The Mud Sisters

by Edie Claire

  Her voice drifted off as she became lost in thought. When she realized Eric was smiling at her, her mind trained back to the present. “What?”

  “You were always brainstorming something or other,” he explained. “If not how to do things better at the restaurant, then how you were going to make your million. For a while there you were talking about law school, most likely because Steve and Brian kept pushing you about it. They thought you’d make a great litigator.”

  A warmth pulsed through Jamie’s limbs. She knew she liked those guys. They hadn’t eaten all those buffalo wings just to ogle her cleavage. They had respected her. And so, she was certain, had Eric.

  “Did you think I should go to law school?” she asked.

  His mouth drew into an odd half smile. “Actually, no. I thought you’d find it boring. You were more of a hands-on person. You liked what was concrete and practical, as opposed to legal lingo and theories.”

  Jamie considered. He was right. “So you advised me against it?” she asked, curious.

  To her surprise, he laughed out loud. “Advising you was pretty pointless, Jamie. But I did point out that a business degree would take four years instead of seven. Besides, it was clear you had the savvy for it. Your ideas about how Vermelli’s could be made more profitable made a lot of sense.”

  Desks. Chalkboards. Papers. Books. Computer lab. Library fines. Grade reports in the mail. Straight As. One completely undeserved B in astronomy. But she would show that asshole, wouldn’t she? The nerve!

  Jamie’s eyes widened as the images came on at light speed, tumbling over one another in a massive, chaotic rush. “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  Eric turned his head toward her. “What is it?”

  She swallowed hard. “I just remembered all these things about school… all at once. Here I’ve been trying all day and couldn’t remember squat about going to Pitt, and then I’m just sitting here and all of sudden—” she broke off, unable to find the right words. “It’s just so strange how it happens. I can’t describe it.”

  She looked over at Eric. “I thought college would be hard, but it wasn’t. I hardly studied at all.”

  “I’m not surprised. You were great at memorizing things. You never wrote down an order.” He offered a good-natured smirk. “I was plenty jealous of that talent.”

  Jamie grinned back. “That’s right. I would sit down the night before a test, memorize everything, and then spit it right back out. I didn’t have any trouble working at the same time, either. Heck, school was like a break for me. And then, I got that job…”

  Her thoughts moved forward swiftly again, too swiftly for her voice to follow. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. Eric didn’t interrupt. “I got some kind of a desk job,” she finished finally. “But I can’t remember where. I just remember that doing it was so easy I couldn’t believe I was getting paid.”

  “You mean after you graduated?” he asked hopefully.

  “No. Before that. It was a work/study thing.” She concentrated hard, attempting to remember graduation, a job hunt, anything that might bring her closer to the present. Her last, precious paycheck. Her bank account. Her apartment? But her most recent images still fell short. All her memories were of being a student.

  “That’s all,” she said finally, releasing a pent-up breath. She was disappointed, but not very. She had remembered one thing that meant a lot to her. “I know I did well,” she announced, aware that her cheeks were reddening. “I made the Dean’s List every term.” So there.

  Eric chuckled. “Of course you did. You’re smart, and you’re a fighter. You always did get whatever you set your mind to.”

  Jamie relaxed in her seat. Maybe he was right about her. Once she set her goals, she was as relentless as a pit bull. She had been determined to finish college, get a business degree, and get a good job managing a restaurant—or some other sort of business. But restaurants were what she knew, and what she had a passion for.

  Just not waiting tables. She would never wait tables again.

  “I wanted a job managing a restaurant,” she proclaimed. “But I don’t know if I ever got one.”

  Eric turned his head toward her, and for a second his eyes held hers with a glimmer of affection. “Believe me,” he responded. “If that’s what you wanted, that’s what you got.”

  His gaze returned to the traffic, but Jamie continued to watch his face. He was a good guy. A good man. No doubt she had treated him badly once, and her reappearance now hardly delighted him. But still, he was willing to help her. To boost her spirits, make her feel better about herself.

  He was right about her. She did always get what she wanted—eventually. No matter how tough the effort. No matter how long it took. She was the queen of delayed gratification, an anomaly in her generation, apparently. She had always known what she wanted. She had always been willing to work for it.

  For one heady moment her ego soared, but all too soon it deflated again. The other thing was still there, brooding. The closer her memories came to the present, the more she could feel it—a deep, festering worry lurking just around the corner of her brain, reminding her that everything had not turned out all right. That after so many years of single-minded scratching, clawing, and striving, somewhere along the line, she had made a mistake.

  A mistake that had almost killed her.

  ***

  Jamie followed Eric into his warm, quaint old house, feeling more awkward with every step. She shouldn’t have accepted his offer to come in for something hot to drink. She should have gone straight back to her garage apartment and waited for the detective there.

  But she didn’t want to. The preferences of her mood usually won out over any desire to be polite or appropriate, and today was no exception. She wanted to stay with Eric a while longer. She didn’t care to examine why.

  He stepped into the dining room and picked up a note lying prominently on the center of the table. As he eyed it, his face hardened into a frown. He crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it into the trash can as he moved into the kitchen.

  “Was that from Teagan?” Jamie asked, aware that she didn’t deserve an answer.

  “No,” Eric grumbled, his expression still sour, “it was from Sheryl.”

  Jamie turned to the side a little, hiding a smile. Sheryl had been pleasant enough at dinner, but Jamie knew Teagan’s mother didn’t trust her. Women like Sheryl never did. And with good reason, generally.

  She needn’t have worried about concealing her amusement. Eric wasn’t watching her; he was busy filling the tea kettle.

  She knew that he had offered her a drink only to be nice, and that he would probably prefer to relax and unwind alone. But she couldn’t face her sterile apartment just yet. She liked this strange little house with its tight corners, circuitous floor plan, and decades of heirloom accumulation—though she was at a loss to explain why she should. It certainly didn’t reflect her own tastes.

  Whose tastes it did reflect, she wasn’t sure. Certainly not Teagan’s or Eric’s. The wallpaper in the dining room was covered with faded cornucopias, and the woven drapes were adorned with an equally faded checkerboard pattern. An antique china cabinet was full to bursting with dated curios: an assortment of painted ceramic bells and figurines of large-eyed children and women in frilly dresses. As Jamie studied them, it occurred to her that Teagan had mentioned the house was a gift from Eric’s grandparents. Evidently, the older couple had donated it lock, stock, and barrel.

  The wall opposite the window was covered with family pictures. Not having noticed them before, Jamie skirted the table and stepped in for a closer look. Eric and Teagan’s wedding picture had been placed front and center, but Jamie gave it only a cursory glance. Her eyes moved instead to a series of pictures of Eric and a red-headed girl, presumably an older sister. Most were inexpensive studio pictures with a Christmas backdrop; but the most recent appeared to have been taken at Eric’s law school graduation. One large, more professional portrait featured th
e red-headed girl—now grown up—with a husband and baby son. Older pictures showed Eric’s mother as a child and as a young woman, including her wedding portrait. Both Eric’s parents appeared to be blond, and Jamie wondered idly how the red-headed offspring had come about, and whether they were a surprise.

  She was standing there, still wondering, when she felt Eric’s gaze upon her. He had finished whatever he was doing in the kitchen and was leaning against the doorway.

  “Did I know you had a sister?” she asked absently. She sensed, rather than saw, him shrug his shoulders.

  “I can’t remember you ever asking about my family,” he responded, his tone deadpan. “I asked plenty about yours, but you wouldn’t answer me.”

  Heaviness pressed Jamie’s gut. She didn’t doubt he was telling the truth. She had never wanted to talk to anyone about her family—or lack thereof—and hearing other people talk of their good fortune had always felt like rubbing salt in a wound. Her curiosity now was out of character.

  “What’s your sister’s name?”

  “Meghan,” he obliged, his tone still flat.

  “And her baby?”

  “Brendan. They live in Ohio.” He stepped forward and walked around the table, passing her and moving out into the hall. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  He was gone. The staircase squeaked as he made his way upstairs. Jamie turned from the wall, planning to go into the kitchen herself and mind the tea kettle, but she stopped short at the trash can. What exactly had Sheryl written?

  The crumpled paper lay conveniently on top of this morning’s breakfast bar wrappers and saturated tea bags. Without a second thought, Jamie stooped and retrieved it.

  Eric,

  Just stopped by to see if Jamie needed anything while Teagan was at work. I’d be happy to help out if you have other things to do—I’m sure she’s getting pretty lonely and a little female company is exactly what she needs. Call me! You know I’d do anything for the man of my little girl’s dreams.

  Love,

  Your doting mom-in-law

  Jamie chuckled ruefully as she recrumpled the note and tossed it back into the can. Sheryl was so subtle. She might be doting as well, but Eric had clearly been irked by her lack of faith, as well he should have been. So far he had been the soul of propriety.

  Then again, so had Jamie.

  Her eyes rested on yet another portrait, this one sitting separately on the antique buffet. She crossed over to it, and her smile faded. The portrait was packed with Eric’s family members—four generations, to be exact. And this one included Teagan.

  Jamie stepped forward, stretched out her left hand, and picked up the frame. Eric’s wife was sitting on a white couch—not their own, but one in a studio somewhere—right next to his grandmother. The elderly woman held Teagan’s hand in both of hers. Eric stood behind, beaming.

  Jamie set the picture back down.

  So Teagan has two families now, she thought, prickly heat suddenly itching beneath her heavy fleece top. The one wasn’t enough for her.

  She stood a moment, not moving, looking at nothing. Her jaws clenched.

  She knew she was jealous, and she recognized the emotion for exactly what it was: both petty and destructive. In the past, no matter how little she had possessed herself, she had always managed to avoid envy—usually by denigrating whatever it was other people had. Sure, it was a nice car, but the insurance payments must be a fortune, and it would get stolen in a heartbeat if you parked it in on the wrong curb. Sure, that woman’s boyfriend was rich, but his fingers were stubby and he had no butt. There were always ways Jamie could make herself glad of her own situation. Always.

  So why couldn’t she do it now?

  Her eyes moved back to the portrait, almost against her will. She and Teagan had so much in common that summer on Indian Lake. Single mothers. Absent fathers. Constant moves from school to school. But there were differences, too. Big differences. Teagan’s mother might be flighty, but at least she was alive; and Teagan’s grandparents had both loved and wanted their only granddaughter. Now Teagan had a second family as well, complete with extra grandparents, a sister-in-law, and a nephew.

  They’re probably a pain in the butt. Interfering all the time. Quarreling.

  They probably get together at Christmas.

  Jamie tore her gaze from the photograph and stepped away. Dear God, how she hated Christmas. Every year the sound of those damnable carols spurred acid in her gut, and the corrosion didn’t stop till New Years.

  It’s your own fault, you know. All you ever do is push people away.

  Jamie’s eyes closed. The argument inside her head was an old one. Most of the time she could beat it, but it had the hateful knack of resurfacing whenever she felt her weakest.

  The only person she could count on was herself. She had learned that lesson the hard way when her mother smoked her way to lung cancer at the age of thirty. No matter what anyone promised, no one could always be there. Teagan had promised a lifetime of friendship, and Teagan had disappeared. Every foster parent or sibling she ever even started to get close to she had lost; and it hadn’t been long before she quit trying. She had come to understand that the only insulation against heartache was not caring at all. She hadn’t put her strategy into words back then; she hadn’t even realized what she was doing. Only as she grew up did she begin to understand the defensiveness that drove her. But that didn’t mean she could change. Her fears, her phobias, would always be with her; her relationships would always be booby trapped. Whenever anyone got too close, she felt it—that horrible, creeping, worry. She never gave anyone the chance to hurt her. Before they could, she was gone.

  She wanted to be strong, like her mother. She wanted to live her life without needing anyone. But despite all her steely determination, despite all the excuses she came up with for her fascination with cheesy retro shows like Little House on the Prairie, she understood all too well the conflict that raged inside her.

  She wanted a family. She just didn’t want to need one.

  The staircase creaked under Eric’s weight, and Jamie’s eyes sprang open. Moisture clung to her lids, and she raised her hand to swipe it away. But in her haste she clopped her cast hard against her cheek bone.

  She swore.

  Eric stopped short in the entrance to the dining room. Before he could ask if she was okay again, she spoke.

  “I keep forgetting about this stupid cast,” she explained quietly. “It’s a wonder I don’t knock myself out.”

  The tea kettle whistled. Eric headed toward the kitchen first, but Jamie, desperate for a diversion, also whirled to fetch it herself. They collided just outside the kitchen doorway, standing toe to toe.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Eric offered.

  A tremor of weakness swept through Jamie’s legs. She must have whirled a little too quickly—the corners of her vision were darkening again. She felt herself sway.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” Eric warned as his strong arms moved to support her. “Don’t you dare pass out on me. Sit down.”

  He began to guide her towards one of the dining room chairs, but Jamie planted her heels. She didn’t want to move. She wanted to stay where she was—where she had been six years ago. If she hadn’t been so damned stubborn back then, things might have been different. This one relationship, at least, might have kept going. If it had, there might be smiling pictures of her on the walls right now. She might be part of a family—a family that would actually notice if one of its members went missing for three whole, freaking days.

  So tired.

  The gnawing weakness that had threatened her all morning seemed at last to take hold, draining whatever strength was left in her, both physically and emotionally. A queer sorrow overwhelmed her, but she had no reserves with which to fight it. She wanted to curl into a ball, hide under a rock—yet she didn’t want to be alone. She craved the warm comfort human arms could give her, the ardent male attention she knew was not affection, but which could sometimes
pass for it if she closed her eyes and dreamed.

  She wasn’t thinking any further than that when she slid her arm around Eric’s neck and pulled him closer. She leaned into his chest as naturally as if she had done it a thousand times. Then she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Teagan approached her front door with quicker steps than usual. She was always eager to get home and relax after work, but the strain on her nerves this particular day wasn’t going to ease at the threshold. She and Jamie had business.

  The absence of an unknown car in her driveway told her that the detective had not yet arrived, which was good.

  She pushed open the unlocked front door to a familiar sound: the whistling of a tea kettle. The noise continued unabated as she took off her coat and hung it in the hall closet. Puzzled, she closed the closet door and moved into the dining room toward the kitchen.

  The sight that met her as she rounded the corner was objectively nothing. Jamie was dropping into a dining room chair; Eric was moving away from her. He stopped at the doorway to the kitchen and looked back at Teagan with wide eyes. His face was flushed.

  “Teag,” he said breathlessly. “You’re home.”

  Foreboding socked her gut like a blow. She didn’t need eyes to sense the charge that arced between him and Jamie, linking them even as they parted, its invisible sparks still crackling in the air.

  Teagan’s shoulders instinctively drew back. With a mighty effort she refused to assume the worst, instead focusing intently on her husband’s face, searching desperately for some simple, nonthreatening explanation.

  What’s going on? Her eyes asked.

  It’s all right, his answered swiftly. Don’t worry.

  Teagan attempted to steady herself. She would not overreact. She trusted him, didn’t she? “Yes, I’m home. So, were you waiting for me to get the tea kettle, or have you both gone deaf?”