He was so charming. So good-looking. And so honest. Casey carried the third sandwich to the table and sat down, then popped up again. “Drinks. I have bottled water. And green tea.”
“Water would be fine,” Adam said.
Ed continued to crunch potato chips.
Casey grabbed three water bottles and sat down.
“So you took the whole day off?” Casey asked, pretending to be shocked. “Thanksgiving and Black Friday? Do you take Christmas and Easter off too?”
Adam picked up his sandwich. “Actually, I worked yesterday. Before I went to the nursing home to have my turkey product Thanksgiving dinner with my grandfather.”
“He’s better, then?”
Adam took a bite of sandwich and reached for his water bottle. “No. Not really. He can’t eat or anything, but I feel like I should be there anyway. Doctors can only guess what goes on in the mind of someone in a coma, but for all they know, he could know when I come by and when I don’t. He might hear what I’m saying to him.” He held the sandwich in both hands, looking down at it. “He probably doesn’t. I know that, but…” He let his voice trail off.
Casey’s chest tightened. She could tell how much Adam loved his grandfather. How he was hurting for him. “I think it’s good that you went,” she said, empathizing with his sadness. “I know he’d be happy to know you’d eat turkey product for him.”
They were both silent for a moment and Casey felt a connection between them. A warmth that seemed to emanate from Adam right into her very bones. He seemed to be a man who wasn’t afraid of his feelings and she liked that. Admired it.
Ed, done with his lunch, and not in the least bit interested in Adam’s compassion for his grandfather, pushed away from the table, his chair squeaking as it dragged across the tile floor, the table rocking as he got up.
Casey steadied the table. “You done, Dad? Wipe your mouth. Here.” She handed him his crumpled napkin. “Wipe your mouth.”
Ed removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his mouth as he shuffled out of the kitchen. “Come on,” he told Frazier.
A minute later, Casey heard the TV come on in the living room. The DVD she had left on this morning was still playing—True Grit. When he couldn’t remember how to switch the DVD to video, sometimes he would just watch the same movie over and over again. Sometimes she fixed it for him, but sometimes she let it go; she figured it gave them both a break from The Weather Channel. She turned back to Adam. “My dad doesn’t mean to be rude.”
“Of course not.” He motioned with his sandwich. “This has got to be the best turkey I’ve ever had in my life.”
She laughed.
“I’m not kidding. I can’t tell you how nice it is to have homemade food, even just a sandwich. I’m so busy at the office that I don’t have the time to cook. Or the energy, by the time I finally get home from work at night. I miss it.”
“So you cook?” She sipped her water.
“I like to think so. I took some culinary classes once upon a time.”
For the next half hour, Adam and Casey sat at the kitchen table and talked about food, about favorite restaurants, about some place his parents had always taken him for his birthday when he was a kid. They sampled the pie, too, which was delicious.
“You don’t have to do that,” Casey told Adam as he rinsed off the sandwich plates.
“It’s the least I can do.” He turned to her, grabbing a hand towel to dry his hands. “Listen, I have a benefit dinner I have to go to next week. I know it’s short notice, but do you think you could possibly go?”
Before she had a chance to think or respond, he went on.
“My cousin was supposed to go with me but she called and cancelled. It’s black tie, at the DuPont Hotel.” He moved closer to her, taking her hand. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you’d go. It’s not the kind of event a man can show up at without a date. Not from my family. People start to talk, if you know what I mean.”
Casey only had to think for a second. In fact, she purposely didn’t let herself think too long on the matter. Why not? She didn’t know right now how she felt about Lincoln. And they had made no agreement about dating exclusively anyway. And she would be doing Adam a favor. “I’ll have to make sure I’m not on call. I take one weekend a month. I share with other advocates in the county. But if my calendar’s clear, I’d love to,” she said. “I’ll also have to check with my sister to see if she can come stay with my dad, but if I can make that happen—”
“Great.” He grabbed her arms, surprising her, and brushed a quick kiss on her cheek.
Her cheek tingled as he stepped back. He smelled of expensive cologne. Different from Lincoln’s cologne, but nice. Casey suddenly felt a jumble of emotions.
“So I’ll call you Monday about Saturday night? It’s a long ride, but I have a limo reserved.”
Casey followed him into the laundry room, where he was getting his jacket. “Limo? I don’t know.” She hesitated.
“Come on, it’ll be fun. Most of the women wear long gowns, but you don’t have to.”
Long gown, she thought, trying not to panic. She didn’t have a gown. But Jayne did. Jayne had several she wore to charity balls. Casey might even go shopping and buy her own.
“Thanks so much for the sandwich, and the good company, and agreeing to get me out of not having a date.”
They walked to the front door. Adam’s good-bye was quick and not at all awkward. Casey watched him back out of her driveway from behind the curtain in the living room window and then grabbed the phone, trying to decide if she should call Jayne or Marcy first.
Chapter 16
Dylan checked the surveillance camera; yellow VW Bug with a cute chick in a short denim skirt pumping gas. She looked to be about his age. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. Old enough not to be jailbait.
In the corner of the screen he saw the blue car that was parked there when he arrived for his four-to-twelve shift. If it was still there in the morning, the boss, Mr. Cain, would call the cops or have it towed. He did it all the time.
Dylan wondered when people would learn they couldn’t just leave their cars in parking lots when they broke down. That was customer parking. Someone might need that space.
Not that they were ever that busy anymore. Not with the new Wawa so close.
Dylan went back to loading cigarettes in the trays that slid up over his head in the racks over the cash register. Half the stockroom was full of crap: cigarettes, chips, cases of Coke products. The store shelves all needed to be stocked before morning, and it looked like Dylan would be doing a lot of it himself. Pete was supposed to be working with him, but the dick called in sick again. Probably hungover. Dylan was thinking Pete wouldn’t have his job for long. Mr. Cain was going to fire him for sure.
The girl with the VW shut off the pump, grabbed her keys, and sashayed toward the mini-mart door. Dylan turned away from the surveillance screen, pulled his black beanie down farther on his head, and started loading cigarette packs again, playing it cool. “Hey,” he greeted when she walked in.
She glanced in his direction. Smiled. She had a nice smile.
“Hey.”
“Cold out?” he asked, sneaking a peek at her legs as she went down the candy aisle.
“Freezing. Calling for icy rain tonight or some such craziness as that.” She walked to the soda cooler and took out an orange Fanta. As she came up the chips aisle, she grabbed a bag of Doritos. “I hate driving when it’s icy.”
“Yeah. It gets kinda crazy. People swervin’ all over. Old farts drivin’ like five miles an hour.”
She laughed, setting down her chips and drink. “Exactly.” She looked at him. She had thick black eyeliner around her eyes and pink sparkly lip gloss. “You new?”
“Been here about seven months.” He shrugged, then rang her up. “Sucks, but it pays the rent.”
“There used to be this other guy here. Tattoo of a bowling ball on his cheek.” She tapped her cheek.
; “That would be Pete.” He took his time getting a bag for her.
“Weird guy. Trying to, like, give me free food and stuff if I’d go out with him.”
“Yup, that would be Pete.” He put her chips and drink in the plastic bag, can in first so it wouldn’t squish her chips. “Goin’ out?”
“Not partying or anything. Just a girlfriend’s house.” She reached for her bag, still looking right at him.
She liked him. Definitely. “What’s your name?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t like, “What’s your name because you’re in big trouble.” It was like, “What’s your name because you’re cute.”
He tried not to look stupid. “Dylan.”
“Like the singer.” She bobbed her head in approval. She had long, pretty, brown hair, shiny. Didn’t even look like it had been dyed. “Very cool. I’m Ashley.” She started to back away from the counter.
“Ashley.” He bobbed his head the same way she had. “Well, you be careful out there on the ice tonight, Ashley. Watch out for the old farts.”
She laughed, turning away.
He watched her walk out the door. Then, on the surveillance screen, he watched her get into her yellow Bug, start it up, and drive away.
Ashley, he thought, grinning as he turned up the radio on the back counter. Very cute. And definitely into him.
Dylan went back to stocking cigarettes. When he emptied the case of Slim Lights, he checked the cameras. Parking lot was empty except his car and the abandoned blue one. He ducked under the counter and went down the bread aisle, grabbing a pack of Zebra Cakes as he went by. He walked into the stockroom, tucked another case of cigs under his arm, and tried to open the snack cake cellophane package with one hand and his teeth as he went back into the store.
A guy standing just inside the door checking out the newspapers startled Dylan. He hadn’t seen the car in the parking lot. Hadn’t heard the store door open. The guy was wearing baggy jeans and a black hoodie, the hood pulled up over his head.
Dylan hurried down the aisle, threw the case up on the counter, and ducked under the counter. He wasn’t supposed to leave the cash register, not to go into the stockroom, not to take a piss. If he had to leave the counter for any reason, he was supposed to lock the cash register and the front door.
“Hey,” Dylan greeted, moving the case of cigarettes to the back counter. You never knew when some nutcase would try to steal something. “Cold night, huh?” He pulled the cellophane package on the cakes the rest of the way open and dumped one out into his hand. He took a bite.
The guy looking at the newspapers didn’t say anything.
Dylan, feeling a little weird, checked the surveillance camera again. Definitely no car. The guy had to have parked on the street or walked in. Neither seemed likely. There weren’t really any neighborhoods nearby. This wasn’t the kind of place where you saw many walk-ins.
Chewing on the sweet cake, Dylan scooted over a little, trying to get a better look at the guy in the hoodie. In his training, that was of one the things Mr. Cain had emphasized—always getting a good look at the customers. When people know you’re watching them, they’re less likely to steal or rob you. You are robbed, you’ll have a better chance of telling the police what the dude looked like.
From here, Dylan couldn’t tell anything about the guy. Black, white, old, young. His hands were covered by the sleeves of the hoodie. He could have been a she for all Dylan knew.
The guy picked up a local paper off the rack and walked toward the register. Dylan still couldn’t see his face. Hood was too big.
“Marlboro Lights. Box,” he said.
Definitely a he. “Anything else?” Still munching his cake, Dylan turned around to get the cigarettes out of the overhead rack behind him. When he turned back, the customer was pointing a big-ass pistol at him.
The cake in Dylan’s mouth suddenly went dry. He felt like he was going to puke. The pack of cigarettes fell to the floor as he raised both hands over his head. Dylan swallowed the cake in his mouth. He didn’t know what to say. God, he really did want to puke.
The guy waved the gun at the cash register. “All of it. In a bag.”
Dylan was shaking all over. He kept his hands over his head as he moved toward the cash register. No sudden moves. Just do what they want. Give them whatever they want. That was what Mr. Cain said. Pete said Cain was an asshole, but Dylan didn’t know if that was true. He had to be a pretty good guy to tell a high school dropout, minimum-wage employee how to keep from getting killed in a mini-mart stickup.
“Come on,” the guy barked. It didn’t sound like his real voice. It sounded like he was trying to disguise it. Like Dylan would be able to identify him when he couldn’t even see his face. Which meant the cameras hadn’t gotten his face either.
He waved the gun again.
“Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot,” Dylan said. Mr. Cain said not to talk to them. Not to get them aggravated. Just give them what they want and then get them out.
Dylan’s hands shook as he tried to hit a button to make the cash register open. It wouldn’t just open, though. You had to ring something up. “Gotta…gotta ring something up to open it,” he said, sounding all scared and girly.
Without thinking, Dylan rung up his Zebra Cakes. He wasn’t allowed to eat them without paying for them. He ate a pack every night. Never rung them up. That made him a thief. Just like this guy. He got out of this in one piece, he swore he would pay for everything he ate from now on.
Bile rose in Dylan’s throat and he choked a little as the door on the register popped open. He reached under the counter to get a plastic bag. Some big mini-marts, nicer ones, had one of those red buttons you pushed to call the police. Not this one. Dylan was just supposed to call 911 if he got robbed. Lock the door behind the robber and then call the police and wait behind the counter. Those were his instructions.
“Hurry up. You want me to hurry you up?” the guy in the hoodie threatened.
“I’m hurrying. Don’t shoot me.” Dylan stuffed the money into the bag. “You want anything else? Carton of cigarettes?” The minute the words came out of his mouth, he realized how stupid they were. The guy was stealing cash out of the register and Dylan was offering him cigs, too? Mr. Cain would fire him for sure.
“You getting mouthy, boy?”
“No. No.” Suddenly Dylan had to piss. He had to piss and puke. “That’s it. That’s all the money.” He shoved the bag across the counter and stepped back, raising his hands again.
The guy grabbed the plastic bag bulging with bills with his left hand, pointed the pistol with his right. It had a really long barrel for a pistol, longer than a cop’s gun. More like a six-shooter in those old cowboy movies or something.
“Hey, man, it’s cool.” Dylan stared at the gun as he stepped backward. “I’m cool.” Why was the guy still standing there? Dylan had done what he’d asked. He had the money. Wasn’t he afraid someone was going to pull up to the gas pump? Walk in for a pack of cigarettes?
“You look stupid in that hat,” the guy in the hoodie said, lowering the barrel of the pistol, but still pointing it.
A part of Dylan’s mind registered that the gun had fired even before he felt the explosion of pain. His ears were filled with the sound of the gun going off and then the sound of his own scream as he flew backward under the impact, then down as his legs crumpled.
As Dylan hit the cement floor behind the counter, his hands instinctively went to his balls. His whole body felt like it was on fire, but his crotch was an inferno. It seemed to take forever to tilt his head. Look down.
There was blood everywhere; his jeans were soaked. There were bits of red stuff. Flesh.
Dylan’s head spun. He was dizzy. Sick to his stomach. It hurt so bad that he couldn’t find the strength to scream again. His eyelids fluttered, and the last thing he saw before he blacked out was the surveillance screen, empty except for the gas pumps and the blue car.
“Frazier doesn’t want you to go.” Ed sat on the couc
h, his hand on the dog’s head. Both of them were looking at her as if she had just eaten their last cookie.
“Dad.” Casey grimaced, fiddling with the hook and eye on the back of her gown. She had to contort herself in all sorts of ridiculous ways to reach it. She could have used some help, but her father was useless when it came to this sort of thing, and Jayne was in the kitchen on her cell phone. Her sister had been on her phone since she’d arrived half an hour ago, on time for once. She and Joaquin were fighting.
“Why don’t you want me to go, Dad?”
“I don’t care if you go,” he harrumphed. “It’s the dog.”
Finally satisfied with how the back of the gown was laying, Casey let her arms fall. She’d tried on all three of Jayne’s gowns, then shopped for two evenings, then decided her favorite gown was the teal satin she’d tried on a week ago in her sister’s bedroom, the same gown Jayne had worn to the Heart Ball last year.
She ran her hand over her hair, which she’d already smoothed several times. She had enough straightening serum in it to keep it stick straight through a windstorm. “Okay, Dad, so why doesn’t Frazier want me to go? Jayne is going to be here and you’re going to have a really nice evening. She brought a John Wayne movie that you don’t have. She’s going to make popcorn on the stove. The real stuff, not microwave. She’s even staying the night so we can all have breakfast together in the morning.” She opened her arms. “What possible complaint could Frazier have?”
“It’s not safe.” He scratched the dog behind the ears, not making eye contact with her. “You go, he can’t protect you.”
Ed seemed worried. Scared. But he wasn’t really making sense. She wondered if she needed to make an appointment for him with his doctor. She knew that one of the symptoms of advanced Alzheimer’s could be unreasonable fear, paranoia, but her father was still functioning pretty well. He was still caring for himself personally, still eating, still showing interest in his dog and the things he liked, even if they were now limited. And his memory was improving; that wasn’t her imagination.
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