Simple Misconception (Jordan James, PI Series)

by Rachel Sharpe

  As I did, I was greeted with a twinge of pain in my left arm. Positioning the phone between my ear and right shoulder, I pulled my dress aside. I stared at the scar. I had finished physical therapy several weeks earlier, but the pain and stiffness remained. If, for some reason, you’ve ever found yourself wondering, I would not recommend getting shot. The initial pain is bad, but the recovery is far worse.

  “Jordan?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m here.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. Just my stupid arm hurts.”

  “Your arm? Does this have something to do with getting your mom’s car impounded?”

  “No, this has something to do with getting a bullet lodged in it this summer.”

  “Oh, that.”

  “Hey, thanks for the concern.”

  “Come on, Jordan, you know I care.” She trailed off. I heard the sound of keyboard keys clicking. I suddenly realized that it was Friday and she was probably at the studio working. “All right. Are you going to tell me what happened? Or am I going to have to beat it out of you next week?”

  “It wasn’t that big a deal, just a misunderstanding.”

  “Really? Did you misunderstand street signs?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  The clicking stopped. Uh-oh.

  “What do you mean you don’t know? You got the car impounded, right? You weren’t, like, carjacked or something, were you?” She waited for my response. Unfortunately, I had none. I had none because I still didn’t remember leaving it on Decatur Street in the first place. “Jordan? You’re scaring me. What happened?”

  “I wasn’t carjacked. It’s not . . . I . . . Okay, look. I ran into Natalie on Wednesday.”

  “Natalie? Natalie who?”

  “Who do you think?” I rolled my eyes. “Weisman. I was getting coffee—”

  “Natalie Weisman? How is that even possible? She’s been in the Czech Republic for, like, three years or whatever.”

  “Estonia. And she’s back. Did you know she was married?”

  “Natalie? Married? You’re kidding, right? What’s he look like?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t meet him. She’s divorced. No, separated. I don’t know. He had a really weird name.”

  “What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Okay.” Heather enunciated the word with an annoying slowness. “Well, I can’t spend all day playing twenty questions with you, so why don’t you just tell me what happened? The short version, please.”

  “I was getting to that when you interrupted me.”

  “My humble apologies.”

  “I ran into Natalie at the coffee shop on Wednesday. She asked if I wanted to hang out. We did. I ended up forgetting about the car and it was impounded.” Standing up, I walked across the room to my old closet. Opening the door, I added, “The end.”

  “The end?” Heather scoffed. “Don’t give me that. I said I wanted the short version, not what you’ll tell your parents. What happened?”

  “That’s what happened,” I insisted. I searched the closet for something to wear. I found a pair of dark blue designer jeans in the far corner. Leaning against the doorframe, I studied them.

  “That’s not all that happened,” Heather retorted. I could hear the clicking again, this time, more furiously. She must have been on a deadline or something. “With Natalie Weisman, things are never that simple.”

  “Critical much?” I shook my head.

  “Evading much?” Heather challenged. “Come on, Jordan, it’s me. Remember? Your best friend? I don’t think I’m asking much for a little more in the way of 4-1-1 here.”

  Great, I thought, tossing the jeans on my bed. Guilt. Like I won’t be getting enough of that the next two weeks.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” I began, rummaging through my closet again, this time for a shirt. “I really don’t remember what happened exactly.”

  “You don’t remember what happened?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “How can you not remember?” Heather trailed off and sighed. “Natalie. Right. Should’ve known. Now it makes sense.”

  “Now what makes sense?” Debating between a blue, long-sleeved scoop-neck shirt and a pink, button-down one, I felt the hair on my neck stand up at her inference. “What are you suggesting?”

  “Don’t get defensive.” She clicked her tongue. “It’s just . . . Come on, Jordan. We both know who we’re talking about here. Natalie’s not exactly a paradigm of wise decisions.”

  “And what’re you saying about me then?”

  “I’m not saying anything about you,” she groaned, the keys still clicking on her keyboard. Finally, the sound stopped. “Look, Jordan, just be careful, okay? I know you think I’m being obnoxious or whatever, but I’ve known Natalie since we were five. She’s nice, she’s fun, but she’s not always smart. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  Deciding on the blue shirt, I threw it on my bed with the jeans. I hung the other shirt back in the closet. I knew Heather was waiting for a reply, but I wasn’t in a hurry to give it. I knew her request was not meant as a personal slight, but a genuine plea out of concern for my safety. One of the greatest things about my friendship with Heather, and believe me, there were plenty of them, was that she could reach me.

  She was one of the only people who knew what to say and how to say it to get through to me. I’m not going so far as to suggest I’m hardheaded or stubborn, but once I have my mind set, it would take an Act of Congress to get me to change it. An Act of Congress, or a few choice words from Heather. Still, being talked to like an obstinate toddler by my best friend was not how I wanted to start my day. Slipping out of my dress, I grabbed the jeans. I put them on. I had just picked up the shirt when I realized Heather was calling my name.

  “Jordan!”

  “What?”

  “Hey, eighty-six the attitude. I’ve gotta go, but I want an answer.”

  “Answer to what?”

  “Geez, Jordan, look into getting Ritalin or something. I said I want you to give me your word.”

  “My word on what?” I pulled my arms into the sleeves. I was holding the phone away from my ear and yanked the shirt over my head. As I did, I could hear her talking, but not the words. “Um, repeat that.”

  “Again? Forget the prescription. Get an MRI. Your brain isn’t working.”

  “Hey, I don’t have to take this abuse from you. I’ve got an entire family full of baby fever and manic holiday cheer waiting to abuse me.”

  “Maybe so, but as your best friend, I get first dibs.”

  “Hmph.”

  “Just don’t do anything stupid.” She paused. “Don’t do anything else stupid.”

  “Can’t make any promises.”

  “Ugh. Whatever. At least don’t get yourself arrested or killed before Christmas Eve. I still need that ride.”

  “Got it.”

  “Later.”

  “Bye.”

  Ending the call, I tossed the phone on my bed. I stretched. Although I was still tired, at least I felt a lot better than I had waking up the morning before. Grabbing my makeup bag, I walked down the hall to the bathroom. After getting ready, I checked the time. It was about ten-thirty. As far as I knew, I had no plans until later that night, whenever Natalie decided to call me. Knowing her, that might not be until ten.

  I had already done all my Christmas shopping before flying home, a pretty impressive accomplishment for me. That left me with twelve hours to kill and nothing to do. Walking out of the bathroom, I glanced over the balcony as I made my way back to my room. The living room was deserted, but a light in the hallway suggested my father was in his study.

  Considering
we hadn’t had any conversations since “the incident,” I decided I should do my best to avoid him. I could only imagine what he would have to say to me if we did cross paths. Once safely back in my room, I heard a beep on my phone. I was surprised to see I had a text from Charlie asking if I wanted to give him a hand with Alicia’s super-secret Christmas gift. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I shrugged.

  ‘Sure,’ I texted, adding a smiley face for effect.

  Thirty minutes later, Charlie pulled up into the driveway. I hurried down the stairs and out the front door before he had a chance to unbuckle his seatbelt. I knew that my mother was not home, but I still did not want to run into my father. Opening the front door, I was greeted by a blast of chilly air. For a moment, I considered going back upstairs for a jacket. Reminding myself that chill would probably not last more than an hour, I continued my jog down the driveway.

  “In a hurry?” he asked, rolling down the window and grinning.

  “You could say that.” I smiled back, walking around the car to the passenger side.

  Although I appreciated the “parole,” it was short-lived. Charlie never told me what the gift was, but after a trip to Lowes and Target for various supplies, including paint brushes, wood stain, and sealant, I was completely stumped as to what the “super-secret gift” could be. I assumed by asking for my help, he might let me in on it, but all he wanted to know was which colors I liked better for the stain. I didn’t see how I was helping him, but I was happy for the distraction. On the way back to my parents’ house, we had a quick lunch at a local sandwich shop.

  “Later, sis.” He winked as he backed his car down the driveway. I watched him drive away.

  Glancing at my wristwatch, I realized it was almost one. Yawning, I unlocked the front door. I walked inside. The alarm chirped, but again, did not sound. I heard no other sounds. I noticed the light in my father’s study was off. I figured he must have left, possibly to go to the office. Kicking off my Sperrys in the foyer, I walked through the living room and down the hall to the den. Smaller than the living room and way less formal, the den was the only room in which my mother allowed us to keep a television. It was also the only room people really liked hanging out, especially during football season.

  All the furniture in the living room was stiff and formal. The den, on the other hand, housed far more comfortable furniture, including an oversized, brown leather sectional couch and my father’s favorite easy chair. Since I left home, he had upgraded the room a bit, removing the beige carpet and replacing it with five-inch, oak wood floors and installing a built-in, wall-sized, solid wood entertainment center that held his brand-new, seventy-two-inch flat screen. Lastly, he had the room wired for surround sound and prime speakers installed.

  I always made a point to utilize the improvements during my visits home. Grabbing the remote, I turned on the television and began searching for something to watch. After blazing through about eight hundred channels of junk, I finally settled on the ‘90s classic, Clueless.

  It had just reached the point in the movie where Cher and Dionne decided to fix Tai when my phone beeped. It was a text from Alicia. She was reminding me that we still needed to talk, but that she was at work all day.

  Somewhere between the Christmas party in the Valley scene and the one where Cher gets mugged at gunpoint, I drifted off. When I opened my eyes, Clueless had been replaced by the ‘90s flop Bio-Dome. I quickly switched the channel. The local news announced it was almost five. How I managed to sleep for that long eluded me, but I decided to blame it on exhaustion and my dad’s super-comfy new couch. Yawning, I stretched.

  My phone beeped. Scooping it off the cushion, I saw that I had another message from Alicia. This time, she was reminding me that tomorrow night was Christmas in the Oaks with the family, which, to Alicia, included both our family and Charlie’s. That meant my parents would finally have to deal with me, and in a very public setting. I assumed Carter would be forced to go, too, which meant double the awkward, tense family fun. Whoo-hoo!

  The event, which is marketed as the “most spectacular lights festival in the country,” is held in City Park during the Christmas holidays and lasts through the New Year. It had been renamed Celebration in the Oaks a long time ago, but to me, it would always be Christmas in the Oaks. Every year since I could remember, my mother carted us to it the Saturday before Christmas. It was a family tradition.

  Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed walking through the Botanical Gardens, always decorated to the hilt, which included an impressive, twelve-foot tall poinsettia tree, but usually, Heather came with us. That’s what made all the hyper, holiday cheer bearable. That, and when we were younger, sneaking off to meet up with friends in Storyland, another area of the Park filled with dated and somewhat creepy-looking replicas of Mother Goose’s timeless tales. I had a lot of great memories from those days. This year, I would be on my own. Yikes.

  6

  “Morning.”

  “Um, it’s, like, six-thirty. At night.”

  “Really? Huh. Okay.”

  “Jet lag still getting you?”

  “That, and a couple Jager bombs.”

  “Right. So what’s up?”

  “Still meeting up?”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  Earmarking my book, I tossed it on the nightstand. I wanted to meet up with Natalie, if for no other reason than to break the monotony of spending uninterrupted time alone with my thoughts, but I wasn’t sure how I could pull it off. Neither of my parents had said a word to me about the car since my mother’s minor meltdown in my room the night before. Still, something told me if they found out I was planning to go out again, they might have a problem with that. No, they would definitely have a problem with that. Adult or not, I was still in my parents’ home. Sighing, I shut my eyes.

  “Can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Oh, no reason, just, you know, getting my mom’s car impounded on Decatur.”

  She laughed. “Oh, is that where we left it?”

  “Yeah, that’s where we left it. I don’t even remember it.”

  “You were pretty out of it.” She laughed again. “When was the last time you had tequila?”

  “Tequila?” Rolling my eyes, I groaned. “No wonder I felt so bad.”

  “You felt bad? Probably wasn’t the tequila then.”

  “There was more?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “What? Wait. No. Don’t tell me. I don’t think I want to know.”

  At this, she burst out laughing. It was a warm, infectious laugh. Before I could stop myself, I was laughing, too. “Man, Jamestown. I’ve missed you. Sure you can’t meet up?” Pausing, she asked, “Hold on. You’re not, like, grounded or something for the car. I mean, you’re twenty-six.”

  My face flushed. I was grateful we were having this conversation on the phone instead of in person. Laughing, I scoffed. “What? No. Nothing like that.”

  I hoped she would drop it at that, but no such luck.

  “Okay, then what is it?” Girl’s unrelenting.

  “It’s just, well, I’ve got a lot of family stuff to do.”

  “Family stuff?” she repeated. “Tonight?”

  “Well, no, not tonight.”

  “Then you can meet up.”

  “I’d like to, but . . .” I hesitated, staring at my toes. The red polish I had applied two days earlier was already peeling. Shaking my head and cursing myself for buying such a cheap product, I got up. I began rummaging through my makeup bag for the bottle to touch it up. “After the car thing, I just know my mom won’t let me borrow it again. Not right now, at least.”

  “Is that all? Then I’ll come get you.”

  I stopped painting my nail. “You will?”

  “Sure. Give me, like, twenty minu
tes. Your parents still live in the same place? That two-story in Ashwood Estates? Across the street from, what’s her name, Jennifer Marshall’s old place, right?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “I’ll be there in twenty. Hmm, make that thirty.”

  “Nat, I appreciate it, but how’re you going to do that? You don’t have a car.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “See you in a few.”

  ~ ~ ~

  An hour and a half later, I heard a car pulling into the driveway. Using my index finger as a bookmark, I walked over to the window. I peeked through the blinds. In my driveway sat what, through the darkness, appeared to be a silver convertible. Leaving the book on my nightstand, I hurried down the hall and into the bathroom. Although I wasn’t thrilled with my outfit, a blue, long-sleeved, button-down V-neck I found in Alicia’s old closet, a pair of dark skinny jeans, and tan wedge sandals, it would have to suffice.

  Taking off my shoes, I tiptoed downstairs barefoot. I had made it all the way to the foyer when I heard, “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  As the words fell from my mother’s lips, the doorbell rang. She gave me a suspicious frown. Brushing past me, she opened it. There, with her blonde hair illuminated by the bright carriage light beside my parents’ front door, stood Natalie. She wore a flowy, white, scoop-neck blouse, jean shorts, and dress sandals with a slight lift. In the seventy-two-degree weather, her outfit was the more appropriate choice.

  “Natalie.” My mother sounded surprised to find my old friend standing on the steps. Ever the consummate hostess, she opened the door all the way. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Thanks,” Natalie replied, offering my mother a polite half-smile. She stepped into the foyer.

  “So, Natalie, what, uh, what are you doing here?” My mother’s eyes were trained on Natalie, like a shark looking for weakness. I began to panic.