by Elaine Fox
How much trouble had come from that, he thought, remembering again the mortifying night she’d shown up at the Hornet’s Nest in her cheerleading outfit. Not to mention the morning she’d brought someone else’s tee shirt to him as if he might possibly have left it—or anything at all—at her house. And as if he could conceivably be caught dead in a Backstreet Boys tee shirt. She’d just wanted an excuse to come by and hadn’t even cared that he’d known immediately the shirt wasn’t his.
He sighed, looking at the wallet and remembering how Delaney had looked standing up in front of his team that day she’d come to teach the health class. She was all elegance and composure as she’d silenced the team and launched into the lecture with the words, “It can happen the first time, there’s no such thing as blue balls, and the good girls really don’t.”
He smiled thinking about it and was brought up short by a soft hand on his arm.
“Can I help you find something?” The salesgirl looked at him closely, as if trying to place who he was.
Jack slapped shut the wallet he was looking at and said quickly, before she could recognize him, “I’ll take this one and be on my way.”
She looked momentarily taken aback. “Okay.” She bounced her hair over her shoulder as she turned and led him back to the cash register.
She rang up the sale, took the wad of cash he pulled from his pocket and put the wallet into a bag. Then she snapped the receipt tape off the register and shoved it into the bag.
“Thanks a lot,” she said, still looking at him curiously. “Have a great night.”
“Thanks,” he murmured and left the store.
He was sitting in the car in the blue-green light of the laundromat, wondering what he’d purchased in his haste to get out of the store, when he spotted the picture encased in the plastic film of the wallet’s photo slot.
He fumbled for the overhead light in the truck and yanked the model’s photo from the liner.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he murmured.
In his hands was a picture of a man—a model included to hint to the unusually dense that here was where you put your pictures—who was the spitting image of old Jim-Joe Poole. Jack knew it was him because he had spent quite some time a few days earlier studying the framed photo Delaney had recently put up on the mantelpiece in her living room. Jack’s thought at the time was that the man was too pretty and the picture too studiously casual to be real. A kind of glamour shot for men.
On the other hand, he’d considered, maybe they had that sort of thing down there in Washington, D.C. God knew what yuppies liked to spend their money on these days, and he was certain Jim-Joe Poole, if he existed, was a yuppie.
But now, here he was looking into those same eyes, at that same sandy hair and clean-cut, all-American face, smiling the exact same triangular smile as he had on Delaney’s mantel—all overlaid with the words Exceptional Value!
Chapter 14
Jack drove slowly, way too slowly, down Route 1 from the shopping center toward town. He was onto something big, he knew it. Delaney said her husband was a lawyer, could he also be a model?
Jack laughed out loud at the thought. Not so much because it was funny, but because it was ludicrous. Delaney wasn’t the type to marry a model. She wasn’t the type to be in a place where she might even meet a model. But she was definitely the type to see herself with a lawyer, and Jack felt certain that if she were going to create a life to look the way she thought it should, she’d create a lawyer for a husband. Someone with multiple Ivy League degrees, a stable income, and ambition written all over him.
She wouldn’t, for example, draw up a small-town high-school gym teacher dogged by rumors of a dubious character.
He’d had his doubts all along that Delaney’s sudden husband really existed, but this almost cinched it. Almost, he thought, because the one incongruous thing in all of this was the fact that Delaney just didn’t seem like the lying sort. Not that she’d done such a great job of it so far. “Jim-Joe” being the best evidence of that.
Still, it would be such a large lie. And such an illogical one. Why go through all that just to hide the fact that you’re a single mother? Just say you’re a single mother and be done with it. Let people think what they would.
But, he reminded himself, this was Delaney Poole. The Delaney Poole who became agitated over the ramblings of a few old men in a diner. Who warned him to be careful about what the gossips said, as if he had any control whatsoever over what they chose to make up.
He crept down Route 1, which was blessedly empty, and decided to take the turn toward town. He didn’t feel like going home yet. He wanted to know exactly what he’d say to Delaney the next time he saw her. He also wanted to find some more wallets to see if he could find more pictures of Jim-Joe. So he’d stop at the five-and-dime to pick up some laundry detergent, look for a wallet, and maybe hit Sadie’s for a cup of decaf afterward.
He parked by the green, remembering Delaney’s distraction that day he’d foolishly tried to tell her how he felt. Well, maybe it wasn’t foolish, even though he was sure it was the painkillers that had made him feel he could ask her how she felt about him. After all, she had kissed him in his office. No matter what spin she put on it, or what she may be telling herself now about it, she had responded.
He may not have a Juris Doctor from Harvard, but he knew when a woman wanted seducing. And Delaney Poole had wanted that kiss. Of that much he was certain.
The five-and-dime was incongruously bright after the drive in the dim cab of his truck, and he found himself nearly squinting under the glare of the fluorescents.
“Hey, Jack,” Mitzy Webster said with a short wave from behind the lone cash register. She leaned back against the counter cleaning her fingernails with an orange stick, her gray hair lumped in curler-shaped rolls and her ample torso covered in a faded red apron.
“Mitzy, you’re a bright sight on this dark night,” he said with an automatic smile.
“Why, thank you, Coach.” Mitzy laughed as he kept walking.
“Hey, you guys carry wallets here?” he asked, stopping.
She shook her head. “Go to The Paper Mill. Only place I know’s got ’em.”
He nodded and continued walking. “Thanks.”
He strolled down the detergent aisle and picked up a bottle of Tide. Then, on a whim, he walked to the back of the store where he knew the dusty “Hang In There” cat posters and eighty-nine-cent watercolor sets resided.
Frames were what he was looking for as he rounded one aisle of craft supplies and plastic brushes to another full of shrink-wrapped canvases and balsa-wood embroidery hoops.
He was about to give up when he rounded the last aisle. There he was rewarded by a shelf of frames spanning the entire wall with Jim-Joe Poole’s face smiling out at him. Three for $5! a blue banner atop the shelf proclaimed.
He stood there, stunned. Brass and chrome, glass and simulated wood grain, from 3×5 to 8×10, all held Jim-Joe beaming at the public from an autumn-leafy scene, a similarly expressioned golden retriever by his side.
This time, instead of Exceptional Value! printed across the picture, the words Documents! Photographs! Diplomas! were Jim-Joe’s message.
Jack let out a slow breath and moved toward the shelf.
He took one of the frames and studied the face. “This shot would have looked nice on your mantel,” he imagined telling Delaney as he handed her the frame. “Or maybe the bedroom, since it’s so informal. Would this man even know the way to your bedroom?”
What would she say? What could she say? And should he tip his hand that he knew she was lying, or should he look for more proof?
He supposed it was possible her husband was a model…
He frowned as he flipped through some 5×7s on a lower shelf and found another version, slightly different, but still featuring Delaney’s husband, sans dog. In addition to his law degree, Jim-Joe apparently had an exclusive contract with Bradley Frames.
He should be careful,
Jack decided. He should be sure. He should take a couple of these home and compare them to the pictures of Jim-Joe in Delaney’s house before he said anything to her.
Down the aisle was a cart with some torn plastic wrap and cardboard in the bottom of it. Obviously a cart a clerk was using to stock the shelves. He took it, threw the trash on the floor and put the Tide and several frames in the basket.
His heart beat rapidly in his chest, as if he’d broken into someone’s house and was hoping to take something before they came home. But he wasn’t the one doing anything wrong. He was just trying to solve a mystery, and in the process possibly release Delaney from whatever fear had possessed her to concoct such a story.
He made his way down the line of frames, looking for more pictures, found a couple 3×5s and tossed them into the basket before making the turn to head for the register.
There, as he rounded the corner, was Delaney Poole. Shopping.
Delaney stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him. Emily lay in her car seat in the basket of the shopping cart, looking, Delaney had just been thinking, a lot like Jack.
Since that day in his office she had studiously avoided him, alternately hoping the whole thing would blow over and chastising herself for not admitting to herself that she owed him the truth. But still, she was kicking herself over how she’d allowed events to transpire that day.
Why oh why had she said that, she’d asked herself more than once, about the kiss being his answer as to whether or not she’d thought of him since that night on the beach? That made it sound as if she’d thought about him romantically. Physically. Longingly.
Which she hadn’t. Not really. Well, okay, not outside of some very private, unrealistic, and purely fanciful, loneliness-induced fantasies.
Most of the time she’d thought of him only in terms of Emily, which these days caused her to break out in a cold sweat, feeling as she did that perhaps a change of attitude toward Jack Shepard was at hand.
But now, here he was. And he was looking at her strangely.
“Uh, hi,” she said. Emily squealed happily, responding to the sound of her voice.
For a second Delaney imagined blurting out that Emily was his daughter right there in the middle of Murphy’s five-and-dime. What a memorable moment that would be. But aside from the inappropriate setting, she wasn’t ready. She needed more time. To plan. To decide. To be sure.
“Hi,” he said. He seemed to be studying her, his eyes intent, his brows drawn, his expression…confused. Or something.
“Doing some shopping?” She motioned toward his cart with one hand. Her eyes dropped to the contents of the shopping basket. Laundry detergent and frames. Why did he have so many frames?
“Yeah.” He too looked down at his items, then back up at her with that same odd expression.
She nodded. “That’s good. I’m, ah, shopping for—”
She stopped, flushing red. She’d been shopping for a bulletin board and some duct tape but had been sidetracked by a pair of men’s shoes that could almost pass for real leather wing tips if one didn’t look too closely. They sat, even now, in the basket next to Emily’s car seat, box-free and tagged with a bright orange Clearance sticker. Emily’s pacifier had dropped into the well of one.
Jack looked in her basket too. “Shoes?” he supplied.
“Well, I was looking for a bulletin board and some duct tape because one of the legs on Emily’s crib is loose.” She frowned down at the ugly wing tips. “The shoes were an unexpected bonus.”
“They don’t look like your style.”
She laughed. “No…no, they’re for Jim, of course.”
She swallowed, looking at the homely things. They were supposed to be mere shadowy presences in the front-hall closet, a subtle reminder in case Jack ever happened to open that door.
Jack’s gaze rested on them a moment. “For some reason I had Jim pegged as more of a Cole Haan man, what with the Burberry’s raincoat on your coatrack and all.”
“Well, sure. He likes quality. It’s not like he usually gets his shoes at the five-and-dime. Never, actually. I just saw these and thought, well, if he ever came up and forgot his shoes or something. He wouldn’t have to worry about what happened to these or anything.”
“If he ever came up…?” Jack repeated.
“No, if he ever forgot his shoes,” she said, exasperated. Emily blew a raspberry, her hands rising and falling with the sound.
At least if she someday, somehow told Jack the truth she’d be rid of the wretched Jim, who aside from not existing frequently made no sense.
“So, you doing some framing?” she asked. “Looks like you’re doing half the town there.”
“No, no,” he looked thoughtfully at the frames, “they just caught my eye.” After a second, he added, “In fact, why don’t you come take a look at them with me. You might want to get a couple yourself.”
“Actually I just bought frames,” she said, wondering how on earth to get out of this inane conversation and out the door. The more she looked at him—at the way his lips curved with his words, the way his hands looked on the cart, the way his chest seemed so comfortingly broad in his tee shirt—the more she remembered the kiss. And on at least one very basic level the more she remembered the kiss, the more she wanted another.
“I think these’ll interest you anyway.” He tilted his head toward the aisle behind him. “They’re right here.”
“No, really. I’ve got to go. I’ve got to put Emily to bed.”
Jack looked into the basket at Emily. “She looks pretty happy to be here, another minute won’t hurt. Come on.”
On cue, Emily beamed up at him and let fly another delighted trill.
He smiled, grazed her cheek with a finger, then turned his basket around and headed back from where he’d come. Frustrated, Delaney followed. She couldn’t just walk away, after all but, goodness, he could be stubborn. Was he trying to get her into a secluded aisle so he could try to kiss her again? Is that what he wanted?
The idea shot a spasm of outrage and desire through her limbs.
“Jack, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I want you to know,” she began strenuously, rounding the corner in a fit of righteous indignation, ready to tell him she had no intention of letting him have his way with her whenever he damn well felt like it, when her gaze hit a wall full of smiling Jim Pooles.
She nearly staggered from the shock. Instead, she inhaled so quickly she choked on it. A coughing fit ensued, so dire her eyes watered.
“You all right?” Jack asked, touching her back.
She nodded, coughing.
“Want some water?” He patted her between the shoulder blades, just hard enough for Delaney’s pulse to accelerate at the contact.
“No, I’m—all right,” she choked out, moving away from his hand as she gained control.
They both looked up at the wall.
A carpet of Jims—averagely handsome and without much of a future in modeling, she’d thought—spread from one end of the aisle to the other. She leaned heavily on the handle of the shopping cart, her eyes streaming and her heart frantic in her chest.
“So, you were saying. You wanted me to know?” Jack prompted from beside her.
Delaney’s mind was blank as she stared at the Jim mosaic before her. She had no explanation. The only one—the truth—seemed so obvious she could not imagine how to contradict it. How could he not know now that she’d lied? About everything. And from there it would be one simple guess as to the reason why.
She wondered if people who spontaneously combusted did so for reasons just such as this one.
“By the way,” Jack added mildly, “you said your husband was a lawyer, right? He ever do any modeling?”
Delaney took a deep breath—necessary since she’d stopped breathing the moment she’d stopped coughing—and turned toward him.
“I know this is going to sound strange,” she said in a remarkably dead voice, “but that’s not my husband.”
Emily made a low gurgling sound, the kind Delaney might make if she were sitting in a tub propelling a toy speedboat through the water.
Jack’s eyes rested on Delaney’s face, his expression supremely calm. “I never thought it was.”
What did that mean?
“It’s my husband’s brother. His twin, actually. He’s a model.” She looked back up at the wall, thinking that this was what Sybill would do. It was amazing, the more audacious the lies, the easier they seemed to come. Maybe the soaps were onto something. “They’re a very good-looking family.”
Jack folded his arms across his chest. “Your husband’s brother.”
She nodded.
Emily’s motorboat accelerated.
“His twin brother,” Jack clarified.
She nodded again. Emily’s legs kicked frantically.
“And he’s a model.”
She nodded once more.
Emily’s hands rose above her head and she squealed. Touchdown!
“Delaney,” Jack said, his tone both doubtful and cajoling.
“It’s a remarkable likeness, isn’t it? Between the two of them?” Her hands squeezed the handle of the shopping cart. She would worry Jack might notice her knuckles turning white, but he was too busy studying her face. “It’s caused quite a bit of confusion over the years. Not the least of which when Jim and I were dating.”
“What’s his name?” Jack asked.
She looked at him. “Hm?”
“The brother. What’s his name?”
Documents! Photographs! Diplomas! the frames promised as her gaze drifted back to the wall. She thought of her high-school diploma, which made her think of graduation, which made her think of the prom after which she’d gone to a party, gotten drunk for the first time on Southern Comfort and threw up on her date, Carl Wilkerson.