Jingle Bell Hell (Bad Luck Club)

by Denise Grover Swank

  “Yes, let’s.”

  “But we can’t forget our clothes,” I say.

  “This isn’t what you wore here?” Dottie asks, surprised, as if my high school poodle skirt still has a rotation in my closet.

  We all shout our goodbyes to Damien and Nicole, who lift their free hands in the air in a wave as we leave the chapel. Goodness, I hope no one else was supposed to get married today. The way those two are going at it back there, I suspect they won’t leave until they’re, ahem, finished. I have a feeling my worry about the velvet drapes was warranted.

  It’s not until we’re back in the truck, after having hugged Dottie and agreed to come visit her at the tea shop—given the sadness I saw in her eyes, I definitely will—that I take out my phone to make sure it’s not broken.

  There are two missed calls from Dennis, the private investigator I hired to look into Lester Montague.

  “Oh!” I exclaim, caught off guard, and Jace looks my way.

  “Your phone broken?”

  But I’m already lifting it to my ear to listen.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Jace

  “Hey, Dennis,” Mary says, casting a quick glance at me before turning to face the windshield. I’m worried it’s Glenn’s parents calling about Aidan, so I stay parked at the curb.

  But Mary doesn’t look like she’s on the verge of panic. Instead, her back stiffens and her jaw sets. This is the same look she wore when confronting Cleo’s catnapper. She’s silent for several seconds before she says, “Sorry. I was at a wedding. I take it you found something?”

  She reaches for her clutch and pulls out a tiny notebook and pen.

  It’s definitely a work call, so I take off, heading toward her house.

  She continues to talk to Dennis, taking notes and making occasional sounds of confirmation. I sneak glimpses at her in her poodle skirt, and while I confess I wish she were still wearing her sexy black dress, Mary could be wearing a paper bag and I’d still think she was beautiful. Nicole and Damien’s wedding was hands down the craziest ceremony I’ve ever attended, and there’s no doubt it challenged Mary’s preconceived notions of what a wedding should look like—hell, it challenged mine—but she took it in stride and even seemed to enjoy it.

  I’ve never thought much about my own future wedding. After my conviction, I figured that part of my life was over, but now…

  I want to believe it’s possible someday. The idea also scares the hell out of me. Not because I’m scared to make a commitment, but because it’s dangerous to wish for something so far out of reach.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, breaking into my thoughts as she writes something down in the notebook. “You have confirmation of that?” She nods, even though the person on the other end can’t see her. “Thanks, Dennis. You can send the bill to my home address, and I’ll get a check out right away.”

  After she hangs up, she lowers the phone to her lap and remains silent for a moment, squeezing the phone as if it were a stress ball.

  “Everything okay?” Without giving it any thought, I reach over and snag her hand. I know a moment of dread, wondering if I’ve screwed up. She said she needed time, and I intended to give it to her. Between this and our moment in the bathroom at her house, I don’t want to send the wrong message.

  “Yeah,” she says, squeezing my hand, then turns to me with a tentative smile. “I think so.”

  “Did you get news about one of your cases?” I know lawyers tend to work long hours, but Mary told me one of the benefits of her job is that the firm’s hours are so reasonable. A phone call at eight p.m. on a Saturday doesn’t fit that pattern.

  “Actually,” she says slowly, “not one of my cases.” She pauses, and tension builds in the truck. “Your case.”

  I shake my head in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  Her hand tightens around mine. “I hired the investigator we use for the firm to look into the circumstances of your arrest and conviction.”

  My heart begins to race, a chill running through my body. “What?”

  “Something didn’t feel right, Jace. A three-year sentence would’ve been steep even if you’d been arrested right after stealing that car, but all those years later?” Her voice is rising with indignation. “That’s not justice.”

  “You investigated me? Without asking me first?” I’m still holding her hand, but now she’s holding on to me and not the other way around.

  She gives me a wary look. “I know I should have asked first—”

  “You think?” I snap.

  “But I didn’t think you’d let me,” she finishes lamely.

  “It’s my life, Mary.”

  “I’m trying to make it better.”

  “You’re insinuating that my life is bad.” Sure, it’s not great, but I’ve worked hard to carve out a place for myself, and the realization that she finds it lacking—just like I feared she would—burns.

  “Jace,” she pleads.

  I pull my hand from hers and grip the steering wheel. She’s quiet for the rest of the drive back to her house, but my emotions are churning like an off-balance washing machine. I bite back all the things I want to say, not wanting to get into an argument while I’m driving. It’s not safe, and while I may be pissed at Mary, I would never put her life at risk.

  When I pull into her driveway, she finally speaks. “I know why you did it, Jace, and why you got such a harsh punishment.”

  I give a bitter laugh. “I could have told you all of that. Lester Montague tried to buy my father’s business, and my father declined. But Lester’s not the kind of man who takes no for an answer, and he did everything he could to turn people against my dad. Dad found out and had a stress-induced heart attack. I knew Lester would never get punished for it, so I got pissed, stole his car, and trashed it. I think he always suspected it was me, but he didn’t have proof until the guy who was with me was arrested for breaking and entering and gave me up in a plea deal.”

  I turn to look at her. “I’ve never denied that I fucked up, Mary. I own what I did. Hell,” I fume, “I told you about my record, and you practically accused me of being a pedophile.”

  “I overreacted without knowing any of the facts,” she said, her eyes begging me to understand. “You proved I could trust you.”

  “You mustn’t have trusted me very much if you had me investigated.”

  “That’s not why I did it, Jace,” she protests, tears filling her eyes. “I did it to help you.”

  “Help me?” I demand, my voice rising. “I’ve already served my time. There’s no getting those three years back. There’s no sparing my mom the pain and embarrassment she felt before she died. There’s no getting Ben back in my life.”

  Her eyes light up, and she grabs my forearm. “That’s where you’re wrong. Dennis found something that might allow you to see your nephew again.”

  I look down at her, my mind swirling with betrayal and anger. “I explained everything to her, and she still doesn’t give a shit. She believes Lester.” I pull my arm from hers. “No. You did this for you, because you were starting to think this could be more than a fling, and sanitizing my past makes me more socially acceptable.”

  Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head from side to side. “No, Jace. I swear that’s not it.”

  She’s never lied to me before, that I know of, but hell, maybe she’s lying to herself. I’ve been wronged by so many people who claimed they were on my side that I can’t trust her, and it’s fucking breaking something inside me. My chest physically aches.

  I avert my gaze to her house. “You should go inside.”

  “Jace,” she says, her voice breaking. “You need to know what Dennis uncovered. I really think it’ll make a difference. He dug down deep, and—”

  “Wait. You paid for this,” I spit out, my mind a whirl of thoughts. “You told the person on the line to send you a bill.” Of course she did, but for some reason it feels like a sucker punch. When she searched my records before, it
only took some of her time. This, though, was a real commitment. She might have even signed a contract. How much did she spend?

  A tear streaks down Mary’s cheek, and the ache in my chest spreads, making it harder to breathe.

  “I did it to help you,” she whispers.

  “So you keep saying, but why does it feel like a betrayal?”

  She starts to say something, then stops.

  “I need to go,” I say as calmly as I can manage. The emotions inside me are building, and I need to be alone to sort through the mess of them.

  “I don’t want you to leave like this,” she says, her voice cracking with emotion.

  “Like what?”

  “Hurt. Upset. If you’ll just let me tell you what Dennis discovered—”

  “I keep telling you that I already know everything,” I grind out, gripping the steering wheel so I don’t shout at her. “Mary, you need to get out of my truck or I will.”

  Her body stiffens. Is it in fear? Anger? Does it matter? I said what she needed to hear to reach for the door handle.

  “I really think you need to hear this, Jace, so maybe when you calm down…” Her voice trails off, and after a couple of seconds, she opens the door and gets out.

  I want to throw the truck in reverse and get the fuck out of here, but I still care about her, in spite of everything. So I wait until she unlocks the front door and goes inside before I pull away, feeling like I’ve just lost the best thing I ever had.

  Though I don’t remember driving home, somehow, I found my way here, because I’m in the parking lot turning off the engine. Just as I start to get out of the truck, I see the wedding present in the back seat and something inside me snaps. I grab the doorframe and hang my head as I suck in a breath.

  I’m an idiot. A fool. I’ve let myself start believing the fantasy that I could fit into Mary and Aidan’s life.

  I slam the truck door shut, then climb the stairs to my apartment, feeling so numb I barely register the brisk wind or the slight flurries in the air. When did it start snowing?

  I need to work out, to release this excess energy, but I took my gym bag out of the back earlier, not wanting the truck to look unkempt for Mary. My only thought now is to get inside, change clothes, and head to the gym.

  Mrs. Rosa pops her head out of her apartment the moment I walk onto our floor. Her mouth drops open, and her eyes bulge. “What the heck are you wearing?”

  I glance down at my black shirt, jacket, and pants, then back up to her, fuming. “Turns out it was a costume wedding.”

  “And they had you dress like Batman?” she asks in confusion.

  To my surprise, I start laughing. “No. More like…” I shake my head, my humor evaporating. I don’t feel up for explaining Nicole and Damien’s musical Grease wedding-slash-rehearsal. “Never mind.”

  “Where’s your nice suit?” she asks in concern. “The one you spent all that money on?”

  Half my rent, to be precise. I choke down the reminder, one more piece of evidence that I was delusional to think I had a real shot with Mary.

  I run a hand over my head. “I left it in the truck.”

  “What happened, Jace?” she asks, her voice soft.

  A lump fills my throat. “No offense, Mrs. Rosa, but I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  I continue down the hall to my apartment, and I somehow manage to get the key into the slot and unlock the door.

  Bingo is on the back of the sofa when I walk in, and he issues a soft meow instead of his usual hiss.

  Mrs. Rosa follows me through the door, and it comes as no surprise that Roger is right behind her. The small Christmas tree on my end table—the one Mary brought me, which she and Aidan helped decorate—mocks my delusions. You actually thought you had a future with Mary? An ex-con who doesn’t make shit for money?

  “What are you doin’ home so early?” Roger asks. Then he cocks his head. “And what in the heck are you wearing?”

  I turn back to look at them. “It’s a long story.”

  Roger takes a seat at my kitchen table. “Good thing I’ve got all night.”

  Mrs. Rosa plops onto the sofa. “So do I, at least for another fifteen minutes, until my angel food cake has to come out of the oven.”

  Roger does a double take. “You’re making an angel food cake in December? You usually only make those in the summer to serve with fruit.”

  She gives him a warm smile. “I’m trying something new. A holiday cake with peppermint and chocolate.”

  “Wouldn’t that be better in a pound cake?” he asks incredulously.

  “That’s what you’d expect, right?” she asks with a smug look on her face. “That’s why I’m doing something different.” She pulls her shoulders back, beaming. “I’m thinking outside the box.” Then, as though she realizes they’ve gotten off course with this discussion, her smile droops. “But enough about my cakes. We want to know what happened.”

  “I’d much rather continue the cake conversation,” I say. “I like peppermint and chocolate.” Then an image of Aidan sipping hot chocolate pops into my head. Mary showed him his hot chocolate mustache in a pocket mirror from her purse, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off his chair. I’m going to miss the hell out of that kid.

  I go into my bedroom to change, shutting the door behind me. When I re-emerge, I’m not the least bit shocked to find my neighbors still there, having a conversation about the best place to get donuts in town.

  “I’m telling you, it’s Duck Donuts,” Roger says, leaning forward to make his point.

  “They’re a chain,” Mrs. Rosa scoffs, making chain sound synonymous with Satan.

  “Exactly,” Roger says. “It’s all about consistency.”

  I stare at them in disbelief, but they choose that moment to stop talking and turn to face me.

  “You’re not running from this, Jace,” Mrs. Rosa says in a stern voice when she sees my T-shirt and athletic shorts.

  “I’m not going for a run,” I say. “It’s flurrying outside. I’m going to the gym.”

  “You know what I mean.” She bats her hand through the air, looking annoyed. “I’ve known you for a little over three years, and not once have you shown this much interest in a woman.”

  “Mary saved my Cleo.” Roger raps his knuckles lightly on the table. “She’s special.”

  “I know she’s special.” My frustration mushrooms as I walk over to the kitchen and open an upper cabinet door. “That’s exactly why we can’t be together.” Because as pissed as I am that she had me more deeply investigated than her previous cursory search, I get it. I am an ex-con. I do have a prison record. She’s a mother trying to make sure that both she and her son are safe.

  “So what’s the problem?” Mrs. Rosa asks, growing impatient.

  I pull out my reusable water bottle. “The problem is she had me investigated.”

  “Well, that’s water under the bridge,” Roger says, as though I’m an idiot. “We’re asking about what happened tonight.”

  “That is what happened tonight,” I say as I fill the bottle with ice cubes. “After the wedding, she got a call from someone I presume was a private investigator. He did a deep dive search on me and my arrest. She claims she knows about Lester.”

  Roger squints his eyes in confusion. “Plenty of people know about Lester. I’ve looked that man up myself, and there’s not a camera he doesn’t like.”

  “Exactly,” I insist. “It’s all out there in the papers, and she still had me investigated.”

  “But why?” Mrs. Rosa presses.

  “Who knows,” I say, pouring water into the bottle. “I guess to see if my background checked out.”

  “That doesn’t make a lick of sense,” she argues. “She found your arrest record the day you told her about your past, and if Roger managed to find articles about Lester, I’m certain she could do the same. So why hire an investigator? The records wouldn’t lie, would they?”

  “No,” I say distractedly, “
I don’t see how they could, unless someone with expert tech skills hacked the system and changed them.”

  “Couldn’t you hire someone on craigslist to do that?” Roger asks.

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Rosa says in a know-it-all tone. “That sounds more like a job you’d post on Indeed.”

  What the hell are they going on about?

  “Who, other than me, would hire someone to change the official record? I’m the only one who’d have a reason to, and I don’t have that kind of money.” I hold up my hand, anticipating more questions about a possible hack job. “But I wouldn’t do it regardless. I’ve got no reason to hide my past.”

  “But people still discriminate against you,” Mrs. Rosa says, her eyes soft with compassion.

  “I committed a crime,” I say matter-of-factly. “There’s no hiding from that. I own up to what I did.”

  Mrs. Rosa starts to say something, then stops, then starts again, “So what was she looking for?”

  I draw in a deep breath, hold it in my lungs for two seconds, then release it. “She said she did it to help. She claims the investigator found something that could convince my sister to let me back into Ben’s life.”

  “And that upset you?” she asks. “That she was trying to help you spend time with your nephew?”

  “She sounds like an outright bitch,” Roger mumbles.

  I suspect he’s being sarcastic, but the need to defend Mary fills my chest. “Don’t say that,” I say without heat. “She’s not a bitch.”

  Mrs. Rosa leans forward. “Then what exactly has you so upset, Jace?”

  I rest my hand on the kitchen counter and wrap my fingers around the edge. “As stupid as it seems, I feel…”

  “Violated,” she finishes quietly.

  That descriptor makes more sense for women and children who have been abused, not a six-foot-three man with sixteen-inch biceps, yet it seems to fit. And the thought is unsettling.