On the drive home, she recounted enough details to try to satisfy Marie, while leaving out the more sordid aspects of passing time with Derek.
“So, sis, tell me about this Stillman fellow.”
Janine glanced sideways at her sister. No teasing, no innuendo, no insinuation. She frowned. Marie was definitely suspicious. “Um, he’s a nice enough guy.”
“Nice enough to what?” Marie asked, seemingly preoccupied with a traffic light.
“Nice enough to … say hello to if I ran into him again.”
Her sister nodded, presumably satisfied, then said, “I’ll call Mom and the whole fam damily when we get home. Again.” She grinned. “My gift to you for getting you into this mess in the first place.”
“You’re the greatest,” Janine said.
“I know,” Marie replied with a wink. “That’s why I’m Mom’s favorite.”
Janine laughed, then told Marie all about Manny, and by the time they reached their apartment, she was feeling much better. She changed into her ugliest but most comfortable pajamas and holed up the rest of the day in the bedroom, putting her pillow over her head to shut out the sound of the phone ringing incessantly. Marie was a saint to handle it all.
She must have napped, because when she awoke, long shadows filled the room and she was thirsty. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stepped on the empty box she recognized as the one that held the pink bustier and panties that Steve’s receptionist, Sandy, had given her for her bachelorette party. The getup was already in the laundry, and once clean, was bound for Marie’s closet. Janine would never wear it again. She scooped up the torn box to toss it in the trash on her way to the kitchen. Preoccupied with self-remorse, Janine almost missed the little note that floated out of the box.
Curious, she picked up the tiny card and opened it with her thumb.
Sandy, for Thursday, our last wicked night together.
Steve
Janine read the note again, and once again just for clarification.
Set up by his mistress. Sandy had probably thought Janine would wear the outfit sometime during her honeymoon—her revenge on Steve for marrying someone else? Perhaps. But one thing she was certain of: Steve had been with Sandy, not with the guys when she’d gone to the hotel to throw herself at him.
She should have felt betrayed. She should have felt humiliated. She should have felt manipulated. Instead, she smiled into her fingers, thinking how fitting that Steve had set events into motion that had eventually led to the breakup of his own engagement. She felt … grateful. Because Steve had inadvertently introduced her to a man she could love. From afar.
*
18
« ^ »
Honey, I’m home. Derek couldn’t turn in any direction in the offices of Stillman & Sons without seeing the new slogan for Phillips—make that Hannah’s—Honey. Billboard designs, print ads, product labels, website-page mock-ups. He’d outdone himself, easy to admit since he knew his own limitations as an advertising man. Phillips had been bowled over by the concept of using honey for better home health, and had signed an eighteen-month contract. Feeling good about the direction of the business for the first time in a long time, he’d placed an ad in the paper for a graphic artist. Four applicants would be stopping by this afternoon, and it would be good to have someone else in the office for company.
The direction of the business seemed to be back on course, but the direction of his life was another matter entirely.
He sighed and turned the page on his desk calendar. One month. One month was long enough to have purged nagging, accident-prone, virginal Janine Murphy from his mind. After all, she was a married woman. Married to a jerk, but married nonetheless. He had actually considered calling Steve to extend an olive branch, but changed his mind after acknowledging the ploy was a thinly veiled excuse to call on the off chance that Janine would answer the phone. Besides, despite their pact, Janine could have broken down and confessed what had transpired between them—after all, she might have had some explaining to do on her wedding night. If so, neither one of them would welcome his call.
Derek cursed his wandering mind. Jack would get such a kick out of knowing a woman had gotten under his skin.
The bell on the front door rang, breaking into his musings. The first applicant. Glad for the distraction, he stood and buttoned his suit jacket, then made his way to the front. In the hall, he froze. “Well, speak of the devil,” he muttered.
“Hi, bro.” Wearing a white straw Panama hat, a hideous tropical-print shirt and raggedy cut-off khaki pants, Jack Stillman walked past him, carrying only a brown paper lunch bag. He strolled to his abandoned desk, then whipped off his hat and, with a twirl of his wrist, flipped it onto the hat rack that had sat empty since his departure. After dropping into his well-worn swivel chair, Jack reared back and crossed his big sandaled feet on the corner of his desk. From a deep bottom drawer, he withdrew a can of beer and cracked it open. Then he slowly unrolled the three folds at the top of his lunch bag—their mother was famous for her three perfect folds. The bag produced a pristine white paper napkin, which he tucked into the neck of his ugly shirt, followed by a thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Derek allowed him three full bites of the sandwich, chased by the room-temperature beer, before he spoke. “Care to say where you’ve been for the past three months?”
Jack shrugged wide, lean shoulders. “Nope, don’t care at all—Florida.”
“Which explains the tan,” Derek noted wryly.
His brother scrutinized his brown arms as if they’d just sprouted this morning. “I suppose.”
“I don’t guess it would bother you to know that about three weeks ago the agency was a hairbreadth away from turning out the lights.”
Jack took a long swallow of beer. “Something good must have happened.”
He’d forgotten how infuriating his brother could be. “I landed the Phillips Honey account.”
Nodding, Jack scanned the room. “Honey. Works for me.” He polished off the rest of the sandwich, drained the beer, then laced his hands together behind his head. “So what the hell else have I missed?”
“Oh, let’s see,” Derek said pleasantly. “There’s tax season, Easter, Mother’s Day—”
“Hey, I called Mom.”
“—plus Memorial Day, and Steve Larsen’s wedding.”
Jack frowned and snapped his fingers. “Damn. And I was supposed to be best man, wasn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“So did you cover for me?”
“Don’t I always? When it appeared you’d dropped out of sight, Steve asked me to be best man.”
Jack pursed his mouth. “But you and Steve were never that close.”
Derek smirked. “I think it’s safe to say we still aren’t.”
“So how was the wedding?”
He averted his gaze. “I have no idea.”
“But I thought you said—”
“I went to Atlanta, and got caught up in a quarantine at the hotel.”
“No kidding? Did anyone croak?”
Derek gritted his teeth. “Didn’t you watch the news while you were gone?”
Jack grinned again. “Not a single day.”
Disgusted, Derek waved him off. “Never mind.”
“So what’s she like?”
“Who?”
“Steve’s wife.” His long lost brother wadded up his napkin and banked a perfect shot into the trash can.
Derek walked over to his own desk and straightened a pile of papers that didn’t need to be straightened. “She’s … nice enough, I suppose.”
Jack wagged his dark eyebrows. “Nice enough to do what?”
His neck suddenly felt hot. He loosened his tie a fraction, then undid the top button of his shirt. Images of Janine consumed him during the day, and at night he would take long runs to exhaust himself enough to sleep with minimum torment.
“Derek,” Jack said lazily, “nice enough to do what?”
&
nbsp; The innuendo in his brother’s voice ignited a spark of anger in his stomach that he’d kept banked since his argument with Steve. “Just drop it, Jack,” he said carefully.
But he’d only managed to pique Jack’s interest. “Brunette? Redhead? Blonde?”
“Um, blonde.” Long and silky.
“Tall, short?”
“Tall…ish.” And graceful.
“Curves?”
Derek shrugged. “Not enough for Steve, but plenty for—” He stopped, mortified at what he’d been on the verge of saying.
“You?” Jack prompted. Then his jet eyebrows drew together. “You got the hots for this woman or something?”
“Of course not.” He shuffled the stack of papers again, but wound up dropping several, then hitting his head on his desk when he retrieved them. Cursing under his breath, he didn’t realize that Jack had moved to sit on his desk until he pushed himself to his feet.
“Did you sleep with her?”
Derek tossed the papers onto his desk. “What kind of question is that?”
“How many times?”
He looked into the face of the younger brother who could read him like a label, then sighed and dropped into his chair. “Twice.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“And it’s not the first time you bedded a woman, so there’s more to this story.”
“Besides the fact that she was Steve’s fiancée?”
Jack scratched his head. “Wait a minute, where was Steve when you were breaking in his bride?”
Derek lunged to his feet and pulled Jack close by the collar of his shirt. “Don’t say that!”
But Jack didn’t even blink. “Oh, hell, she was a virgin?”
Stunned, he released him. “Did you pick up mind reading, too?” He wouldn’t be a bit surprised.
Jack laughed, clapping him on the back. “Man, you’re about as transparent as a wet, white bikini. So you dig this girl?”
“Woman,” Derek felt compelled to say.
“Well, yeah, since you deflowered her.”
He closed his eyes. “I think it’s time to change the subject. She’s a married woman, and I don’t fool around with married women.”
“Just fiancées,” Jack said, picking up some of the honey samples sitting on Derek’s desk.
“So glad to have you back,” Derek said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm. “And don’t eat that,” he said, swiping the pint of honey butter from beneath Jack’s sampling finger. “It hasn’t been refrigerated and it might be bad.”
“So throw it away,” Jack said, moving on to a container of pure honey.
Derek nodded, staring into the container. Jack was right. Why on earth was he keeping it around? Because it reminded him of Janine, he admitted to himself. He swirled his finger on the surface of the honey butter, then flinched when the pad of his finger encountered something sharp, something unexpected. Dipping his finger, he hooked the object and lifted it free of the sticky-slick substance. With his heart in his throat, he removed most of the globs, then held Janine’s engagement ring in the palm of his hand. The memories of her treating his burned hand vividly slammed home. She must have lost the bauble in the jar without realizing it.
Jack came over to take a look. “Wow, has Phillips started putting prizes in their packages?”
Already dialing directory assistance, Derek didn’t answer. He had to talk to Janine right away, and he didn’t want to risk calling her at home—Steve’s home. But she’d mentioned she shared an apartment with her sister before, so maybe Janine’s name would still be listed under the old number.
The operator gave him a number, which he punched in, his heart thrashing. Jack was holding the ring up to the light. “Put it down!” Derek barked. “That ring belonged to Steve’s grandmother and is worth a lot of money.”
Jack smirked. “No big leap how her engagement ring got into your jar of honey butter.”
Derek frowned, then focused on the voice of the person who had answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Yes, hello, may I speak with Janine Murphy’s sister?”
“Speaking,” the woman said, sounding wary. “This is Marie Murphy.”
“Ms. Murphy, you don’t know me. My name is Derek Stillman, and I—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Stillman.”
He couldn’t tell from her voice whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Okay. Ms. Murphy—”
“Call me Marie.”
“Marie. I’d like to get a message to Janine, but it’s very important that you not tell her when Steve is around.”
“Steve? Steve Larsen?”
“Yes.”
“Why would he be around?”
He bit the inside of his cheek. “Maybe I have the wrong number. I’m trying to locate the Janine Murphy who married Steve Larsen.”
“Mr. Stillman, my sister was engaged to the jackass at one time, but she didn’t marry him.”
Derek felt as if every muscle in his body had suddenly atrophied. Impossible. Of course she had married him. She had said they would try to work things out. Steve wasn’t the kind of guy who would simply let her walk away. “What’s wrong?” Jack asked.
Derek waved for him to be quiet. His heart was thumping so hard, he could see his own chest moving. “Uh, would you repeat that, please?”
A deep chuckle sounded across the line. “I said my sister was engaged to the jackass at one time, but she did not marry him. She canceled the wedding at the last minute.”
His heart vaulted. “I see. How … how can I get in touch with her?”
“Well, Mr. Stillman—”
“Call me Derek.”
“Derek, it’s like this, Janine is juggling three jobs, and she only comes home to sleep.”
He looked at his watch, estimating the time he could be in Atlanta. “Where will she be in three hours?”
“She’ll be at the clinic this afternoon and evening. Got a pencil?”
Derek grabbed five.
*
19
« ^ »
Janine jogged through the parking lot toward the clinic—late again. Darn the traffic, she was going to be fired for sure if she didn’t find a better shortcut. The commute from the urgent-care center to the clinic was always a bit iffy, but she usually made it on time. This week, however, she’d already clocked in late twice.
By the time she reached the entrance steps, she was winded and her feet felt like anvils. She groaned under her breath—another twelve flights of concrete stairs awaited her inside. Well, at least her legs were getting stronger, not to mention her bank account. She’d be able to send Mrs. Larsen a respectable amount for the first payment on the ring.
The woman had been doubly devastated, first by the cancellation of the wedding, then by the loss of her mother’s ring. Janine had paid her a visit and they had cried together. Mrs. Larsen blamed Steve to some extent because he hadn’t properly insured the ring, but Janine knew exactly where the fault lay. She’d insisted on sending regular payments until the appraisal value had been met … all thirty-seven thousand, four hundred dollars of it.
This first month, she’d be paying off the four hundred. Only thirty-seven thousand to go, and at this rate, she’d have it paid off in a little less than eight years. Mrs. Stillman had graciously suspended any interest, probably because she doubted Janine would even make a dent in the principal.
But she absolutely, positively would not only make a dent, Janine promised herself, she would pay off every penny to rid herself of the psychological obligation to Steve Larsen.
If she lived that long, she thought, stopping to flex her calf muscles, stiff from standing all day, and objecting already to the next eight-hour shift ahead of her. After entering the building, she crossed the lobby, then slowed at the elevator bank, noting how quickly the cars seemed to zip through the floors. Maybe she could take the elevator just this once. Her decision was made when the doors to a car slid open. She was t
he only one waiting, so she stepped inside and quickly located the door-close button, lest the car fill up with big, pushing bodies.
When the door slid closed, she moved to the rear wall in the center and leaned back, grateful for a few seconds of rest, and blocking out the fact that she was in a small, moving box.
She closed her eyes, and as was customary, Derek’s face popped into her mind. In the beginning, fresh from Steve’s ugliness and suffering under her own guilt, she had squelched all thoughts of Derek as soon as they entered her head. But gradually, she’d come to realize that remembering their times together made her happy, and darn it, she needed a little happiness in her life. At moments like these, she especially felt like indulging.
His smiling brown eyes, his big, gentle hands, his dry sense of humor. She loved him, a feeling so intense she was embarrassed that she’d imagined herself to be in love with Steve. She wondered if she ever crossed Derek’s mind.
Suddenly the car lurched to a halt. Her eyes flew open and her heart fell to her aching feet. She waited for a floor to light up and the door to slide open, but the machinery seemed strangely silent. “Oh no,” she whispered, her knees going weak. “Oh, please no.”
She stumbled to the control panel and stabbed the door-open button, along with several floor buttons, but none of them lit or produced any kind of movement. Hating the implication, she opened the little door on the box that held a red phone, then picked up the handset. Immediately, the operator answered and assured Janine they would have the elevator moving soon. With her chest heaving, she asked that her supervisor be contacted, and gave the man her name. After hanging up the phone, she shrank to the back wall, forcing herself to stare at the blue-carpeted floor, all too aware of the sickly sweet odor in the air that permeated most medical facilities.
She slid down the wall to sit with her legs sprawled in front of her, and bowed her head to cry—the worst thing a person could do with the onset of a panic attack imminent. But her stupidity, her broken heart and her exhaustion converged into this moment and she recognized her body’s need for emotional release.
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