“When I say we, I mean all of us.”
“What?” she asked, playing dumb.
“It’s a family dinner. I want us all to get together. And you have no excuse because we’re coming to you.”
Catherine looked around her at the serene lake. Great… coming to me, huh?
“When?” she asked tightly.
“Sunday, at Trivor’s—6:30.”
What’s this all about?
Catherine feared that now that Wyoming was out in the open, it was just about time for them to come clean about the rest of their sordid lives, admit that they were actually illegal aliens—Canadians on the run from the law. And that soon enough the law would be onto her as well. Connor would be safe because he was married to an American, but she best do something quickly or she would be deported.
“Catherine Marie—”
“What?” she cut her mother off impatiently, not liking the slow and measured tone. Nothing good ever came after those words. Catherine Marie—I need to tell you about what happens when a man and a woman want to make a baby. Catherine Marie—Gran has cancer. Catherine Marie—Uncle Dick says you were in his yard throwing snowballs at his cat again. Catherine Marie—your sister never came home from school today….
“Are you even listening to me?” her mother prodded. “I said that your brother has an announcement.”
Catherine settled some, slowing down her wandering that had quickened pace like she was trying to outrun whatever her mother had to say.
“I think that Lacey’s pregnant—” Her mother paused, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come. “—I know what they said, but God sometimes has his own plans.”
She sounded almost giddy with the thought, but Catherine remembered her own conversation with Connor just the day before. Baby? Yeah, right. She had to swallow back the words that almost spontaneously erupted—no way Josey. It had been the family joke until it ceased to be funny anymore after Josephine was dredged off the bottom of Candler Lake. No, this was probably some kind of career announcement—Lacey making partner or him becoming the youngest VP ever. Or maybe they were buying a second home or a private island and wanted everyone to vacation together in the summer. Whatever it was, her mother was going to end up pissed and dinner was going to be a nightmare.
“Okay,” she gulped, wanting nothing to do with her mother’s dashed hopes and the forced family meal. But she had no excuse. And she would end up on the outs with everyone if she made sure to have an excuse—like staying in Nekoyah through Sunday night just to be able to avoid them all.
“Okay what?”
“I’ll see you then,” she relented.
There was a scuffling sound on the other end of the line, like her mother had dropped the phone, and then suddenly a new voice came through.
“Catherine?” Her dad blasted across the miles with shocking strength. As usual he seemed befuddled by the fact that telephone technology was so good nowadays that people could speak at normal conversation levels and still be heard.
“What is it, Dad?” she asked, a smile spreading on her face.
“I was just up in the attic again and you’ll never believe what I found.”
“What?” She suddenly felt like her stomach was a hard stone of dread inside, almost certain he was about to say it was the thing she was currently in Minnesota hounding some strange man for.
“I found a box of your stuff. Some toys and dolls and things.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know... a bunch of stuff.”
“There doesn’t happen to be a sundae-shaped dollhouse in that box?” she asked, trying to keep her tone even and casual while her body was in full panic mode.
“Let me check,” he said, handing the phone to her mother as if he wasn’t on a cordless that could travel with him anywhere, even to the box he was telling her about.
“Catherine, wear that nice dress I got you for your last birthday, okay?” her mother said, nagging to fill the holding pattern where easy-listening Muzak would be more welcome.
“Sure, Mom,” she said, fake gagging on her end at the librarian special that she was going to have to don. It had come in useful over the months—a funeral for a coworker, a meeting with the board, Halloween, and another funeral. On second thought, it probably was fitting for the dark event to come this weekend.
“What, William?” her mom yelled next to the phone, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece—she was probably cooking or knitting or ironing; her hands were always full or otherwise busy. “He says, no, there isn’t a sundae house…. Are you still hung up on that silly thing?” That last part was her own addendum to the conversation.
“No, Mom, I just wondered.” Catherine’s whole body relaxed somewhat. Sure it would have been great to already possess the toy, but to think of trying to explain her mistake to her friends who had spent time and money to come help her… if they ever came back for her that is.
“He says that it has some of your smelly dolls and stuffed animals. And your Cabbage Patch Kid. We’ll bring it to the city. We haven’t seen your place in ages.”
“Terrific,” she said, chuckling to herself over her dad’s description of her Strawberry Shortcake collection. She dreaded the dinner, but at least she would get her stuff that way.
“Love you.”
“I love you too, Mom,” Catherine replied, knowing that her mother meant well, and definitely meant it.
“Oh, and Catherine, your father and I have something important to tell you, too.”
Oh shit, I am Canadian.
“See you Sunday!” her mom said brightly.
“See you then.”
She closed the phone and stopped, realizing that she had walked quite a distance from the cabin while she talked. Turning back the way she’d come, this time she tried to step gingerly over sticks and pebbles she had previously trucked right over while she was distracted by conversation. Her feet were telling her all about herself now, and she was sure from the stinging and burning that she must have drawn blood.
Behind her she heard fast approaching steps—several feet—and imagined a pack of runners hawking her down on the trail. She must look like quite a sight, out in the wilderness with nothing but a white towel and the spaghetti straps from her bra showing.
And then it hit her.
A solid wall of fur right in the back, knocking her face-first to the ground.
“Magnus! Stop!” The voice she dreaded called out. But she felt her nipples harden and a flush between her legs in spite of herself.
She picked her head up and spit a mouthful of dirt back onto the ground. Then she stood up and brushed herself off the best she could, wondering how she would explain the condition of the towel to Mr. Stilman who had already done more than enough to help her out.
Magnus was busy licking at her knees, like he was trying to make her boo-boos all better, when his owner appeared.
“Magnus, what did you do now?” he asked, before taking in his dog’s chosen victim. “Ooh, man, didn’t even see him coming, huh?” Joel Trager suppressed a grin—hardly.
“How could I?” she demanded. “He clobbered me from behind. Maybe you need to keep him on a leash.”
He smiled. “Maybe you need to stop wearing that perfume.”
“I would like to think I can take a walk outside without being attacked.”
“And this is what you usually walk in?”
She reddened, knowing she had very little to stand on to explain her appearance.
“By the way, that’s poison ivy under your feet,” he pointed out.
“What?” she screamed. She jumped and started scratching at her feet like just saying it made it itch. And to think she had been purposely stepping on those soft green leaves to avoid the sharp and uncomfortable but otherwise benign earth.
“If you wash it off right away… and don’t touch anything with that hand, then you might be able to stop a reaction—if you’re lucky.”
She almost humphed out
loud at the word lucky. As if he didn’t know she was so completely the opposite.
“You’re on the way to the shower anyway, right?” he asked.
“From the shower, thank you,” she clarified, thinking she used to look clean before Magnus got a hold of her.
“Well, now you need another one. And next time you might want to think about appropriate trail wear.”
She was entirely uninterested in his guide to hiking and turned to walk away, but he called after her.
“You forgetting something?”
She looked down. For a moment she feared she had lost her towel without realizing it, but she was definitely still wound up in terry. She turned to face him and he held out her phone.
Stomping back to him, she reached for it and he pulled it away. She glared at him, not in the mood for grade-school games.
“The other hand,” he said, in answer to the fire in her eyes. “Poison ivy, remember?”
She dutifully put out her other hand instead, wanting out of there quickly. She grabbed the phone, but he held tight on his end.
“And don’t send your ‘lawyer’ to see me anymore. You don’t have a case,” he added with a smirk, letting go of the phone.
What?
Any bit of self-confidence she still had in her was suddenly gone, drained completely and replaced by the suspicion that she’d been punked. Magnus tried to comfort her, nosing and licking at her hand and the phone, but she wasn’t in the mood. She turned to go and he started nipping at her towel, thinking it was playtime. She felt the fabric loosen and turned back quickly, hoping if she lessened the strain it would magically stay in place—but then it was gone, aided by gravity.
He didn’t even have the good sense to reprimand his dog or keep his eyes on her face or look the other way. Joel Trager just stood there and took it all in—ogling.
“Ooh, devilishly good. I never would have taken you for black.”
Catherine grabbed the towel, not bothering to try to shake it clean. She pulled it around her, holding it tightly, no longer trusting the tuck. This ingratiating ass-hat had basically seen it all now and she’d gotten squat in return.
“Control your damn dog, Fynn,” she groused, turning to leave and also to hide the beet-red splotches of mortification that had come to her face.
“Remember, poison ivy will spread like wildfire if you don’t get the secretions off your skin!” he called after her.
“Fuck you and your public service announcement, Fynn,” she grumbled.
-28-
When Catherine finished tiptoeing gingerly back to the cabin, she found Georgia parking her decidedly subdued, gray mid-size sedan out front. She watched her friend turn off the car, unbuckle her belt, grab her purse, and open the door to get out.
“Hey there!” Georgia called out, waving too, like she was coming back home from any harmless jaunt—like the woman hadn’t disappeared without a trace while her best friend was in the bathroom—like that best friend wasn’t standing outside before her in a towel… a dirty one at that. But at least Georgia wasn’t the thief; that title of honor belonged to Tara, as Catherine had suspected. And Tara was still off the radar, along with the tiny red blip that passed for a car these days.
“Where were you?” Catherine demanded.
“At the store getting supplies for tonight, why?” Georgia’s tone was completely on-kilter and again she seemed oblivious to the towel.
“Um… I took a shower and you guys took off on me,” she said, as if the point of her mad was obvious.
“Are you sure you took a shower?” Georgia asked, finally looking her over before getting back to her own business and opening the trunk.
Catherine ignored the jab and the look. “You guys left me stranded here,” she enunciated very slowly to show she meant business.
“Where’s Tara?”
“That’s what I want to know! She took my car!” Catherine bellowed self-righteously.
“So you went looking for her on foot… in that?” Georgia was unable to stifle a chuckle completely.
Before Catherine could read her the riot act over her dismissive attitude, the car in question came whining into the lot and squeaked to a stop.
Tara burst out of the door. “Hey guys! We’re on for tonight!” she said excitedly.
Catherine focused her anger, trying her darnedest to stare holes into her, not mortal wounds but burning shots.
“Why are you out here in a dirty towel?” Tara asked, appraising Catherine’s latest fashion faux pas.
Well at least she noticed, not that the observation was going to gain her any points. “Where were you?” Catherine demanded, disregarding her question completely. Tara didn’t deserve an answer. She was the one on the hot seat. “The car is supposed to be charging.”
“Out doing recon. No worries. I’ll plug it back in, warden.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means you’re being an overbearing—”
“Recon,” Catherine said forcefully. “What do you mean recon?”
“I was checking out Trager’s place, seeing what there was to see.”
“You went to see him?”
“I went to check out his place… he just happened to be there,” Tara clarified. “And oh… my… God is he hot. If you aren’t gonna jump that, I will.”
Catherine looked helplessly over at Georgia like Tara was an unruly child of whom they shared custody, but Georgia was completely distracted, doubled over the trunk, wrangling plastic shopping bags.
“Thanks to your trusty little napkin map in the car he was easy to find. And this little whippersnapper is actually kind of fun on the corners—two wheels all the way,” Tara added, patting the car affectionately.
“I’m glad you two bonded,” Catherine said spitefully, thinking that in two days’ time she hadn’t actually had fun with the car even once.
“Did you know that as the crow flies Fynn is practically a neighbor?”
No, she thought begrudgingly. But that certainly would explain him noticing the lights in the cabin… and bumping into him at the lake. What it didn’t explain was why the hell her supposed friend would go over there without a thought for how Catherine might feel about it—she didn’t like it one bit.
“Did I tell you to go out there and see him?” she challenged. “Was that part of the plan we discussed?”
“No,” Tara admitted, walking past her and toward the cabin, disappearing inside like a disrespectful teen who’d stolen the family car and now deemed the conversation over because she was back safe and sound without a scratch.
“Why didn’t you stop her?” Catherine asked, reaching for Georgia who was on her way to the cabin with all her bags in hand.
“Because I wasn’t here. I didn’t even know—”
“But you do know that she needs constant supervision,” Catherine grumbled at her back as Georgia continued toward the door, refusing to entertain her with an audience.
She looked around at the woods, wishing for some kind of corroboration that her friends were being completely and unnecessarily rude. Finding none, she followed them into the cabin in time to see Tara grab the remote and plop herself on the loveseat to snack on what was left of the Cheetos Catherine had bought for herself. And Georgia was similarly plopped on the bed, in the process of kicking off her shoes. Both were completely unencumbered by the guilt that she was certain they should be feeling right about now.
Suddenly another piece of the puzzle that was Catherine Hemmings’ current state of affairs slipped into its proper place, making her groan audibly. “Did you by chance tell Joel Trager that you’re my lawyer?” She winced as she asked the question, hoping beyond hope for a no—maybe he’d been bluffing.
Tara shrugged and kept munching.
“Lawyer?” Georgia interjected, her voice screwed up in a complicated question like she hadn’t heard right.
“I just talked to him; he told me to keep my lawyer away,” Catherine tattled to Georgia
, pointing toward Tara. “Do you think he honestly believed that I would have a lawyer who dressed like that?” She motioned to the short denim skirt and halter top… and the nose ring.
“What the hell? It’s not like I’m in the office right now. I can dress however I want. Heck, there are cross-dressing lawyers out there—my cousin Danny for that matter. And don’t get me started on the judges who wear nothing but their robes in court.”
“You aren’t actually a lawyer, Tara,” Catherine said forcefully, putting her back on the reality train. She alternately pressed one foot against the other to calm the hot, burning sensation in her skin that reminded her of her own reality.
“Whatever,” Tara said dismissively.
“Do you realize that you made this even worse?” Catherine screeched, stomping out of the room and into the bathroom in a tantrum-style move. God I’m just so itchy! She turned on the shower, but before stepping in this time, she popped her head back around the corner and barked, “Stay,” as if her friends were bad dogs—especially Tara.
She carefully washed everything all over again, in a top-down fashion. She toweled off with a fresh hand towel and put back on the devil bra and panties, hoping no residue had gotten on them. She would need to get more towels for herself and the squatters in her midst; she might even have to pay more for having overnight guests…. They can pay for their own uninvited selves, she thought grumpily.
She went out into the main room with her head held high, avoiding eye contact with both of them and grabbing Tara’s clothes that had been laid out for her. She got dressed in the nook that served as an unfinished kitchen, and towel-dried her hair which she had shampooed all over again, just in case. This time, when she went around the corner she was slightly calmer.
“Okay, now I’m open for apologies.” She looked straight at Tara.
“Apologies for what?”
“For making me look like a fool, yet again.”
“I did you a favor.”
“Favor?” she huffed, scratching at her bare feet and tugging at the tight ankles of the super skinny jeans. Then she scratched a spot below her right breast, through the skin-tight club shirt, then another spot on her hip.
2 Days 'Til Sundae (2 'Til Series Book 1) Page 19