Thrown for a Curve

by Sugar Jamison

  “Why don’t you design, Belinda? I’ve never seen you look anything less than smoking. You know what looks good.”

  “I do.” She nodded. “But I don’t create. I’m a buyer. I’m a put-er together-er. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Now you, gorgeous girl, have something special going on. When is the last time you picked up a paintbrush?”

  “Um…” She had to think for a moment. “When I painted that mural in your office.”

  “Cherri! You haven’t painted in six months?”

  She felt guilty about it, but with work and school and Baba she didn’t have time to lose herself in painting. “I know. I know. I need to. I’m going to start again.”

  She just didn’t know when.

  Cherri left Belinda a few minutes later. She had been feeling a little worn down lately. The holiday rush had arrived, and Size Me Up had been busier than ever the past few days. Today was her day off, and as she walked to the snowy cold streets of her hometown she could think of no better way to spend the afternoon than in her grandmother’s bedroom.

  Baba had the only warm room in the house thanks to the lovely little space heater Cherri had purchased for her two years ago. A nap in a warm room sounded delicious right about now. She could fall asleep to the sounds of clicking knitting needles and The Bold and the Beautiful playing in the background.

  “Baba? I’m home.” She wandered through their cluttered living room expecting to hear the woman answer. She didn’t. Not even Rufus greeted her as he usually did when she walked in. Something in her chest lurched, and she moved a little faster through the house. Baba’s bedroom was closed and unlike most days it was quiet. No noise coming from the television that was usually turned up just a little too loud.

  She’s probably taking a nap. Don’t be an idiot. She’s healthy as an ox.

  Now was one of those times she felt lonely, bone-achingly lonely and more than a little scared. She wished there was someone else here she could turn to. She wished that Baba wasn’t her only family. She felt that way a lot lately.

  “Baba?” She turned the knob and breath filled her lungs.

  Baba was in her usual spot, her easy chair placed in front of the television. But all was not well as Cherri had hoped. Her grandmother was in tears, her eyes unfocused. In her arms was a broken music box that she was cradling like a baby.

  Rufus, whose head was in Baba’s lap, turned to look at her, his big eyes full of worry. That was one of the things she loved about him.

  He loved Baba.

  “Baba?” She crouched in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s broken, Natasha! Can’t you see that?” She pushed her away, letting the music box drop into her lap.

  Rufus backed away, pressing himself to Cherri’s side.

  Tears welled in her eyes, but she took a deep breath and held them back. It wasn’t the first time her grandmother had confused her for her mother. “It’s okay. We can fix it.”

  She looked at the beat-up music box her grandfather and she had given to Baba a few weeks before he died. It was in three pieces now, the backing where the mechanical parts were held completely off.

  “Do we have glue?” Baba asked. “Go! Go get it. You must fix it! It has to play again.”

  Cherri wasn’t sure if she could do more than glue the pieces back together. It was a cheap box, found at a yard sale, and fixed up by an old man and a fifteen-year-old girl. It played the theme from Love Story and had no value besides sentimental.

  “Natasha, you have to fix it!” Baba screamed at her. “Your baby and Joe gave it to me. Joe is gone now. You have to fix it.”

  “Baba.” Cherri put her hands on the old woman’s face. “Look at me. It’s Cherri. Natasha’s not here.”

  “Cherri?” Her blurry eyes focused. “Oh!” She cupped her cheeks and pressed three kisses to her forehead. “I’m sorry. You look so much like her.” She dropped her hands from Cherri’s face. “Look what happened. I dropped it. I like to play it once in a while when I’m missing Joe. But I-I-I dropped it and it smashed. It won’t play. I need it to play.”

  “I don’t know if we can fix it.”

  “But we have to try! Go find a screwdriver. I know there is glue somewhere.”

  She gently took the broken pieces from her grandmother and kissed her forehead. “I’m going to take it to get fixed. I’ll call Mrs. Petrovich. You two have tea and relax and I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Promises. Promises.

  “Slimy English bastard,” Colin swore as he checked the newest email on his iPhone. His day was not going well. He’d banged his head on an armoire that morning, his coffeepot had died, and to top it all off he’d just lost a bidding war for a 1952 Schwinn Hornet pedal to his biggest rival, a Brit. In the restoration business, original parts made or broke the value of things. And losing that piece royally screwed up his plans to re-create the perfect bike. Too bad that was the only one up for grabs in the country.

  There wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it, either. So Colin sighed and placed an order for a pedal from another year. It wasn’t exactly right but he had gotten the client’s permission to perform the substitution. Colin wasn’t a perfectionist except when it came to his work. He had nothing but it and his good name, and he did not like making mistakes.

  His phone rang as he was submitting his order, the caller ID indicating it was his father. He hadn’t heard from the old bugger in months, which wasn’t odd. Magnus O’Connell usually only called when he was in between girlfriends, he’d gotten himself into a jam he couldn’t get himself out of, or he wanted something.

  “Hiya, Pop.” He braced himself for the conversation.

  “Hello, son. Whaddya up to?”

  Colin grimaced at the slightly slurred speech of his father. He must have gotten dumped. It was the only time he drank and when he did, he drank enough to fill the Hudson River.

  “You know, your love of alcohol gives us Irish people a bad name. It’s like you’re a fucking walking stereotype. What are you going to do next, Pop? Start a brawl at a pub?”

  “What are you talking about, lad?” Magnus sounded offended. “I’m not drunk. I haven’t drunk anything all day.”

  “How much did you drink last night?” He placed the phone on speaker and began to tidy his work space.

  “Ah, well that’s a different story,” he said sadly. “I’m heartbroken, devastated, boy. Joanne left me.”

  Colin nodded, knowing as much. His father could never keep a woman more than six months—not even Colin’s mother, who just walked out on them with no explanation and never returned. All through his childhood woman after woman came into and out of his life. For years he thought one of them would stick around; that he would finally have a mother, a real family like everybody else. But after a few years Colin stopped wishing. There wasn’t a point. As soon as he got close to one of them his father would screw up and she would leave. “What did you do this time?”

  “Nothing! And why do you always assume it was my fault?”

  “I dunno, Pop, maybe because the sky is blue.”

  Magnus gave a long miserable sigh. “She’s says I’ve got a wandering eye. Wandering eye my bollocks! I’m a people person. I’m a social creature. I like to talk. Some of the people I talk to just happen to be women. I didn’t cheat on her. I haven’t cheated in years. I’m a reformed man.”

  He raised a brow. “Are you, Pop?”

  “Well … semi-reformed. But I’ve been good to her. I moved to America for her!”

  “I know.” Even Colin had to admit that was a big deal for his father. He never thought Pop would leave County Cork, Ireland. The bugger had the biggest shit fit when Colin announced he was going to America for college. “How do you like California?”

  “My boy! It’s fantastic. The weather is beautiful. There’s so much to see and do. Oh! The women here are—are … so spectacular looking. Big titties and bronzed skin and more long blond hair than in Sw
eden. I fall in love eleven times a day.”

  Colin cracked a smile at his father’s enthusiastic description of the state. “Maybe that’s why Joanne sacked you.”

  “I really liked Joanne. The only woman I’ve loved more was your mother.”

  Colin didn’t have anything to stay to that. He didn’t remember his mother. She was just like every other woman Magnus had met: temporary. But he did remember his father speaking of her, telling him how beautiful she was, how he wished he hadn’t screwed things up with her. His father wasn’t a bad man. Colin truly believed he didn’t intentionally do things to end his relationships; he was just too charming for his own good. He was also immature. There was only a twenty-year age difference between father and son. Through his childhood Colin was often left wondering who was the parent and who was the child.

  “Do you think I should go after her, lad?”

  “Um, I don’t know, Pop. If she can’t accept you for who you are, then maybe you should move on.”

  “To a young blonde with big titties?”

  “Pop,” he groaned.

  “What?” Magnus sighed again. “I’m missing my best mate, you know.”

  “Why don’t you go back to Ireland for a little while and see Pete.”

  “Not Pete, you wanker. I was talking about you, boy. It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes,” Colin agreed. He hadn’t seen his father in years. And the last time he had, Magnus had his lips connected with his girlfriend for most of the visit. There had never been a time when it was just the two of them. It might be nice to have his father stay with him for a while. “You should come out to this side of the country.”

  “We can hit the nightclubs in New York City. American women love the way I talk. I’d bet the two of us could have the whole city eating out of our hands. Whaddya say to that?”

  “No.”

  “Oh come on, you haven’t still got your panties twisted about Arabella?”

  “You shagged my girlfriend, Pop.” He rubbed the throb that formed in between his eyes. “I think my knickers will always be a little knotted.”

  “She was way too old for you. And that was fifteen years ago. I think I’ve been punished enough. You moved to America to make your point. Besides, I did you a favor. That girl was a slag.”

  “When are you coming here?” He changed the subject, not wanting to rehash old arguments.

  “In a few months. I’ve got business to take care of here first.”

  “Okay.” Colin didn’t bother to ask what business. He really didn’t want to know. “Let me know when to expect you.”

  “Will do. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  They disconnected as Colin tried to stomp on the little ball of disappointment that unfurled in his chest. It was stupid of him to expect his father to act like … a father. They never were much of a family. It would be foolish to think they could be one now.

  “Colin?”

  He looked up at the sound of a female voice calling his name. Cherri stood in the doorway of his shop, bundled up in a hat, her homemade scarf, and a puffy coat. His heart malfunctioned at the sight of her, performing some kind of stupid squeezing thumping thing.

  Something was wrong. She had never stepped foot in his territory before.

  “Cherri?”

  He took two steps toward her before stopping. She held some sort of wooden box in her hands. It was in pieces, and judging by the look on her face she wasn’t too far from falling to pieces herself.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry, his mind chanted. He wasn’t sure he could take it today.

  She looked unsure for a moment, taking a step backward. “Are you busy? I—I don’t want to bother you if you are.”

  “Come here, love.” He stayed frozen as he watched her come toward him. Even in a too-puffy coat that hid far too much of her body, she was lovely to look at as she crossed his shop.

  “I can’t pay you much,” she said, handing the pieces of the broken box to him. “But do you think you might be able to make it play again?”

  She looked so innocent, so heartbroken, as if somebody had stomped on her favorite toy. “You don’t have to pay me anything, you daft girl.” With his head he motioned toward the stool he kept at his workbench. “Sit. I’ll take a look at it.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled, flashing him those pretty dimples of hers. “Baba was so upset that she dropped it. I want to make it whole for her.”

  He had yet to examine the box or to focus on her words. He was too busy watching her strip out of her winter gear. Under it she wore a pink cardigan with a white tank top that was just low-cut enough that he could make out the tops of her buttermilk-colored breasts. A voice, probably his conscience, ordered his eyes upward.

  She’s not what you need right now.

  His gaze traveled to her head and the ugly wool hat she wore on it. It was the last to go, and he stared as her rowdy mane of golden hair tumbled to her shoulders.

  She really had no idea how beautiful she was. No clue. He had heard her say that she was built like a lumberjack but all he saw was a tall curvy goddess. Even with her cheeks red from the cold and her eyes glossy from the wind she was lovely. It made him forget that she was the last person he should be attracted to.

  “What?” Her emerald-colored eyes widened and her cheeks darkened with embarrassment. “If you tell me I have snot on my face I’ll die.”

  “No.” He chuckled. “I was wondering if you walked here. You look a bit like a Cherri Popsicle.”

  That I would like to lick.

  He mentally castigated himself for that one. He lost all common sense around her.

  “I did walk here. But I walk everywhere and it’s not because I own the world’s shittiest car. Walking helps me keep my big bottom from spreading into a huge one.”

  But I like fat-bottomed girls.

  Colin kept his mouth shut to make sure his inappropriate response didn’t come out. An image of her very curvy behind shot into his mind and … Knock it off! He shook his head and finally looked at the box. “So you’ve brought me a music box.” He studied it for a few moments. It was factory-made, mostly cheap wood. There was nothing spectacular about it except for the intricate pink roses painted on the lid. That alone made the box worth saving.

  “Beautiful.” He glanced up at Cherri. “You wouldn’t happen to know who painted this? This is some of the best detail work I’ve ever seen.”

  She beamed at him, dimples flashing, skin glowing. He gulped. “I painted it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Her eyes lit. “Dorky art major. Remember? My painting skills make up for my lack of beauty and grace.”

  “You’re very beautiful, Cherri,” he said without thinking. “I don’t think you realize how exquisite you are.”

  “Exquisite?” She laughed that deep throaty laugh of hers, and heat unfurled in his gut. “You must get a lot of ass.”

  “What?” Her statement knocked him off guard.

  “Ass? Tail? Panties dropping? Any of those ring a bell? I’m saying that you must have a lot of women trying to have sex with you. Probably some men, too.”

  The blood rushed out of his brain as soon as the word sex formed on her lips.

  Shit.

  She was just twenty-two years old. And in the two years he had known her, he had never seen her date. He had never seen her with a guy. She was mature for her age but she had this innocence around her. And yet something about hearing those words come from her mouth made his remaining brain cells malfunction. She was the only woman he had a hard time keeping his cool around. He was more than just attracted to her and he wasn’t sure why.

  “For fuck’s sake, Cherri, where the hell did that question come from?”

  She waved a dismissing hand at him. “Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know. The brogue, the pretty words, not to mention the way you look, all make you deity-like with your sex appeal. You probably don’t have to work hard to get women to drop their drawe
rs.”

  No, he never did. Using his hands and getting women to fall into bed were the only things he excelled at. He was like his pop that way. It took running into an ex whose name he couldn’t remember to show him that. So many women. So many empty I love yous. It never took away that empty feeling in his chest. He promised himself he wouldn’t say those words again unless he meant it.

  “But you don’t have to use any of that charm on me. I won’t fall for it. Well … Not too hard,” he heard her say when he tuned back into the conversation.

  It was the first time in as long as he could remember that he wasn’t trying to be charming, but he didn’t tell her that. Instead he pulled up a stool next to her and turned his attention back to the box. There was something about Cherri that always left him feeling like the world was slipping beneath his feet. It sucked. The sooner he fixed it, the sooner he could get her out the door. “Did you paint this recently?”

  “No, I did that when I was fifteen. I’m better now.”

  “Bollocks,” he mumbled, staring at the intricate brushstrokes. “I couldn’t do this if you put a gun to my head. The shading alone puts me to tears. It makes my work look like rubbish.”

  “You’re dramatic.” Her cheeks burned with embarrassed pleasure. He liked the way she looked when her cheeks were pink. It made him want to put that expression on her face all the time.

  “You’re talented.” He grabbed the bottom of her seat and spun her around, enjoying the surprised little yelp that escaped her mouth. “I changed my mind about fixing this for free. We’ll barter. Can you grab that gray metal box and the step stool on the top shelf?” She stood and he realized how high the shelf was. “Let me help you. It’s high up.”

  Her hand gently connected with his chest, stopping him from assisting her. “I don’t need your stinking help,” she said with a grin. “I’m six feet tall.”

  She proved her height by stretching her long curvy body upward. He watched the way her body moved, her sweater rising as she lifted her arms. He caught a glimpse of the creamy-looking skin just above the top of her jeans. He couldn’t pull his eyes away if he wanted. His hand wanted to reach out and touch that skin, just to see if it felt as soft as it looked.