Nick All Night

by Cheryl St. John

  That was wrong. He’d seen her in her underwear before. Her mother had a home movie of them playing in a wading pool in their underpants, for heaven’s sake! Even though Ryanne was two years older than Nick, she’d considered him a friend and a confidant all through high school.

  Never in all those times had their relationship waded into these unfamiliar waters. She didn’t think she liked the turn it had taken. “Probably not? What does that mean?”

  He turned back to his task. “You figure it out.”

  “What kind of cop-out comment is that?”

  “Let it go, Rye,” he said.

  His words angered her, but at the same time the vulnerability in them touched her. She forced her mind to release the questions she’d formed. She’d come over here for Mel’s sake, not for a heart-to-heart or to make amends with Nick, and it was past time to leave. His apology had been unexpected.

  But strangely welcome, she admitted to herself.

  She hung the towel on a hook. Her head was too messed up to get into anything like this, and all she wanted was to be left to herself, anyway. “Thanks again.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Bye.” She was out the door before he could reply. All the way across the yard that separated their houses, she felt like she was being watched. Maybe he was standing at the back door, watching her go. Maybe the neighbors were on full alert, garnering news for the rumor mill. She glanced at the houses that had been built across the alley behind their yards in the last ten or so years.

  When she reached her driveway, she looked toward the west at the house on the other side, and saw Audrey Milligan in blue polyester pants and Reebok running shoes, watering her rose bushes. At least some things never changed. The blue-haired woman waved. “Hi, sweetie! I didn’t know you were home!”

  Picking up her bucket and supplies and carrying them to the garage, Ryanne replied, “Yes, just taking a little vacation.”

  “We’re having ice cream in the park tomorrow night. Don’t forget to join us.”

  Ryanne waved and smiled and put away her bucket. Her Viper was dry, so she pulled it into the garage to protect the paint from the sun.

  She put it in Park, checked the windows and ran her palms over the luxurious leather seat beneath her bottom. A bundle of mail she’d picked up before leaving had fallen to the floor and been buried under bags and boxes, so she picked it up now, closed and locked the wooden garage doors, and carried the mail to the house.

  She reached for the knob on the back door, realizing she hadn’t locked it before leaving. Nobody ever locked their doors in Elmwood; she’d forgotten that. In fact, anyone locking a door usually got yelled at, because people didn’t carry keys. The interior door stuck for a moment, but swung inward after she gave it a healthy shove.

  Ryanne tossed the envelopes on the table and glanced around the kitchen. The refrigerator was one of those old ones with rounded corners and big coils on the back. The faucets on the sink were the old-fashioned enamel kind, and the cast-iron sink itself had a fabric skirt around the bottom. Clean and tidy. In good repair.

  She pulled out a chrome and red vinyl chair and sat. Three of the envelopes were from the IRS. The others were assorted bills. The jerk had even charged airfare and clothing on a credit card before he left.

  One letter was from a former client, expressing his condolences over her situation. How many of them had learned the truth through the grapevine? She had told a few in person, but the whole process had been too humiliating, and she’d forsaken the rest of her list.

  Ryanne buried her head in her hands. The wonder girl of Griffin Park had been laid low. By now everyone knew. She thought back over the past two years and tried again to understand how she’d never suspected Mason. She was a fool, and anyone as foolish as she’d been deserved to be taken. She’d thought and considered and wondered until she’d driven herself crazy with self-condemnation.

  But even understanding how it had happened, or knowing exactly when and what her ex-husband had done to undermine her and their company, wouldn’t fix the problem. Nothing but a wad of cash was going to pacify the government. And she was fresh out of cash.

  She lowered her face, and the laminate tabletop felt cool against her cheek. She was a person of action. She shouldn’t be sitting here feeling sorry for herself. She couldn’t wait for the anger to leave, or for the humiliation and shock to wear off. She could be waiting until people in hell got that ice water.

  She had a prescription, something to take the edge off when the hellish thoughts got really bad, but she hated taking the pills. She’d taken them for a week before she realized that not feeling at all was worse than being miserable, and she’d stopped.

  Taking action, she got up and went into the dining room, where she’d stacked boxes containing her stereo equipment and computer. She would put the stereo together first. That way she could listen to her CDs, play something soothing.

  Then she’d get hook up the computer and get online. She had a résumé to update and research to do. She was going to fix her life. Or die crying.

  Later that afternoon Nick hoed along a row of pole beans and bent to pull weeds away from his watermelon plants. The beating sun was hot on his back and shoulders, and sweat ran down his spine, but the humidity hadn’t kicked in yet. He straightened and stretched. The sun and heat lent a torpid tiredness that felt sinfully good. It would be great to lie down and sleep. Close his eyes and let blankness close around him, block out everything.

  He pulled off his cap, closed his eyes and raised his face to the sun. Bright light was supposed to shut off melatonin production, but when he got out here he sure felt like he could sleep.

  But he couldn’t do it. Daytime sleeping was on his list of no-nos, no matter how tempting it was, no matter how tired he got, no matter how much exhaustion overcame him. No, in fact—he pulled on his cap and glanced at his watch—this was his scheduled time for worrying.

  He scoffed at himself, but had to believe this strategy was working. Since grief and regret and worry were the things that kept him from sleeping nights, he was supposed to get them out of the way during the day. Thing was, he didn’t want to think about this stuff. He wanted to put it behind him and forget about it. Dragging it out and dwelling on it deliberately seemed warped.

  But he thought anyway—morbid speculation coming to him unbidden at night, stealing sleep, stealing peace—so the theory was to get it over with during the day.

  All right. Justin. Today his dad had seemed melancholy when he’d spoken to Ryanne about the past. Every time Justin’s name came from his father’s mouth, Nick felt responsible for his pain. For years, all Nick had been able to do was think of all the ways he could have prevented Justin’s death. Hindsight was indeed twenty-twenty, as the old saying went.

  He’d been nineteen years old, trying to work and go to college, taking responsibility for a rebellious kid brother with no mother and a father who had to work two jobs to support them. Justin had been in so many scrapes that Nick had ceased telling their father about them, sparing him the added worry. Nick’s mother had barely been gone a year, and Mel was still grieving.

  Only the week before Justin’s death, Nick had received a call from him, asking Nick to come get him in a nearby town. He’d been with friends at a party where there had been drinking. When deputies were called to the scene, Justin had managed to run away and call home.

  The night of Justin’s death, Nick had been in the garage, finally taking a couple of hours to work on the Chevy he’d been restoring, and Justin had stopped in, asking Nick to accompany him to a party.

  “Come on, Nick, loosen up and have a little fun. Come with us,” he’d said.

  “You’d better not be drinking again this time.”

  “I’m not hurting anybody. Geez, you’re so uptight, you’d think I was killing somebody.”

  Nick had looked him over impatiently. “All you ever think about is fun. You never think ahead to what it’s going to cost. I’m ti
red of coming to your rescue, Justin. I’m tired of covering for you. Stop. Look at what you’re doing and grow up.”

  “I’m still a kid,” he’d argued. “I have plenty of time to grow up, not that I want to. I don’t want to be a downer like you. Come with us. You can keep me out of trouble.”

  “I shouldn’t have to watch over your every move. Use your head, for cryin’ out loud.”

  “I just want to have some fun.”

  “Getting hammered and driving is not fun,” Nick argued.

  “You’re so lame,” Justin complained. “You’d think you were my father, instead of my brother.”

  Nick had seen red at that. He liked to have as much fun as the next person, he just had more on his mind and less free time. In frustration, he threw a wrench across the garage, where it hit the wall and clanged to the cement floor with a harmless clatter. “Why can’t you see? Someone has to take some responsibility! Life isn’t all fun and games. Those friends of yours are losers.”

  “You’re just jealous because I have friends to hang out with!” Justin kicked a metal trash can and headed away from the garage. “What about Holly? Is she a loser, too?”

  “My guess is you’re disappointing her too.”

  “You don’t know anything about me and Holly.”

  “Stay out of trouble, Justin. I’m not coming to bail you out this time.”

  “I never asked you to.”

  “Oh? Who was that who called me last Friday night to come get him at 2:00 a.m.? Sure sounded like you. Looked like you when I got there, too.”

  Justin yanked open his car door. “Go to hell, Nick. I don’t need you.”

  “Good. Because I have a life, too.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. You and your honey, there. Have a real good time together tonight.”

  With hurt and anger making his head ache, Nick had watched the taillights of Justin’s car disappear down the lane.

  He had worked on the carburetor until he was so tired his eyes burned and his vision blurred, then he’d scrubbed his hands and nails, showered and sat at the kitchen table with a can of soda and a sandwich. He’d been turning off the lights to go to bed when the phone rang.

  Mentally gathering himself for another plea for help, and fully expecting bad news, he hadn’t been a bit surprised when the voice at the other end of the line had been Sheriff Cody’s.

  “I need to talk to your father, Son,” the man had said gently.

  “He’s asleep, Sheriff. He has to get up early. I can handle the problem.”

  “Not this time, Nick. I really need you to go wake up your dad.”

  “What is it?” he asked, his anger turning to fear. “Has something happened?”

  “Get your dad, Son.”

  With a sick feeling in his stomach, Nick had placed the receiver on the counter and sprinted up the stairs to his father’s room. Roused from sleep, Mel had slouched on the side of the bed and reached for the phone on the bedside table. “This is Mel Sinclair. What? When? How bad? Oh my God. Oh my God.”

  Nick’s heart had raced painfully, waiting for the bad news that was to come. He’d never forgotten the words, the stricken look on his father’s face, the gut-wrenching feeling of shame and guilt. Nick heard the words every night when he tried to sleep, saw his father’s face, felt his anguish all the way to his soul.

  He could have been there. He could have gone along. He could have prevented Justin from driving his car. He could have spared his father from losing a son.

  The perfectly tuned throb of a powerful engine, the sound like a Beethoven concerto to a music lover’s ears, brought Nick out of his depressing musings. He glanced toward the house next door and saw the red Viper glide into the driveway and pull to a smooth stop at the rear of the house. The engine cut. The door on the far side opened and Ryanne got out. She was still wearing those shorts. Damn.

  With a purse slung over her shoulder, and clutching several bulging plastic grocery bags, she glanced his way.

  She’d caught him looking, so he gave a hesitant wave. Hands full, she nodded and smiled.

  He went back to his weeds, trying not to notice the way her shorts hugged her backside and left her slender thighs exposed as she climbed the stairs. The scorching image of her in her miniscule underwear had been burned into his retinas. Could he forget it? Ha. Not in this lifetime.

  The jingle of her keys reached him. The plastic bags rustled. Nick glanced up to see her holding the screen open while jiggling the lock and leaning against the heavy door. She set her purse down on the small wooden platform that served as a back porch, used the leather bag to prop the screen door open, and tried again.

  After a couple of minutes, Nick removed his work gloves, wiped his palms against his faded jeans and walked over. “Can I give you a hand?”

  She glanced up, her hair tucked behind an ear, exasperation plain on her flustered face. “I don’t know what’s the matter with the darned thing. It stuck this morning, too, but I got it open by pushing.”

  Nick climbed the stairs. Her gaze flitted uncomfortably across his bare chest. He hadn’t had a shirt handy to pull on. To give her somewhere else to look, he pushed his sunglasses up on his head. She met his eyes, hesitation and embarrassment obvious in the blue depths of hers. “I didn’t think anybody locked their doors around here,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Old habits are hard to break.”

  Was it just that they’d once been close friends and that her expressions were all sweetly familiar that he thought her so lovely? He didn’t believe so. She had the widest blue eyes he’d ever seen, and her lips were full and soft-looking. Half a dozen shots and a concussion wouldn’t dull the ardor that was giving him an ache in his groin. “Let me try it once.”

  “What?” Her cheeks turned pink. “Oh.” She dangled the set of keys toward him, the door key pinched between her fingers and thumb.

  Nick took them, their hands brushing.

  She stepped back like a stranger would. They were strangers now, after all. And she was a married woman.

  He inserted the key and it turned in the lock immediately. The door itself, however, wouldn’t budge. He inspected the wood. “No dead bolt inside or anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Must be swollen from the heat.” He leaned a shoulder against it and shoved.

  With a wrenching sound, the door popped open.

  Nick stepped into the doorway and examined the frame. “I can plane a little off here and here, and it’ll work fine.”

  “I don’t want you to go to any trouble,” she said uneasily, a frown creasing her forehead.

  He looked at her over his shoulder. She’d picked up her purse and the groceries. “It’ll take five minutes. Your mom always lets me fix things for her.”

  Ryanne raised one brow. “I could do it myself if you want to loan me the plane.”

  “What are neighbors for?”

  She seemed reluctant, but finally nodded in acquiescence.

  Nick stepped past her, out onto the stoop. “I’ll be right back.”

  Before he went to the garage for his tools, he entered his kitchen for the T-shirt he’d left on the back of a chair, and pulled it on, hanging his sunglasses from the neck opening.

  When he returned, the door stood open, and Ryanne was nowhere in sight. He took the opportunity to walk around the gleaming red car, peek through the window at the dash and check out the speedometer. He’d heard these things could really move.

  “I got it up to 178 on a straightaway coming through Nevada,” she said from the back door.

  Damn. Busted, drooling on her fender.

  Chapter Three

  He turned away from the car, but didn’t meet her eyes. “Seriously,” he said.

  “Seriously.”

  “Have any idea how dangerous that was?”

  “You mean because of the cops, Sheriff?”

  “Risky with your life, I mean.”

  “Yeah, well, you only live once. Might as well go
out in style.”

  Her flippant remark hit him like a gut punch, but he masked it quickly. That daredevil attitude had always driven him crazy, and she knew it. But she hadn’t meant it, not really. She wasn’t careless. She’d made something of her life, hadn’t wasted herself like Justin had. Nick raised his gaze to look at her through the screen.

  She shrugged, a gesture that seemed more offhand than he believed she truly was. She turned and disappeared back inside.

  He took a hammer and a screwdriver and loosened the bolts that held the wooden door, then removed them and maneuvered the door from its hinges and down the back stairs. He laid it on the ground, then propped it on edge between his knees, and planed aged paint and a thin layer of wood from the offending spots.

  Inside the kitchen, silverware tinkled and water ran.

  Finished, he smoothed sandpaper over the edges, then climbed the stairs and used the sandpaper on the door frame, too.

  “Still like lemonade?” she asked from inside.

  He glanced into the kitchen, the interior dim after the bright sunlight. Nothing in the room ever changed. A chrome table and chairs stood beneath the window. The refrigerator was one of those squatty antiquities with rounded corners. “I still like it. You gonna charge me a quarter?”

  She opened the refrigerator and the small metal door of the freezer, then jimmied out an ice cube tray, a motion that made her butt wiggle. “Heard of inflation here in Iowa?” she called. “Lemonade is a buck fifty now.”

  Nick chuckled, finished the sanding and carried the door back. “I’m going to need you to help me line up the hinges.”

  She stood behind the door and helped him guide it into place.

  Leaning back slightly, he fished in his hip pocket, then held the bolts out to her. “Can you slip them in if I hold it steady?”

  She had to take his hammer and tap the hinges gently to get them aligned, and within a few minutes they were finished. The door opened and shut smoothly.