Pink Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

  “I don’t want your pity.”

  It was useless trying to reason with Lillian. He turned away, closing the door behind him. He needed to find Ronnie and try to repair the damage Lillian—no, he—had done.

  It can’t be too late. It just can’t.

  It’s not, a little voice in his head said.

  That’s just great. Now I’m taking advice from a voice in my head.

  Be careful there, old man. I have friends in high places.

  Love makes the world go ’round . . . or not . . .

  “I love you, Ronnie. Please. Please don’t shut me out.”

  Veronica could not look at Jake right now. She was too angry, too hurt. “I could understand my grandfather making a fool of me, but you? You, I thought I could trust.”

  “You can.”

  “No. No, I can’t.” She turned to look at him beside her on the sand, both of their knees drawn up. There was something odd about his face. He’s scared, she realized. For just one second, she wanted to comfort him, but she couldn’t. Not now. “How long have you known? What exactly do you know? And why didn’t he, or you, tell me?”

  “I was suspicious from the beginning. I mean, Flossie’s a stock market genius, you know. It was highly unlikely that she would have let Frank squander a fortune.”

  “No, Jake, I did not know that Flossie played the stock market. Another thing to add to my ‘Making a Fool of Veronica’ list. Not that I want to think about lists right now.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Was last night a game to you, too?”

  “Don’t you dare demean what happened with us last night. You know I love you, dammit. Whether we screwed with a list, with a bar of soap, with our toes, or by playing strip polka to the beat of one of Frankie Yankovic’s greatest-hit polkas on that old eight-track of your grandfather’s, that doesn’t make any difference. If our lovemaking was a game, it was a game we both played . . . with love. Furthermore, you are the one, babe, who always said the best lover was a man who could make a woman smile in bed.” Jake’s face flushed with anger as he clenched and unclenched his fists. He was flashing emotional tells like a blinking neon sign. Next he’d be pulling out his worry beads. Yep, there he went, putting his right hand in his pocket.

  Well, I’m angry, too, big boy. And I have more reason than you do. “Okay, last night was . . . what it was. How about my other questions?”

  “I was suspicious from the beginning, but it wasn’t till I got here and noticed Frank’s, well, body language, expressions, eyes. I confronted him about it, and he admitted that he was pretending to be on the skids so that you would feel sorry for him and come to run the business.”

  “How pathetic!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why couldn’t he just ask me? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

  “He feared the same thing I did. You would be out of here like a slingshot.”

  He was probably right. Still . . .

  “I just flicked through my grandmother’s detective report”—and wasn’t that another kick in the gut—“but I really didn’t get a chance to read all of it. Tell me.”

  “Frank’s probably a wealthy man . . . very wealthy. Yeah, he’s done some stupid treasure hunts over the years, but mostly they’ve been legitimate projects that reaped a profit. He and Floss aren’t big spenders, so I imagine he has plenty socked away or invested in the business.”

  “But you invested a hundred thousand in Jinx, Inc.”

  “That was more a sound investment for me than to help Frank out. I fully expect to get a healthy return on my stake.”

  She tried to digest all he said with a clear mind, which wasn’t easy. “And the missing artwork and antiques and collector books?”

  “I don’t know. Probably in the attic.”

  She shook her head at the outrageousness of it all. “A deliberate ruse to trap me. Lies, all of it.”

  “Mostly sins of omission, not outright lies.”

  “And that excuses deception for him or for you?”

  “He was desperate.” The implication was that Jake was desperate, too, but she would address that issue later. “Don’t be so skeptical. The man really loves you.”

  “He has a sad way of showing it.”

  “Probably. Your grandmother didn’t make it easy. Then he let his pride get in the way. Hell, he’s the one who should be explaining this, not me.”

  Veronica blew out air in a big exhale.

  “So what now?” Jake finally asked.

  “I don’t trust you.”

  Jake winced at the words and their deliberate coldness.

  “Life is like a poker game . . . ,” she started to say.

  “Whaaat? I’m the one who does poker metaphors, not you.”

  “Life is like a poker game,” she repeated, “you’ve gotta know when to fold them, know when to walk away—like that old Kenny Rogers song.”

  “I’m not leaving, Ronnie. Just get that through your head. I. Am. Not. Leaving.”

  She studied his face, his handsome face that she loved so much, and said, “It looks like I’ll be the one leaving this time.”

  Getting advice from beyond, well, the bayou . . .

  A week later, Jake was still back at his apartment in Brigantine, but only for a short time more. He was not giving up on Ronnie. Not this time.

  To prove how serious he was, if only to himself, he’d sold his condo in a quick real estate transaction and cancelled the tentative offer on the beachfront cottage. The movers would be coming in three weeks to put his furnishings in storage; that’s when the new owners would take over. The next place he lived would be one he and Ronnie chose together. He hoped.

  He hadn’t talked to Ronnie in all that time. She’d changed her cell and home phone numbers. Her grandmother, the one time she didn’t hang up on him, told him Ronnie hadn’t come back to work. But that didn’t deter him. She needed time; he could give her that. Timing was everything, in poker and in life. And he was an expert at strategy and not acting hastily. In fact, he was lining up the ammunition for the seductive assault he planned for her. He was prepared for a long-haul siege, if necessary.

  The phone rang just as he closed the door to his condo, so he went back in. He was driving up to Manhattan to meet with his agent about the book deal. He figured that a book could be written anywhere—anywhere he and Ronnie settled. And the poker, well, that was Ronnie’s call.

  The phone continued to ring, and he quickly opened the door. He hoped it was Ronnie, but more likely it was Frank, who’d been having an equal lack of luck in finding Ronnie. But it wasn’t either of those.

  “Jake? Holy Sacralait! I been havin’ the hardest time findin’ yer number. I musta called twenty Jake Jensens this mornin’.”

  “Tante Lulu? Where are you? I thought you went back to Louisiana.”

  “I did. Had ta weed my garden, take care of some healing bizness, visit with fam’ly, and—shoo, ya hear me, shoo, you varmint!”

  “Huh?”

  “Jist a minute. I’ll be right back.” The phone clanked down on some hard surface, and he could hear Tante Lulu shooing someone, or something, away. She was soon back. “Sorry. I had to get a broom and shoo away that ol’ gator. He has a taste fer my okra, of all things. Talk about!”

  The old lady has an alligator in her yard, and she shooed it away with a broom. Unbelievable!

  “Anyways, I’m callin’ ta see iffen you and Ronnie are hitched again yet.”

  “No, we’re not hitched. She’s not even talking to me.”

  “Not to worry. I been prayin’ to St. Jude. An’ you’ll be gettin’ yer hope chest soon. Tee-John is comin’ back north to go to that prom thing with Brenda.”

  “It’s a class reunion, I think.”

  “Prom, reunion, whatever. I’ll have him cart it on the airplane with him. By the by, whass yer fav’rit color? I wants to finish up the embroidery on the doilies and dish towels. You better get yer butt
in gear with Ronnie, boy. Or else me ’n Rosa ’n Flossie’ll have to go through with our plan. Hold on. I gots to go stir the gumbo.”

  It was hard to follow a Tante Lulu conversation. She tended to meander from one subject to another. But several things became clear to him:

  She was praying for him. He could live with that. He wasn’t too proud to accept help from any quarter.

  She was actually making him a hope chest. Bless her heart! How could he refuse such a gift? Angel and Grace would die laughing when he told them about it, though.

  She was embroidering doilies for him. Doilies!

  Most alarming, the dingbat trio were hatching a plan to get him back with Ronnie. He shuddered to think what it might be.

  “I’m back. You and Ronnie wanna have yer second honeymoon here on the bayou? I mean, yer fifth honeymoon. I kin go stay with Charmaine on the ranch, and you two can cuddle here in my cottage.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “It’s real nice.”

  “Well, maybe.” Good Lord, I’m planning a honeymoon with a woman who won’t even speak to me, and the wedding planner is a five-foot-zero octogenarian dingbat. Even so, he was grinning when he hung up the phone.

  On the way back from the city later that day, he stopped at Loveladies to talk with Frank. Frank looked awful, like he hadn’t slept in days. He was out on the deck, alone, polka music playing so loud he was surprised all the birds on the beach hadn’t flown away.

  Jake turned the volume down on the tape deck and stepped outside, sitting down on a chair opposite Frank at the patio table. “Where’s Flossie?”

  “Hairdresser.”

  “I got your cashier’s check. For a million freakin’ dollars.”

  “You all got checks. I took my three million, gave you and Rosa a million each for your thousand-dollar investments, and everyone else on the project got a cool million, except for LeDeux, who got five hundred thou. I even gave Tante Lulu, Flossie, Tony, and Steve fifty thou each. The remainder goes into an investment fund for the next project, with all the team members having an equal share.”

  “Not a bad haul!”

  “Especially for two weeks’ work; actually, lots more time when you consider the research and preparation we did first. Still . . .”

  “It’s hard to believe all that money. Especially that buyers were found for all that stuff in less than two weeks.”

  “Never underestimate the power of the mob.”

  “Have you notified the authorities about the wreck site yet?”

  “Yep. Well, sorta. I called Lyle Jordan, an archaeologist who works for the Park Service outta Washington. He specializes in World War II history. He’s the one I worked with on the Mussolini toilet. He’ll be contacting the Park Service. I expect to take them out to the site next week. You wanna go with us?”

  “Maybe. You should probably invite the other members of the team, especially Adam. He seems to be somewhat of an expert on that era.”

  Frank nodded. “I’m going to talk to the Asbury Park Press reporter next week, too. Gotta be careful how I handle that. Don’t be surprised if he calls you.” Frank then directed his bleary eyes at him, speaking of the subject they’d both been dancing around. “You heard from Ronnie?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Me neither. I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

  “Yep.”

  “I got her new phone number.”

  “You did? How?”

  “I have a friend from the FBI who knows someone at the phone company.”

  Why am I not surprised?

  “But I think I’ll go see her in person, instead of callin’. She might hang up on me, but I doubt she’d shove me out the door.”

  That was debatable.

  “Do any of these friends of friends of yours know what Ronnie’s been doing?”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Some of the time?”

  “She does some volunteering at a woman’s shelter. She eats out. She got a cat. She goes to the beach . . . on Martha’s Vineyard.”

  “Martha’s Vineyard?” He and Ronnie used to go there on occasion. Long walks on the beach. Lobster dinners.

  “Just day trips. She’s been talking to a realtor.”

  A realtor? Could she be thinking the same way he was? New beginnings all around? “About what?”

  “Don’t know. What’s your plan?” Frank asked him.

  “I don’t have a plan, precisely, but I’m giving her time to sort things out. After that, all bets are off.”

  “Don’t wait too long. You snooze, you lose.”

  “Tante Lulu called me.”

  A big ol’ grin popped onto Frank’s somber face. “She’s a lulu, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I met her when she was young. She was some looker in those days. And wild.”

  I do not want to imagine that old lady being the wild thing. “Hey, she mentioned some scheme that she and Flossie and Rosa and you have been cooking up to get me and Ronnie back together.”

  “It’s a last-ditch effort. Probably never happen.”

  “You’re not going to tell me what it is, are you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Would I be happy or unhappy with this scheme?”

  “Oh, definitely happy.”

  On that note, Jake got up to leave. “Keep in touch, Frank. Tell me what she says if you find her.”

  “I will. Oh, and another thing.”

  “Yeah?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt if you and I adopted that St. Jude fellow.”

  Chapter

  26

  And the healing begins . . .

  “He never beat me.”

  Veronica couldn’t believe this young woman would actually defend the man who had caused her to seek refuge at St. Mary’s Women’s Shelter in Boston. “Cynthia,” she chided.

  Her expression must have registered with the twenty-year-old. Still, she made excuses for the man. “Not physically.”

  “Honey, abuse doesn’t always come in the form of a fist. Your husband controlled every aspect of your life, right down to accompanying you to the toilet. He cut off all your ties with your family and friends. He wouldn’t let you have a job or a checkbook. You had to fold clothes in a certain way or he would make you fold and refold them a dozen times as a lesson to do it the right way.”

  “But he never hit me, like my dad used to hit my mom.”

  “That doesn’t make it right. Do you want to go back to that kind of life . . . to him?”

  “No!” she replied vehemently. Then more softly, “But I don’t want to have him arrested or anything. And I don’t want him to take my kids. He has money for lawyers. He says the court would give him Jesse and Jo Lynn in a heartbeat . . . ’cause . . . ’cause I’m not fit to be a mother.”

  “Don’t let him determine your self-image. Is there any chance . . . how about counseling?”

  Cynthia shook her head hard.

  “Okay, I’ll start divorce and custody proceedings. Do not, I repeat, do not contact your husband or tell anyone else who might talk to him where you and your children are.”

  She nodded, tears streaming down her face.

  “Don’t worry, honey. Everything will work out in the end. Maybe you’ll even find a good man who will appreciate how wonderful you are.”

  “There are no good men,” Cynthia said on a sob.

  Veronica was going to let her statement stand, but then she disagreed. “Yes, there are.”

  And that was the truth, Veronica thought as she drove back to her apartment a short time later. Her grandfather was not a bad man, as her grandmother had led her to believe all these years. Misguided, maybe, but he’d done nothing to be loathed for or frightened of, as far as she could tell. Not to her, anyhow.

  Jake was a good man, too; that had never been in question. And he loved her; that, too, had never been in question. There was a question, though, of whether she could trust him. Until she re
solved that issue in her own mind, she could not talk with him. But she thought about him. A lot.

  The bottom line was that she was still angry—well, more hurt than angry—with Jake and her grandfather. But she wasn’t so blind as to not recognize they’d both had good motives.

  Her grandfather must have hurt her grandmother deeply for her to be so vindictive. Veronica wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to forgive her.

  Odd that all these thoughts had been prompted by the young woman at the shelter. Oh. Perhaps not so odd. It was all about manipulation, she decided with sudden insight. Her grandmother manipulating her all these years to conform to her image, to hate and fear her grandfather, to toe a line she had drawn. Then this stupid ruse of her grandfather’s about being poor—that had been a form of manipulation, too. And Jake had been in on the manipulation; that’s what hurt the most, even if his manipulation had been done to get her back.

  Luckily—well, luckily for her grandfather—she was in a relatively good mood when she came up the sidewalk from the parking garage and was about to enter her apartment building.

  Frank sat on a low brick wall, waiting for her. And what a sight for sore eyes he was. This must be his idea of dressing for a special occasion. His gray hair was slicked back off his face; Flossie had probably put a little hair spray on it. He wore new khaki slacks with sharp creases ironed into them. He even wore a button-down white shirt and docksiders with socks. The only touch of the old Frank was the black suspenders with red tongues all over them. What a handsome man he must have been at one time! Still was. No wonder even a woman as stiff as Lillian had fallen for the rogue back then.

  Frank looked worried, as well he should. “Ronnie,” he greeted her.

  “Frank.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  She motioned for him to follow her into the building. He took the plastic bag from her, which contained cat food, kitty litter, and a frozen Mexican dinner.

  Once they were in her apartment, he sat in a wingback chair by the window with Ace, the new coal-black cat she’d rescued last week, sitting on his lap, purring. She’d already made them both cups of tea. She sipped at hers. Frank’s sat untouched on the Shaker table beside his chair.