3 Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray

by Diane Kelly

  Even when the thought of doing so scared her shitless.

  * * *

  I rounded the corner onto my street to find Brett’s Navigator parked in front of my town house, a flatbed trailer attached to it, a few random pieces of white PVC pipe scattered across it. Brett stood in my yard, tamping down fresh sod with a hoe. Judging from the new grass stripes across my lawn, he’d installed an automatic sprinkler system for me.

  I pulled into my driveway and hopped out of my car. Brett’s sandy hair was mussed, his forehead smudged with dirt, his shorts and T-shirt dark with dust and sweat. He leaned on the hoe, grinning at me.

  Damn. Even covered in sweat and dirt he looked adorable.

  Installing a sprinkler system was no small job. He must’ve been out here working for hours. Not only had he put in the sprinklers, he’d also replaced the dried-up begonias under my redbud tree with an abundance of bright pink petunias and Mexican heather, surrounding them with fresh cedar mulch. He’d trimmed and shaped the pink rosebushes and even added a white stone birdbath to the flower bed. My yard was absolutely beautiful.

  I rushed over to him and gave him a tight hug. He’d done all of this for me, and I hadn’t even had the foresight to offer to water his plants and collect his mail when he’d headed off to Atlanta. To make matters worse, I’d been fantasizing about Nick. Heck, I’d almost kissed the guy last night!

  At that moment I felt completely selfish, totally undeserving of Brett. Sure, he’d flubbed up a bit when he’d phoned me about my pulling a gun on Trish. But everyone makes mistakes in relationships, right? The fact that he’d spent the day toiling in my yard in the extreme Texas heat told me more than words could ever say. He was crazy about me. And I’d be crazy to risk losing him. Right?

  I released Brett and stepped back, looking around the yard. “Wow! The flowers are beautiful, Brett.”

  “They were grown in one of the greenhouses at the nursery,” he said, pride evident in his voice.

  “How’d you get them to grow so big?”

  “Pig manure.”

  Urk. “Remind me not to ask next time.”

  “We’ve been experimenting with organic stuff,” he said. “It’s better for the environment.”

  He had me there.

  Brett put the final piece of sod in place, and I helped him round up his tools and load them onto the trailer. As we headed to my front door, I noticed an envelope posted there, firmly affixed to the glass with duct tape. I stepped onto my porch, yanked the envelope off the glass, and unfolded the piece of paper inside. It was another notice from the Lone Star Nation. This one featured the same ridiculous photo of me they’d put on the Facebook page, with the word WANTED underneath. Apparently the Nation was offering a five-hundred-dollar reward to anyone who could bring me in.

  So they’d offered a bounty for me, huh? I wasn’t sure whether to be worried that they’d put a price on my head or insulted the reward was so little. At least they hadn’t said “dead or alive.” The fact that whoever had posted this on my door had directly defied the restraining order gave me further cause for concern.

  I refolded the paper and shoved it back into the envelope.

  “Advertisement?” Brett asked.

  “Yeah.” Apparently my freedom was for sale. Cheap.

  We headed inside. While Brett took a shower, I fed my cats and changed my clothes. I was tempted to call Nick, to tell him about the notice, but decided to wait until later.

  Once we’d freshened up, Brett and I headed outside to his SUV. He helped me in, then climbed in on his side. But he didn’t start the car. Instead, he turned to me. “I’m glad I was able to see you this weekend. Lately things between us seem … I don’t know … weird?”

  Gee, ya think? “Giving another woman a key to your house can do that to a relationship.” As long as he was being honest, I should be, too, right? Too bad honesty sounded a lot like suspicious and bitchy. Stupid Lone Star Nation. Their bounty notice had spoiled my good mood.

  Brett gave me a long-suffering look that, frankly, pissed me off. “Trish was just picking up my mail, Tara.”

  “And watering your plants.” I recalled Nick’s words. Plausible deniability. “How would you feel if I gave another guy a key to my place?”

  His eyes narrowed. “It would depend on who the guy was.”

  I was tired of pussyfooting around. Time to get things out in the open. “Look, Brett. I don’t like you being around Trish. I think she’s got a thing for you.”

  “She’s just friendly,” he said. “She flirts with all the guys on the projects.”

  “So you admit she’s been flirting with you?”

  “Well, yes, but not any more than she does with the other male volunteers.”

  Trying to get Brett to see the problem here was like trying to get an alcoholic to acknowledge he drank too much. “The first step to resolving this problem, Brett, is you recognizing that there is a problem.”

  He let out a breath and looked out the side window for a moment before turning back to me. “You know how I feel about you, Tara. You’re making too much of this.”

  Maybe I was. But maybe he was making too little of it, too. “Regardless,” I said, “it bothers me that you two are so chummy. If the shoe were on the other foot and you were upset about me spending time with a male friend, I’d stop doing it.”

  I would, wouldn’t I? Of course, Nick was a coworker. There’d be no way I could totally avoid him, even if Brett asked me to.

  “Is that what you want, Tara? For me to avoid Trish?”

  It sounded petty, childish, distrusting. But, yes, it was what I wanted. “Yes,” I said, looking down at my lap, embarrassed by my neediness and insecurity.

  In that moment, I realized his response would be critical. I’d essentially asked him to put my needs before his own, to do something for me even if he felt that what I was asking of him was ridiculous. If he agreed, it would mean he was committed to me, committed to making our relationship work. If he didn’t, well, then I’d have to reconsider my commitment to him, maybe give Nick a shot.

  I had another epiphany then, too. I realized that I was wimping out, issuing ultimatums so that he’d make the decision for me. I just hoped he’d have more conviction than I did.

  Brett cupped my chin and turned my face to him, gazing into my eyes for a moment. “Consider it done.”

  He leaned in and gave me a soft, warm, reassuring kiss.

  In that moment, all seemed right with the world again.

  * * *

  The food at the Cuban restaurant was delicious. I bypassed the chicken—still couldn’t face cooked poultry after the encounter I’d had with August Buchmeyer’s hen—and opted for the tilapia with Cuban spices instead. Brett had the ropa vieja, a dish of shredded beef and vegetables served over white rice. The menu noted that the name, when translated, meant “old clothes.” Brett offered me a sample and, fortunately, it tasted far better than its name would imply. Both of our meals came with fried plantains. Yum!

  After dinner, we returned to my town house. Both my tummy and my heart felt full now. I’d made my decision. I’d stay true to Brett, see where our relationship went. He was a great guy and I was lucky to have him. Every relationship went through trials and tribulations. This thing with Trish was nothing more than a minor footnote on what was otherwise a perfect relationship record. And what I felt for Nick, really, it was nothing more than a crush, right?

  We went upstairs and undressed for bed. I slid on a red satin nightie, while Brett simply stripped down to his blue boxer briefs.

  He swept a hand over the pillowcase on his side of the bed, brushing off pet hair. “Looks like Henry’s been sleeping on my pillow.”

  The reddish hairs belonged to Nick’s dog Nutty, not Henry. But I wasn’t about to tell Brett that fact. He wouldn’t like it one bit if he knew Nick had stayed at my town house again. We’d just managed to get our relationship back on track, no sense derailing it again so soon, right? Besides, Nick h
ad simply been helping out a coworker, nothing more.

  Yeah, right.

  Great. Now I was thinking of Nick again. Just when Brett and I were about to climb into bed. Damn.

  I slid under the sheets. Brett turned off the lamp, flopped onto the bed, and rolled over to me, nuzzling and nipping playfully at my neck as he tugged my nightie upward and slid a hand under it. “I’ve missed the heck out of you,” he said, his fingers going straight for my breast.

  My body responded as if on autopilot, my back arching to meet his touch, my leg curling up around his back. But while my body was going through the motions, my mind didn’t fuzz into oblivion like it normally did when we engaged in foreplay.

  I was thinking. Thinking that maybe I’d been too hasty in reconciling the love spat we’d had, that maybe I should have given things more thought. Then he pulled my nightgown off and put his warm mouth to my breast and I thought that maybe I was thinking too much.

  He wasted no time, removing my panties and his underwear and sliding on a condom in record time. If my mind had any hesitancies, it hadn’t sent the memo to my body. I wrapped both legs around him, taking him in hard and fast, not giving myself time for second thoughts.

  The sex felt divine, but it felt desperate, too, the two of us going at each other like our lives depended on it, as if trying to prove something to each other—or perhaps to ourselves. Though Brett and I were sharing the most intimate of acts, a part of me was elsewhere, thinking of someone else, refusing, even then, to entirely let go.

  An image of Nick played through my mind and I imagined what it might be like to make love to him, to have his hands on me, to have him inside me.

  Nick, with his rock-hard pecs.

  Nick, with his chipped-tooth smile.

  Nick, with his whiskey-colored eyes.

  Nick, with his take-charge style that both frustrated and titillated me.

  I rose to meet Brett’s forceful thrust. Nick.

  Again. Nick.

  Once more. Nick.

  I cried out as a shudder built and exploded, rippling through me.

  When I settled back against the pillows a moment later, Brett nuzzled my ear. “I was that good again, huh?”

  “Mm-hm,” I moaned softly, though inside I mentally grimaced.

  The cry hadn’t been for Brett.

  It had been for Nick.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dinner Date

  First thing the next morning, I took a long shower, scrubbing my skin raw with my rough loofah.

  I felt dirty. Silly, I know. I hadn’t actually cheated on Brett. But Nick had been in my mind the entire time Brett was making love to me. Though there’d been but two physical bodies in the bed, I’d engaged in a mental ménage à trois.

  But thinking of another man during sex wasn’t anything unusual, was it? Of course not. People did it all the time to keep things fresh. Heck, I bet half of the women who’d had sex last night were picturing George Clooney when they’d climaxed. Some couples even engaged in role play, purposely pretending to be someone else when they did the deed. And then there were those people who dressed up like animals to have sex. Furries. How bizarre is that? There was nothing for me to feel dirty about, really.

  Then why didn’t the shower help?

  Brett and I curled up on the couch with two bowls of cereal. I picked up the remote and turned on the television, surfing through the channels until I found the station broadcasting the Ark’s service.

  Pastor Walters stood at the altar today, dressed in a basic blue suit with a plain green tie. Though a spotlight shined on him, the colored lights and jumbo screens were turned off today. All that Vegas showiness wasn’t Walters’s style.

  He delivered a simple sermon on the concept of giving to God through charitable service, the exact opposite of Fischer’s focus on tithing as an expression of faith. Walters had invited representatives of several local charities that were in need of helping hands. Each was given a few minutes to speak on their organization’s needs and volunteer opportunities. There was something for everyone, from painting over graffiti in the disadvantaged parts of town to visiting lonely elderly people in a nursing home.

  Walters’s focus was one hundred eighty degrees different from Fischer’s. Walters didn’t feed the parishioners’ egos, though he didn’t condemn them, either. There was no fire, no brimstone, no threat of eternal damnation or locusts or scourges. He simply invited them to experience the joy of sharing God’s love by helping others.

  I squinted at the screen. “Can you tell what kind of shoes the minister is wearing?”

  “Black ones,” Brett said.

  That wasn’t much help, though, really, what had I expected? My television was neither a big screen nor hi-def.

  Brett looked puzzled. “Why’d you ask about the shoes?”

  I told him what Pastor Beasley had said about phony preachers wearing expensive shoes.

  Brett gestured to the screen. “You think this guy’s a phony?”

  “Not him, necessarily,” I said, “but I suspect Noah Fischer may be just going through the motions.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Besides the fact that he hasn’t paid the taxes he owes?” Hmm, maybe the fact that he was playing blackjack and ogling bare breasts in Shreveport two nights ago? But I didn’t want to let Brett in on that information. He’d want to know all the details. It would be opening a can of worms I’d rather keep closed, at least for the time being. I settled for “Just a hunch, that’s all. Fischer seems much more fashion conscious than any minister I’ve ever met. And he’s got that limo and the big house. He seems self-absorbed.”

  “I guess it’s a moot point, though, since the judge ruled in his favor.”

  “Don’t remind me.” A thought crossed my mind then. “You’re not going to tell Trish that I asked you not to see her, are you?” It would be embarrassing if she knew I was jealous and I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing I perceived her as a threat to my relationship with Brett.

  “No,” he said. “But it’s going to be a little awkward. She’ll wonder why I’m ignoring her calls and texts and e-mails.”

  Sheez. Was she in constant touch with him? “Just be slow to respond,” I said. “Tell her you’re busy. She’ll get the hint eventually.”

  “She’s still got my key.”

  Grr. “Tell her I’ll be checking your mail and watering your plants now that the Ark case is over.” I had half a mind to change his locks, maybe rig a booby trap for her. Perhaps I could get some of that organic pig poop and put a bucket over the door in case she stopped by. The thought of Trish covered in pig manure caused me to snigger.

  “Did I miss something?” Brett asked.

  I rubbed my nose. “Just stifling a sneeze.” As if.

  * * *

  I drove Brett to the airport that afternoon. We lingered at the curb, holding each other until airport security grew suspicious and told me to move my car.

  Brett gave me a kiss and put his forehead to mine. “Miss me,” he whispered.

  “Miss me, too,” I whispered back.

  He went through the glass doors and they slid closed behind him. He turned and gave me a final wave. A sense of emptiness descended on me as I waved back.

  “Move it,” the security guard ordered. “Now!”

  I held up my hands. “Okay, okay!”

  * * *

  At six o’clock, I arrived at Nick’s mother’s house. I’d been there once before, when I’d brought Nick home after his three-year forced exile in Mexico. But it had been late at night and dark and I hadn’t wanted to intrude on their reunion. I’d waited at the curb until she’d opened the door for him and then driven away.

  Her house was a modest brown brick model, single story, with ivory shutters. Nick’s truck was in the driveway. I pulled in next to it, parked, and took a deep breath before climbing out and making my way to the porch.

  I knew I shouldn’t, but I felt nervous
again, the same way I’d felt when I’d met Brett’s parents for the first time. Of course my trepidation then was understandable. Brett and I were in a serious relationship. The Ellingtons could potentially be my future in-laws and our initial impressions of each other were thus significant.

  Today, though, was nothing more than a friendly dinner, an expression of thanks from a grateful mother to someone who’d done a favor for her son. There was no reason for my pulse to be pounding and my hands to be sweating. Unfortunately, neither my heart nor my hands seemed to understand that.

  A cheerful wreath of silk sunflowers decorated the front door. I wiped my hands on the skirt of my white sundress and lifted the knocker. Clack. Clack.

  A moment later, Nick’s mother opened the door. She wore a women’s western shirt in a navy, green, and tan Navajo print, along with jeans, boots, and a welcoming smile. She was tall like Nick, with the same shade of brown hair, though hers was pulled back in a braid and streaked through with hints of silver. Her eyes were blue. Nick’s whiskey-colored irises must have come from his father.

  Nick stood behind her, Nutty to his side, tail wagging. Woof! Woof-woof!

  Mrs. Pratt stepped forward, offering her hand. “I’m Bonnie Pratt,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  When I gave her my hand, she used it to pull me toward her, wrapping her long arms around me and enveloping me in a bear hug, not bothering to ask permission first. I could see where Nick got his gumption.

  “Oh, Tara!” she cried. “I could just squeeze you to death!”

  Nick chuckled and pulled on his mother’s arm. “I think you are, Mom. Give her some room to breathe.”

  She pulled back, holding me by the shoulders, still smiling a wide, bright smile. “I can’t even begin to tell you how grateful I am for what you did for my baby.”

  Her baby? Ha! So Nick was a mama’s boy. Who would’ve known? My gaze flicked to Nick. He rolled his eyes but let his mother slide. I had a feeling he’d fought a battle over the pet name before and lost.

  I looked back to Mrs. Pratt. “I was happy to do it,” I said. “Besides, I needed Nick’s help on the case.”

  She shook her head. “You’re being too modest. You took a lot of risks going down there and I darn well know it.” She waved a hand for us to follow her into the kitchen. “Come on in. I’ve made my chicken-fried steak. Best you’ll ever have.”