rags." The shaky voice hesitated, then, "Please."

  So Rags had packed her suitcase and her carryon and called people to tell them she was leaving. She'd stopped the paper and the mail and left a key with a neighbor. She'd watered the houseplants and the flowerbeds that sprang up in her yard among the willows and the sycamores and the cottonwoods that sang sad songs in the evening wind.

  She'd told Ellis Ann she would rent a car at the airport in Pensacola, but she wouldn't be surprised if she stepped into the terminal to find Sam waiting for her. Sam who was the Maguires' chauffeur, general factotum, and Tell's best friend. "Miss Rags," he'd say, beaming, and he'd try to make her ride in the back seat like a lady, but she'd sit up front with him and breathe in the scent of his wintergreen Lifesavers and the comfort of his raspy voice and not mind so much where she was going or who was going to be there.

  But all the time, as they rode through the night full of the sweet-smelling humidity that was an inherent part of the South, she would remember that today was more than the day the orphanage had declared to be her birthday. She would remember that twenty-three years ago today, she and Tell had promised to love and cherish each other and to forsake all others.

  And she would remember that twelve years ago today, she had learned that Tell hadn't meant that promise. He hadn't meant it at all.

  ~*~

  Tell's heart was thumping so hard, he wondered for a moment if it was failing the way his father's had. Fear made his mouth taste metallic, and he had to stop walking long enough to calm himself down. He was forty-four years old, for God's sake, not seventy, and he'd taken seriously the warnings thrown into his path.

  He paced through the terminal, checking the information screens each time he passed. The incoming flight from Indianapolis was on time, they said. How could it be on time when he'd been here for what seemed like hours?

  He wondered if Rags was still afraid to fly, if she still gulped white wine like it was water and arrived at her destination with her gray eyes soft and sleepy, her mouth relaxed into a pout that was so ill-suited to her face it was laughable.

  Rags. God, he hadn't seen
her in-what, two years? Yeah, that was right. They'd sat together at the twins' high school graduation. They'd been friendly, bending their heads together over the program, exchanging smiles when Micah and Marley received their diplomas. He'd given her his handkerchief when she'd sniffled at the first strains of "Pomp and Circumstance," and he'd been surprised that she didn't mail it to him later, washed and pressed. He knew she had his address, at least the one at the office.

  They'd hugged each other at the graduation party held in Rags' pretty country house, their cheeks brushing and their eyes meeting for a startled second of awareness. A breeze had meandered through the yard then, lifting their hair and cooling their cheeks, and they'd commented on how hot it was for it only being late May.

  The friendship they'd managed to find in the shards of their marriage encouraged the exchange of Christmas cards. Ones signed starkly at the bottom with "Rags" and "Tell."

  It was odd that she hadn't returned it, she'd so long disdained anything of his except the children. Maybe she'd sold it in one of those consignment stores of hers, advertising it as high-dollar cotton, scarcely used. It was monogrammed, but the letters were small and discreet; they could be hidden in a tricky fold.

  He stopped pacing and bought a cup of decaffeinated coffee, feeling a fresh wave of anger. Why had his mother insisted she needed Rags? Not that he minded their continuing friendship-they'd always gotten along-but why now, when his father had died and life was such a mess? What would have been wrong with Rags merely sending flowers?

  Tell could handle losing his father. There had been plenty of time to prepare for it. The grieving had already been done, way back in the days when Tell had wanted a father instead of a corporate chief. When he'd been a boy in a letterman's jacket and tight jeans, instead of a chip off the damn block.

  Seeing Rags for longer than a couple of hours was going to be different from the lighthearted evening of the twins' graduation. Not since the day their divorce was final had they spent time in the same room without the children as a buffer. They hadn't shared the front seat of a car, the cushions of a couch, or a meaningful conversation. They hadn't slept in the same house since he'd moved out of theirs; hadn't shared a bed in even longer.

  Tell swallowed some of his coffee, grimacing. His heart had stopped slamming against his ribs, but thinking of Rags was making its beat erratic. Fast and slow, hard and easy. A lot like their life together had been. The analogy made him smile even as the taste of metal hit his tongue again because of the irregular heartbeat. Could he live the rest of his life with fear as a bed partner?

  Ah, there it was. He stood at the full-length windows and watched the 727 coast to a stop. Hardly anyone waited in the gate area, and he wondered if the plane would be empty save for his ex-wife, if the world had finally stopped for her convenience. He used to throw that at her, when they were arguing. "Face it," he'd yell, "the world isn't gonna stop so Clarissa Aloysius Ragsdale Maguire can get off and hide from it."

  A wounded look used to slide across her eyes, then her face would go blank and she'd turn away from him. He'd end up feeling like a first-rate asshole.

  Which he guessed was fair, since he'd been a first-rate asshole.

  She was the first passenger to emerge from the corridor, and he blinked. Rags had flown first class? What in the hell had his mother said to her?

  And what in the same hell had she done to her hair? The long, heavy curls were gone and it was lighter brown than it used to be. It lay in airy waves that floated over her forehead and teased the sides of her face, and the look was flattering. The eyes he'd expected to be soft and dreamy were almost black with fatigue, the thin skin beneath them appearing bruised. The crow's feet and facial lines that had been barely visible two years ago had deepened. Her waist was a little thicker than he remembered, her bare upper arms heavier, her legs thinner.

  She stopped and looked around, not seeing him, and he saw surprise in her eyes before she walked on. A man who'd left the plane after her caught up with her and touched her arm, and Tell shook himself loose from his reverie and started toward the pair. He saw Rags smile and shake her head, then offer her hand to the other passenger.

  Good God, doesn't she know a come-on when she hears one? Annoyed, Tell quickened his step. "Rags?" His voice was harsh, but he didn't particularly care. It wasn't like he had wanted to pick up his wife at the airport at damn near midnight, after all. Ex-wife.

  She swung to face him, obviously startled by the sound of his voice, and her fragrance hit him with the force of a summer storm. She still wore the same light, flowery cologne that did nothing to hide the inherent cleanness of her. Sometimes, in the midst of passion, there had been a hint of wildness in her scent that he had loved. Toward the last, after the Bad Day, the wildness had never appeared. Of course, they'd seldom gone to what they called the wild place by then, either.

  The Bad Day. Their anniversary. Her birthday.

  Today.

  Oh, shit.

  ~*~

  She'd read a book once in which a nun had closed her eyes and mumbled, "In the name of Jesus Christ, go away," when she saw a dead body in a closet. Rags had laughed out loud and read that particular passage to Tell when he wanted to know what was funny about him doing pushups before bed.

  He was there to pick her up, not Sam. He looked-oh, Lord, he looked wonderful. Which he had no business doing when his father was dead and she'd just spent half the day in the air when she hated to fly. And it was the Bad Day, too. Did he remember that? She hoped he did and was as miserable as she was.

  Her bitter thoughts startled her. She and Tell had learned to co-exist on the same planet, had even smiled at each other and shared a hug when Micah and Marley graduated. But she wasn't ready to see him now, when she was exhausted and queasy and worried about his mother. She didn't want to see him when she looked like she'd been ridden hard and put away wet. Friendship with one's ex-husband was hard work at the best of times, and this wasn't one of those. Not even close.

  She looked up at him, tried to smile, and said, "In the name of Jesus Christ, go away."

  Tell looked startled, then his lips quirked into a familiar half smile and his eyes lit, turning the same blue as the Gulf of Mexico on a sunny day. "If I remember right," he said, "it didn't work for the body in the closet, either."

  The laugh rose unexpectedly from somewhere deep inside, and was out into the open before she could stop it. Oh, this was the insidious thing about ex-spouses, that they shared a history exclusive of everyone else. Long after you thought everything was behind you, Kodak moments still popped up and bit you on the butt. She knew from the tilt of his head that Tell was going to laugh, too, and she'd be able to see where his middle two teeth on the bottom overlapped ever so slightly.

  But he didn't laugh, though his smile widened. He reached for the carry-on. "Do you have luggage?"

  She nodded. "One bag."

  "Let's get that. Are you hungry?"

  "No." Had she been staring at his coffee cup? She wasn't hungry, but she was ready for a jolt of caffeine. Coffee always served to right the upset of her stomach after flying. Would he remember that?

  "We'll stop at the Pancake House and get you some coffee anyway. I'd offer you this, but believe me when I say you wouldn't want it."

  Outside the terminal, Rags lifted her head, fancying she could smell the Gulf. She wished she were going to the beach instead of to the opulent house on Glory Ridge Highway that offered the scent of the Gulf but not the sight, or the feel, or the wonderful, rushing sound.

  They talked stiltedly of the children over two cups of coffee at a Pancake House, their knees so close under the table she thought she felt the hair on his legs brushing against her. Tell avoided the subject of his father, and Rags respected that; she didn't want to talk about Harlan Maguire, either.

  Not until they were on the long bridge that led to the beach did she realize they'd bypassed the Glory Ridge estate. "Where are we going?" she asked. "Did your parents move and
the children didn't tell me?"

  "I built a house on the beach." he explained briefly. "My mother's there because Father wanted to die near the water."

  Not only had Tell built a house on the beach, he'd built her house on the beach. From the strawberry-ice-cream color of its stucco walls to the white-railed porches, the big house was the one Rags had constructed a hundred times in her dreams. She still had the rough plans he'd drawn her stuffed away somewhere. She shifted her gaze from the house to Tell, unable to speak.

  "I don't know why," he said, answering the unasked question. "Maybe, like the kids, it was a good idea no matter what. It's bigger, though, with no Victorian towers or gingerbread woodwork."

  "It's beautiful."

  He nodded. "Let's go inside. You look exhausted."

  She was, but she didn't want him telling her she looked that way. She got out of the car and closed the door with a slight slam. "Ellis Ann won't be up, will she?"

  "No. We've talked her into taking a sleeping pill."

  "We?" Oh, dear God, he has a woman here. Maybe he's engaged or married again. I don't mind it happening, but I don't want my face shoved into it. Not today of all days, when I can hardly even bear to be alive.

  "Her doctor and I." Amusement threaded through his voice as he opened the door that led into the house and gestured her in ahead of him. "Sam?" He spoke a little louder.

  The big black man, looking only slightly older than he had twelve years ago, came into view. "Miss Rags." He took her in his arms without ceremony, and she snuggled in, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You look peaked," he accused.

  "Flying," she explained, pulling back. "It still doesn't agree with me. You got anything to eat?"

  "All ready for you in the breakfast room." He pointed toward a window-lined room beyond the kitchen. "Tell, you had some calls while you were out. Must be California people, calling in the middle of the night like that."

  "Probably. I'll check later." Tell waved a dismissive hand. "Did you make enough for you and me, too, Sam?"