Authors: Kasey Michaels
“Damn, who stepped on your tail?” he asked her as she watched the women crowding around their round table, their mouths all moving at the same time, probably discussing the rude
fat
woman who didn’t know any better. So they were probably all size two, or four, and she was a ten, sometimes a twelve. So what? And she hadn’t had supper. This pizza was her supper. And they were small slices, nowhere near five hundred calories each.
Oh, God, she was losing it…
“I’m sorry, am I that obvious?” she asked him, dragging her gaze away from the table of women.
Nick looked to the same table, and then back at Claire. “Women like that scare me,” he said, surprising her. “They always seem to travel in packs, and it’s hard to tell one from the other. Like interchangeable dolls.”
“Really,” Claire said, her unreasonable anger disappearing as quickly as it had come. “What else scares you? Just in case I want to make a list.”
He picked up his own slice of pizza. He hadn’t had pizza on Tuesday. Maybe he hadn’t been hungry on Tuesday. Maybe he’d ordered pizza because he thought she’d order pizza. Maybe she was thinking too much…
“What scares me? Let me think about that one. Okay, here’s one—people who think they’re always right.”
Claire shot another quick look toward the interchangeable dolls. “Yes. You’re right about that.”
“Ah, but not about everything. I admit to my flaws. Just don’t ask me to list them. My ego isn’t that sturdy.”
Claire smiled, now completely relaxed. He was so easy to talk to, to tease with. Almost as if they’d known each other for a long time. That was nice.
“All right. Mindful of your delicate ego, I’ll give you one back, so we’re even. Things that go bump in the night scare me.”
Nick frowned. “You mean like ghosts? Goblins?”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t believe in those. I mean sudden sounds I’m not expecting. Like the
water heater having some sort of hiccup, or a branch scraping against the side of the condo, or a pot falling over in the dish drainer. Oh, and worst of all—an unexpected phone call after about eleven at night or before seven in the morning. Like that. I think I watched too many horror movies in my youth.”
“Chainsaws and hockey masks,” he agreed, nodding his head. “Sean stayed overnight at a friend’s house last month and watched some damn DVD that gave him screaming nightmares for a couple of days. He won’t be staying at that kid’s house again for a while. So,” he said, grinning at her, “you’re a scaredy-cat.”
She picked up her soda. “I prefer to think of it as having a vivid imagination. Still, I’m thinking about getting a dog. One that barks
really
loud at strange noises. The only problem is that I’m not home enough to care for a dog. It wouldn’t be fair to the animal.”
“We’ve got cats. Two of them, because I read somewhere that kids should have pets, someone else to be responsible for and confide in and all that good stuff. They sleep with Sean, but I somehow ended up with kitty litter and coughed-up hairball duty. The childcare books didn’t cover that part well enough, I don’t think. Do you want to go to dinner and a movie on Saturday night?”
It took Claire a few seconds to change gears from hairballs to movies. “Excuse me?”
He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. I sort of sprung that one on you, didn’t I? But Sean’s
got a sleepover birthday party, and I thought well, I’ll be at loose ends, and if maybe you’d be at loose ends, then we could—but you’re probably busy.”
“No,” she said, shaking her head half in denial, half in amazement that she was saying what she was saying, “I’m not busy. I’ll be on call for the hospital until four, but after that, I’m free. What…what kind of movie?”
Now his grin was downright evil. “I’m guessing horror movies are out?”
“I’m not going to live that one down in a hurry, am I? I think I need to know something else you’re afraid of. Your first two were almost reasonable. Give me something irrational, so I can tease you, too.”
He mumbled something she didn’t hear because the exercise nuts two tables over had found something else to laugh too loud about.
“Excuse me? I missed that.”
“The dentist, okay? I’m scared to death of going to the dentist. We’re talking ‘sedate the poor fool’ kind of scared.”
“Oh, my goodness. Really?”
“Really,” Nick said, actually looking slightly pale. “You should have seen me the first day I took Sean to the dentist. The guy wanted me to sit in the chair and let him stick those damn probes in my mouth, to show Sean how simple it all was.”
“Did you do it?”
“I did. Somewhere, there’s an Oscar with my
name on it, because it was the acting job of the century. Now, are we even?”
Claire’s curiosity was piqued. “Did you have an unfortunate episode at the dentist when you were a child? Because we see a lot of this in our practice. Some kids see a white coat and just freak out on general principle.”
“Nope. Never had a bad experience. Never had a cavity, as a matter of fact. I just can’t wrap my mind around voluntarily opening my mouth and letting some guy stick his fingers in it. It’s unnatural.”
“Oh, you poor thing,” she commiserated, trying not to laugh. “If you think that’s unnatural, wait until you hit your forties and your first prostate exam.” And then, realizing she wasn’t joking with her brother or any other medical professional used to speaking so plainly about the human body, she clapped her hands to her cheeks and exclaimed, “Oh, I’m
so
sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
But Nick didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he was looking at her in real amusement. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?” he asked her. “You know, that’s nice. Much nicer than the usual getting-to-know-each-other-without-saying-anything-remotely-honest dance I’m used to on first dates.”
“But this isn’t a date. We’re just having pizza in the cafeteria.”
“Then maybe that’s it. We’re just two people, sharing a table and some conversation. Will going to the movies together screw it up, do you think?”
“I don’t know. Do you think we should risk it?” Claire said as she noticed one of the pajama-clad students heading for the table. She recognized the boy, but saying so would only let Nick know she’d seen him enough, taken enough interest, to recognize his son. “I guessing that’s Sean coming this way?”
Nick kept his gaze on her for a few moments longer, before turning to extend his arm, drawing his son against his side. “Hey, Slugger, are you ready to call it a night?” He pulled at the fabric of the
karategi
and gestured at the strawberry stains on the front of it. “What, they were out of chocolate?”
Nick’s son was a miniature of himself. The same sandy hair, the same soft green eyes, the same wide smile, although Sean’s teeth still seemed a bit too large for his mouth. He blushed at his father’s teasing, dropping his chin a little, never taking his eyes off Claire.
Nick quickly made the introductions and Claire took the opportunity to stand up, gathering her belongings.
“I’ve got this,” Nick told her, picking up her tray even as he grabbed his own and handed it to Sean. “Mind if we walk out with you?”
“That seems logical, since we’re heading in the same direction,” Claire told him, wondering if they were done discussing the matter of a movie on Saturday night. That might be good. It didn’t
feel
good, but it was probably safer. Especially with Sean looking at her with such intensity.
They’d just stepped outside the building, dusk rapidly turning to darkness, when Nick’s cell phone began playing, of all things, the Philadelphia Eagles fight song. “Excuse me,” he said, flipping it open, frowning at the number, and then turning away as he put it to his ear.
Which left Claire and Sean to stare at each other.
“So,” she said lamely (could she have been any more lame?), “you’re taking karate lessons.”
“Duh,” he said, just like any smart aleck kid in a sitcom.
“I was trying to make polite conversation,” she told him, not backing off. The kid was what, nine? She wasn’t backing off from a nine-year-old. If she did that, she might as well quit her job and go work at a geriatric clinic, or something. “But we can just stand here and stare at each other, if that’s what you want.”
Sean looked at her a few moments longer, and then shrugged. “I can break boards with my bare hands.”
“Okay, now that’s impressive. And I imagine it takes a lot of concentration to do that?”
“Uh-huh, yeah,” he said, turning his head when Nick said something into the phone, the tone of his voice clearly drawing his son’s attention. “Dad?”
Nick raised a hand to him and continued talking.
“He sounds upset, doesn’t he?” Sean asked Claire.
Now both Sean and Claire were listening, neither of them being very secretive about it, either. It was, if she chose to be an optimist about the thing, a sort of bonding moment for them.
“All right, yes, I understand. Fred, I said I understand how important this is. No, I know it can’t wait for tomorrow, I know how these things are. I wrote the story, remember? Just let me think for a minute, okay? I’ve got Sean here and—let me call you right back. Just keep her on the other line. Do with her? I don’t know—sing her a song, tell her about your trip to the Grand Canyon last month with Martha and the grandkids. Just don’t let her hang up.”
He closed the phone and walked back over to Claire and Sean.
“What did Mr. Abernathy want, Dad? Does he want you to go somewhere? I told you, I can stay by myself. Jimmy Peterson stays by himself all the time.”
“Jimmy Peterson’s parents are a sorry excuse for—never mind. You’re not staying by yourself.”
“Is there a problem, Nick?” Claire asked, once again stating the obvious. But at least he didn’t say
duh
back at her.
“Just because Jimmy’s mom let us watch that stupid movie—”
“Sean, quiet. Now, please,” Nick said, running his hand through his hair as if the action might dislodge an idea he was searching for.
“Is Fred Abernathy your boss?”
“Managing Editor of the
Chronicle
. Damn. How do I say this? Claire—would you consider watching Sean for about an hour or so?”
Claire was rather proud of the way she managed
to not allow her eyes to pop straight out of her head as she answered, “Watch…watching him?”
“I know. I shouldn’t ask. And I wouldn’t, if this wasn’t important. You see, I wrote this four-part series of articles a while ago—”
“On domestic violence and abuse,” she interrupted. “Yes, I know. Remember I told you I looked you up on the Internet? It was, um, quite good.”
“Thanks. The thing is, I got to know several of the women I wrote about. I mean, you try to keep your perspective, keep your eye on the story, but sometimes that isn’t as easy as it sounds. Anyway, this one woman I profiled? God, why she stayed with the guy—I kept telling her she needed to leave.”
Claire thought back over the articles she’d read, wondering if the woman was Maria, the mother of three who had, at last count, a total of sixteen broken bones over the past decade, all courtesy of her husband. Or maybe it was Lydia, the woman who wouldn’t leave her abusive boyfriend because she felt she “deserved” his punishment when he was in one of his drunken rages. Or, worst of all for Claire, the unnamed wife who had to account for every moment of her every day or risk her husband’s jealous wrath.
That one had hit too close to home, like a “this could have been you, if you hadn’t had the family support to get out in time.”
“Is…is she all right?”
“She is right now. The ER released her, but she’s still there. Just a few bruises and a couple of cracked ribs, according to Fred, as if that isn’t enough. I don’t know about tomorrow, because her abuser will get out of lockup by then. She called the paper looking for me. She wants to go to a shelter.”
“But that’s wonderful. Why did she call you?”
He looked rather sheepish. “Because I gave her my number at the newspaper? I told her, any time, day or night, whenever, if she decided it was time to get out, I’d help her gather her kids and their belongings, personally get them settled into a shelter. Tonight seems to be her time.”
“Then you have to do it,” Claire said emphatically. “Now, while she’s feeling strong enough, or frightened enough, to take that first step for herself and her children. But you have no one to keep Sean, do you? That’s the problem.”
“In a nutshell. Our usual sitter is on vacation this week. It could take an hour, a couple of hours, and I really don’t want him to…you know.
See
.”
“No, of course not. I can take him for you, Nick. Get him home, get him to bed, wait for you.” She managed a smile. “Remember, I deal with kids all day long, so I don’t scare easily. I think we’ll be fine.”
“Dad? Can’t I just go with you?”
Nick looked at Claire, his eyes searching her face. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t ask, except that—”
“Just give me your address and a few direc
tions,” Claire told him. “Does he still need a booster car seat?”
“As if,” Sean snorted, rolling his eyes.
Five minutes later, with Sean buckled up in the back seat—against his protests that he was tall enough to sit up front—Claire was driving through the darkening streets, wondering if her brother could recommend a good psychiatrist for her, because she had to be out of her ever-loving mind!
I
t was past midnight when Nick turned into the driveway leading up to the sprawling, white-painted red-brick ranch house on an outcropping of land overlooking the Rose Gardens in what was still known by the locals as the West End of Allentown. The white paint was old and worn, which was a look that had cost somebody a bunch of money, but went well with the trailing ivy and the slate-blue shutters and doors.
The house was built along a curve in the road, and the house curved along with it, with a fully excavated lower level that led out onto a series of flagstone terraces and steps down to a koi pond, a gazebo and yet another flagstone terrace. And trees. There were
trees everywhere, planted to look natural, but not to block the view.
A kid in this house wanted to toss a ball around, he had to find a friend with a real backyard. But it was a beautiful yard, and anyone driving along the twisting macadam road that bordered the Rose Gardens could look up and be damn impressed, and probably think: wow, now there’s a house!
The house and furnishings had been in the Barrington family for four generations. He’d bought the place, fully furnished, from his parents when they’d moved to Florida. Total cost: one dollar.
Repairs and maintenance on the house were separate, and pretty much non-stop.
What he’d always liked best about the house was his childhood bedroom, the one over the attached three-car garage, the one with the steeply pitched slate roof and vaulted ceiling, and the separate outside wooden staircase he’d used to his advantage enough times over the years that it would be a long time before he’d allow Sean to move into that room, if ever.
Nick cut the engine and remained behind the wheel, looking at the house, well-lit with ground lights and wrought-iron wall sconces, and wondered what Claire Ayers thought of his family homestead.
He hoped she wouldn’t think he’d picked the décor. It suited him, maybe because it was home, had always been home; comfortable and faintly shabby, but in an old money sort of way; the furniture pretty ancient, but all of the best quality.
Sandy had hated the furnishings, had made fun of the flowered, overstuffed couches, the old-fashioned kitchen, but she’d also had no interest in redecorating, making the place her own. They’d spent the last two years of their married life in the house, yet there was nothing of her in it, nor had there ever been—something he’d realized shortly after she left for a weeklong tour with her new band, and never came back.
Because of Sean, because of Sandy, he’d never had another woman in the house. Not for six long years. Not until tonight.
“And she’s probably wondering when the hell you’re going to get out of the car and come inside, so she can go home,” he told himself as he unhooked his seatbelt and opened the door.
The heady scents of bougainvillea and jasmine greeted him as he walked the curved slate path to the front door, passing beneath a squared-off wrought-iron trellis heavy with blooms. His grandmother had had a thing for bougainvillea. She’d left her mark, and the memory was a good one. It was a far different “welcome, come on in” than that of the women’s shelter, which had smelled of pine oil and the large pot of chicken and noodle soup he knew from past visits was always simmering on the stove, “just in case.”
He slid his key into the lock and stepped into the foyer. And stopped in his tracks. The place smelled like chicken and noodle soup. What the—?
“Hi,” Claire said, stepping into the foyer. “This is the loveliest home you’ve got, Nick. I made some soup for Sean because he was hungry, and then joined him. It’s just canned, well, two cans, so there’s plenty left simmering on the stove. Do you want some?”
“Um…sure. Yeah, that would be nice.”
“Good.” She smiled at him, and he noticed she was wearing one of his mother’s aprons. The one with the tiny pink rosebuds on it. She seemed to notice him looking at it, and quickly untied it, pulled it off.
“I’m sorry. I really look like I’ve made myself at home, don’t I? But Sean has been in bed for hours, and I didn’t want to wake him to ask him to explain the television remote to me, so I’ve been…well, I’ve got a thing for kitchens. Mine is this cramped little galley deal, so when I saw yours, it was like I’d stepped into heaven. I hope you don’t mind that I…cleaned it up a bit.”
Nick got a quick mental picture of how he’d left the kitchen as he and Sean raced off to the community center, piling the dinner dishes on top of the breakfast dishes that were still in the old-fashioned farm sink. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said, following her down the hall and into the kitchen. “Wow,” he said once they were there and he was looking at the clean sink and uncluttered counters.
No stack of newspapers on the bar. No bags of corn chips or boxes of cereal out in the open because
it was easier than putting them away. No small army of assorted superhero action figures or their vehicles and equipment littering the kitchen table. No dry cat food scattered on the floor around the cat dishes because Sean never seemed able to hit the dish and not the floor when he poured from the bag.
The entire kitchen seemed to…sparkle.
“It gave me something to do. I’m not good at having nothing to do, never quite mastered the art of sitting still and doing nothing. Derek calls it a failing, but since he’s been able to have more weekends off since I joined his practice, he stopped complaining. Let me get you some soup, and then I’ll get out of your way.”
“Only if you have a cup of coffee with me before you go,” Nick told her, pulling out a chair at the large square white-painted wood table that could easily seat eight, and motioning for her to sit down. His grandfather had built the table. He felt this weird urge to tell Claire that, but didn’t. “Where did you find the placemats? I forgot I had these.”
“I wasn’t snooping,” she said, sitting down, reaching out to finger one corner of the blue and white checked mat in front of her. “I was looking for spoons, and found them—top drawer of the island, in case you’re wondering. They match the curtains, so I’m supposing someone made them? I can’t imagine how you missed them.”
“My mother, yes, and you’d be surprised what I miss in this place,” he said, grabbing a can of ground coffee from a cabinet and loading the coffeemaker.
The clean and shiny coffeemaker, he noticed, with no brown drip stains on the base of it anymore. He’d been meaning to do something about that. Maybe even run some vinegar and water through it, which he was pretty sure he was supposed to do once in a while…probably more than once every two or three years.
“It’s not like most men care about placemats,” she said as he ladled soup into a bowl and carried it and a spoon over to the table. “I suppose having a son and a job keeps you busy. And it is a big house.”
He found himself telling her about the house, its history, and the way it was passed from generation to generation. He even told her about the table.
She sat with her chin cupped in one hand, clearly fascinated, and let him talk. She didn’t interrupt, didn’t ask questions, and he heard himself saying things he’d never said aloud before.
Ending with, “My ex-wife hated it here. Said she felt smothered.”
By now they were both on their second cup of coffee.
Claire lowered her mug and looked around the kitchen, and then nodded. “I can see that. A young bride, thrust into all of this tradition. She must have been afraid to touch anything, for fear she was messing with some treasured family heirloom.”
“Not really. Sandy simply wasn’t interested. Not her bag, she said. Too many things to manage, too much responsibility dragging her down. She liked to
be able to pack and go on a moment’s notice. A house…a house meant putting down roots, and she wasn’t ready for that.”
“But she had a child.”
Nick stood up, carried his soup bowl over to the sink. “I told you. Sean was…he was a surprise. She tried, she really did, I’ll give her that. She loved him, don’t get me wrong. But in the end? In the end, Sandy had to be who she was, or at least who she wanted, wants, to be.”
“I saw a photograph of her on Sean’s nightstand, when I put him to bed. A very pretty woman. Full of life.”
Nick knew the photograph well. It had been snapped on stage, the spotlights loving Sandy’s slim form clad in brief black leather, backlighting her masses of blond curls like some sort of pagan halo around her beautiful, pouty-lipped face. God, how she came alive onstage. Whenever he looked at that photograph, Nick saw what he’d refused to see when he’d fallen in love with her. She might have once loved him, but she loved this other life more. She fed on it, couldn’t survive without it. For Sandy, performing was a drug, and she was addicted.
“Nick?”
He turned away from the sink, realizing he’d been silent too long.
“I’m sorry. I was woolgathering there for a moment, I guess.”
“It’s all right. I’ve got to go. Office hours start at
nine. But I did want to ask how it went tonight if I could. Is the woman all settled at the shelter? And the children?”
He nodded and then walked with her, back toward the foyer. “For now, yes. God, she looked like hell, her right eye swollen shut like a boxer who’d gone one round too many with Muhammed Ali. The kids were better, acted like they were going to a party. I don’t get it, Claire. I did the research, I wrote the articles. But I don’t get it. What makes a man do things like that to a woman he professes to love?”
“I don’t know. Insecurity? A need to control?” She picked up her purse and searched in it for her car keys, and then looked at him. “Did you ask any of them?”
Nick looked at her in some surprise. “Ask any of them? No. I was writing about these women, what happens to them. It never occurred to me to—damn it, Claire, it never occurred to me. I mean, they’re animals, right? Jerks. Bullies. Subhuman. Who cares what they think?”
“I imagine somebody should, if there’s to be any hope that they’ll stop. They’re people, too, Nick. Probably, to somebody, at least at times, they’re very good people. Men with jobs, even meaningful careers. Possibly some of them are well-respected by those who don’t know what goes on behind closed doors. So what makes them go off the rails, hit the women they love, abuse them physically or emotionally? There has to be a reason.”
“The woman tonight? Her husband is a drunk.”
“All right,” Claire said, still being maddeningly reasonable. “But why is he a drunk? And you know, alcohol is the drug of choice for many unhappy people, a sort of self-medication. Why does he hit his wife or partner? Was his father a drunk? Did his father beat his wife in front of his son? Did the father beat him? Those who are abused often grow up to be abusers themselves.”
“That’s no excuse, Claire. Nothing you said is an excuse.”
“Not an excuse, Nick. A reason.” She spread her arms as if to encompass the foyer, the entire house. “This is your tradition. What if violence is that woman’s husband’s family tradition, and possibly hers as well? And is there a way to break that chain? No matter what the social status, the background, there must be something that connects all of these men…these abusers, these controllers. Aren’t you at all curious to know what that is—or at least
ask?
”
Nick shook his head, a smile growing both inwardly and outwardly. “You’re something else, Claire Ayers, do you know that? Now you’ve got me thinking I only did half my job with that series. What makes you so smart?”
She lowered her head, but he was fairly certain he saw something flicker in her eyes and then quickly disappear. “I was just spouting stupid things I learned in one of my psych classes in college, and I shouldn’t have done it. I didn’t say you only did half a job.”
“I know. I’m the one who said that. And I’m right. According to everything I’ve read, and my discussions with the court psychologist, men like this woman’s husband are at their most vulnerable, their most ashamed and contrite, right after one of their violent outbursts. Maybe I’ll stop by the house tomorrow, see what comes of it.”
Claire looked up at him sharply, her eyes wide. “And I certainly didn’t mean for you to do anything like
that
. If you talk to any of these men, it should be in a controlled atmosphere. What if he’s still violent?”
Before he could check himself, Nick reached out a hand and stroked the side of Claire’s cheek. “It’s all right. I know this PA who might patch me up and even make me some canned chicken and noodle soup.”
“Not…funny,” she said, and then sighed as she reached back into her purse and pulled out a business card. “Here. The office number is on there, and my cell. If you go see this man tomorrow, you have to call me afterwards and tell me what happened. And remember, if he swings, cover your mouth, or else you’ll end up in the dentist’s chair, and you don’t want that.”
And then, as he was chuckling at her verbal swipe at his phobia, she went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You’re a nice man, Nick Barrington, with a nice son and a nice house. I think I’m glad I met you.”
Nick stood in the doorway, watching as she made her way along the curved pathway, past the ground lights, beneath the wrought-iron trellis, and all the way to her car, which sat beside his in the driveway. He stayed in the doorway until her engine caught, her headlights went on and she backed up, turned and drove onto the street.
Once her taillights disappeared around the curve, he went inside, closed the door and leaned his back against the solid wood.
“Well,” he said to the quiet house. “That was fairly pitiful, Romeo…”
He’d wanted to tell her that there had been something different about her tonight. Something with her eyes. They’d seemed…happier, somehow. But that would have been awkward, because it could mean that maybe she hadn’t looked all that good the first time they’d met, talked.
Man, he really was out of practice, if he’d even forgotten how to pay a woman a compliment.
And not reacting to her kiss on his cheek? Not taking the moment and running with it? Kissing her back. Just letting her leave like that? Not asking where she lived, or making arrangements to pick her up Saturday night? Was there even going to
be
a Saturday night?