by Susan Gable
Mom sighed. “Nick’s reaction, indeed. There’s more going on here than meets the eye. Hayden?”
“Yes?”
“Find out what it is.”
They all filed out of the room, Alan lagging behind the others. He handed the remote control to Hayden. “Listen, little brother...”
“Yes, much older and therefore thinks he’s much wiser brother?”
“This has to be tough on you. So if you need someone to talk to... I know you head for Greg or Finn first, but they might be caught up with their own stuff now.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Alan nodded, then left.
Alone in the empty room, Hayden rewound the news program. He stopped on the picture of Ronni and Scott’s wedding. There had still been light in her eyes that day.
Exactly when, and why, had the sparkle gone out?
That had to be the key. Perhaps the key to Nick’s turmoil, too.
Secrets. Dear God, how Hayden detested secrets.
“Unk?” Nick reappeared in the doorway. Nearly as tall as his mother, he held her by the elbow, keeping her upright.
Hayden fumbled with the remote, jabbing the power button. The television faded to black. “Yeah, Nick?”
“We need your help. Mom’s sick.”
Ronni’s face was no longer white, it was pasty gray. Small beads of sweat covered her forehead.
Hayden leaped from the arm of the sofa. “What’s wrong?”
“Aura,” Ronni said. “Which means I’ve got about twenty minutes before my head explodes. I’d really rather it didn’t explode here. Way too much noise, not to mention some people might take too much pleasure in seeing me writhe in pain. I need to get home.”
“But she can’t see to drive,” Nick explained.
“You still get those migraines?”
She nodded.
“All right. Let’s go.” He slid alongside her, wrapped her arm around his waist, his around her shoulders. “I’ve got her, Nick.”
The boy reluctantly stepped away. This protectiveness of his mother was a side of him Hayden hadn’t seen in the two weeks since the courthouse meeting.
He steered Ronni across the corner of the kitchen and through the mudroom, carefully guiding her down the stairs into the garage.
“Nick, honey...you stay. I don’t want you to miss any of the fun. The bonfire. The fireworks. You always look forward to those.” Ronni stopped moving as they approached the open garage door.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll come home and take care of you.”
“That’s sweet. But I’m going to take my meds and pass out, anyway. Please...”
If Hayden took Ronni home, and she passed out, it would give him a chance to snoop. Plus, once the migraine broke, he wanted answers about the news program tonight. He jumped on the bandwagon. “S’okay, sport. I’ll get her home and take care of her. No worries. Somebody else can give you a ride home later.”
The kid tilted his head, both eyebrows rising.
“What?” Hayden asked.
“Five minutes ago you were with the rest of them, ready to post her head on a pike or something. Now I’m supposed to believe you want to take care of her?”
“Right now, knowing how my head’s going to feel, I’d prefer it on a pike,” Ronni muttered. “Nick, I don’t have time to argue with you. Please. I love that you want to take care of me. I do. But stay and have fun. I’m supposed to take care of you.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“Good.” She started forward again. When they exited the garage, she turned her face into Hayden’s shoulder, using her free hand to cover her eyes. They headed down the driveway.
“You still throw up when you get migraines?” he asked.
“Sometimes.”
“We’ll take your car.”
CHAPTER SIX
FIVE MINUTES FROM her house, she moaned, pressing her hand to her head.
“Do I need to pull over?” he asked softly.
“No.”
“Good. ’Cause you know how some guys will hold your hair back while you puke? FYI, I’m not that guy.”
“Shh. Don’t talk,” she whispered harshly.
He pulled her Jetta into the short driveway at her place, the one that led to the one-car attached garage. Another longer drive ran alongside the house, down the hill to the back, where the salon customers parked.
She used both hands to hold her head when he closed the car door. “Sorry.”
By the time he made it to the passenger side, she’d hauled herself out. Rocking on her feet, she reached for him.
He steadied her, guiding her through the door to the left of the garage. They entered into her narrow laundry. The appliances had seen better days. The hooks on the wall were all empty.
Eyes closed, arms outstretched, Ronni groped her way to the hall. He glanced over her shoulder to be sure the door to the basement was shut. If she tumbled down those, a migraine—or the news report—would be the least of her worries.
“Thanks,” she murmured as she staggered toward the kitchen. “Going to bed.”
He continued to follow her. As they entered the kitchen, the house phone rang. Ronni flinched at the noise, covering her ears. Hayden glanced at the base on the counter. The message indicator showed eleven messages for her. The built-in answering machine picked up as they crossed into the living room, Ronni trailing her hand along the wall of the hallway.
After Ronni’s chirpy greeting for her salon, a man spoke. “Mrs. Mangano, this is Eric Hanover. I’m a reporter from the Erie Gazette. I’d like to interview you about your husband and the story that ran on WEGL tonight. Please call me back. You can reach me at...” The man left his contact information.
Ronni groaned as she turned into her bedroom. She dropped onto the queen-size bed without turning down the quilted spread. Mostly white with some brown and pink, it was feminine, but not fussy. Just like Ronni.
Lying back, she draped her arm across her face and didn’t move.
Hayden went to the bottom of the bed, slid off her tan sandals. As he did, something on the inside of her left ankle caught his eye. A small tattoo? He couldn’t quite make it out.
“Close shades?”
Without a word, he pulled the shades on the two windows in the room, one that overlooked the parking lot in the back, and one on the side of the house. Then he went into the bathroom. The ranch-style home had only one bathroom, but it could be accessed from either the master bedroom or the hallway. Hayden rummaged in the linen closet for towels, in the process finding the box of condoms Nick had mentioned during their first man to man chat, right next to Ronni’s “personal” supplies. He’d have to talk to her about the idea that a fourteen-year-old boy might help himself to condoms, but it was far less likely if they were sitting right next to feminine hygiene products.
Retrieving two blue hand towels, Hayden laid one next to the sink, then ran the other under hot water until steam billowed. After wringing it out, he quietly returned to the bedroom. “I brought you a hot towel.”
She reached for it.
“Careful,” he murmured.
Ronni held it in the air for a moment, testing the heat, then draped it across her face from one ear to the other, covering her eyes.
She sighed. “You remembered. Thanks.”
How could he have forgotten? He’d helped Ian run hot towels for her when she’d been pregnant with Nick and having migraine attacks. She’d refused to take any kind of drugs for the pain then.
“Shh. Let the medicine work.” He’d retrieved the pills from her purse first thing when they’d gotten into her car. “Any other way I can help?”
“Yes.” She panted a few moments, wrestling with the pain. “Lie down and stick your hand under my head. Under my neck. I’ll show you.”
Hayden glanced around the room—looking for what, he wasn’t sure. It just seemed odd. Still, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t climbed onto a be
d with plenty of women. She wasn’t precisely inviting him into her bed.
Images of being there stormed him—of Ronni, naked in the moonlight and candlelight, panting not from pain, but from pleasure....
Son of a— What in the hell was he doing, fantasizing about her like that? He’d broken up with Piper three and a half weeks ago. It wasn’t as if he’d been deprived for an extended period of time.
Careful not to jounce the springs too much, he stretched out on his side and eased his hand under her neck as she’d asked.
She grunted. “Stick your thumb here.” She indicated the spot where her skull joined her neck on the left side.
He applied pressure.
“Harder.”
Ironic word choice on her part, Hayden mused. Usually when he was sprawled on a mattress with a woman and she said that, she didn’t have a headache. But since one of his cardinal rules was always oblige a lady in bed, he pressed harder.
“Mmm.”
That sounded near enough to satisfaction, so he maintained the position.
Then the phone on her bedside table rang. She groaned. He withdrew his hand and rolled from the bed, rounding it to grab the handset and jab the off button. In the distance, the kitchen extension continued ringing. “Be right back,” he told her.
A soft length of fabric tangled around his shoe as he hurried from the room. He kicked his foot up, catching the material and slinging it across his shoulder.
In the kitchen, the answering machine took the call. “Ronni Mangano? Heartless bitch. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Just as Hayden reached for the phone to give the woman caller a piece of his mind, she hung up.
Now the blinking light read thirteen messages. On the off chance one of them might have actually been important, he listened to them all. A few were from Scott’s mother, complaining that Ronni wasn’t answering her cell, and requesting she call back. Several were from media people besides the Erie Gazette, and the rest were like the one he’d just heard—strangers who didn’t have anything better to do than attack someone they didn’t know over a story they didn’t have all the facts on.
Facts he wanted.
Hayden—hell, his entire family—had condemned Ronni once. No more rushing to judgment when it came to her.
He left the messages on the machine, but turned off the ringer. She had enough to deal with right now.
The material he’d slung over his shoulder slipped. He caught it, holding it out. Navy blue, worn from repeated washings to the point of being tissue thin, the thing looked familiar. He could barely make out a figure on the front.
And then it hit him. It was the oversize nightshirt featuring the Tazmanian Devil from the Bugs Bunny cartoons that Ian had given Ronni for Christmas the year she’d been pregnant with Nick.
That she still had it, still obviously wore it... Hayden cleared his throat and draped it over his shoulder again.
On the return trip, he cut through the bathroom, heating the second towel and taking it with him. “Fresh towel,” he whispered, dropping the nightshirt back on the floor near the bedside table.
She held out the now-cool terry cloth, exchanging it. He tossed it onto the bathroom counter from the door, then eased back onto the bed. When he pushed his thumb into her neck, she rewarded his efforts with another soft sigh of relief.
He lay that way for a long while, getting up to bring a hot towel several times. Eventually her breathing evened out, and she didn’t stir when he quietly asked if she wanted a reheat.
Stretched out beside her, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest by the light that slanted in from the bathroom window, Hayden was filled with a feeling of peace.
Of belonging.
Which made no sense at all, given the questions he had for her, and the “recon mission” he needed to complete.
Not to mention the husband who belonged on this side of the mattress.
Chastising himself, he climbed from the bed without disturbing her—another skill he’d honed to an art form.
Using his cell phone as a flashlight, he started his investigation with the tat on her ankle, because it intrigued him. Body art reflected very personal things.
As he knew from experience.
He pushed the hem of her jeans up. In the glow from the phone screen, he could make out a broken heart superimposed on the Liberty Bell, with the cracks lining up. Amazing artwork. He turned the phone around, snapped a picture of it. Greg was the expert at art interpretation. Hayden fired off a copy to him, asking for his thoughts.
Though curious about Ronni, he wanted to know more about her husband. She’d married Mangano about a year after Hayden had returned home from his enlistment. Nick had been around seven.
A tall chest of drawers butted against the wall near the bathroom door. The top, where most men kept watches, cell phones and other odds and ends, was bare. He carefully opened the top drawer. Nothing inside.
The same held for each of the other drawers, with the exception of the bottom, where he discovered a collection of Ronni’s sweaters, tucked away for next fall.
Not a stitch of Scott’s clothing.
Odd.
He moved toward the closet next. Same thing. One side clearly held Ronni’s things, while the other was empty save for a few strays of hers that had invaded.
Maybe Scott had used the closet in the guest room.
But across the hallway in the spare room, the only sign of Scott Hayden found was his dress uniform, still covered in plastic from the dry cleaners. On the shelf above it, a shoe box held his ribbons and other small uniform necessities.
Where were his cammies? His sea bag holding all the stuff he’d deployed with? And what about his civvies?
The Dear John scenario looked more and more plausible.
Although maybe she’d erased him from the house sometime after his accident? As a way of accepting the finality of his injury?
In the living room, one picture of Scott sat smack-dab in the middle of the mantel. Over the years, Hayden hadn’t paid much attention to the man his brother’s son had called Dad. Not after an initial check by the family into the guy’s background had revealed nothing of concern. Interrogating Nick from time to time hadn’t revealed anything to worry about, either. Hayden vaguely recalled Scott dropping the boy off at his parents’ once or twice. But that was the closest he’d ever come to meeting him.
Hayden studied Scott’s military photo. The dark blue eyes had a hard edge to them. Hell, the whole face had a hard look, as if he was a guy who got what he wanted—or took it.
Finally, Hayden headed to Nick’s bedroom. Opening the door, he stepped over dirty clothes scattered on the floor.
The corner desk boasted a computer with dual monitors, three empty energy drink cans and assorted snack wrappers. A flat-screen television perched on top of Nick’s dresser. World of Warcraft and Halo posters graced the walls, along with several bikini babes.
Hayden checked those out carefully, his grin growing. From these examples, the boy had good taste in women.
Over the twin bed, framed photo collages celebrated different periods in Nick’s life. One picture jumped out at Hayden immediately—baby Nick slumbering on Ian’s chest. Others also demanded his attention: Hayden’s parents with Nick, and one of him and Judy, the proud godparents, with the baby on Nick’s christening day.
There were pictures of Nick with the family from more recent gatherings, including Greg and Shannon’s wedding last summer. How had Ronni gotten her hands on those? Although given that all the kids ran around with camera-equipped cell phones, in all likelihood, the pictures had come from one of his cousins— or from Nick’s own phone.
Despite the grudge they’d held against Ronni, she’d done her damnedest to make sure Nick remained a part of the Hawkins family, and remembered Ian.
Another collage featured pictures of Nick with Scott.
So apparently Ronni hadn’t completely erased him from the whole house—just from their bedroom.
/> Curiouser and curiouser.
In the closet, Hayden shoved his fingers into a baseball glove that had been buried under some shoes in a corner.
Nothing. He searched the kid’s socks, every other nook and cranny he could think of. All he found worth noting was a battered copy of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition, which he tucked back into its hiding place. Compared to some of the things the kid could find on the internet these days, the magazine was tame and classy.
Hayden crept back into Ronni’s bedroom. At some point she’d removed the towel from across her eyes and tossed it on the floor. Sleep had smoothed the pain and anxiety of the day from her face.
He reached down, brushed the hair from her forehead, stroked the skin over her eyebrows.
Life had given her enough lemons to start a factory, never mind a lemonade stand. Gut instinct told him she had other lemons he didn’t know about—yet.
Once again he had the urge to wrap her in his arms and shelter her. Tell her it was all going to work out.
He turned on his heel and bolted.
###
Several hours later, as he sprawled on Ronni’s sofa, television remote in hand, sound turned way down, Hayden’s cell phone vibrated. Nick’s number showed on the screen. “Yeah, Nick, what’s up?”
“How’s my mom?”
“Sleeping it off.”
“Oh. Good.” There was a pause. “So what are you doing?”
“Watching TV.” Hayden cut the next pause short. “Spill it, Nick. What do you want?”
“Well...Pop’s having a sleepover in the tree house. I want to stay, but I didn’t want to call Mom because of the migraine.”
“So you’re looking for my permission?”
“Well...you can at least let her know. Leave a note or something. That way she won’t worry.”
“Nick, all she does is worry about you right now.” Among other things. “Yeah, stay. I’m sure your mom will be fine with it. Speaking of Pop, is he around?”
