"Ouch! What are you doing?" Renata smacked Phoebe hard on her exposed thigh below the mini-skirt the younger girl wore.
"Wait," Phoebe barely flinched at the sting of Renata's hand. "Come up here, Rennie. Look." Juliette helped Renata up onto the bench, and they both turned to look where Phoebe was pointing. Pushing against the crowd streaming out of the amphitheater, were their grandparents. In Grandpa's arms, little Georgie squeezed her baby doll tightly.
They weren't supposed to be here. Georgie had a terrible cold and ear infection, and Grandpa and Granny G had offered to stay home with her.
"Something's wrong," Renata murmured, stating the obvious. They watched as their grandparents made their way slowly toward the stage, searching the faces of the people milling around. The girls weren't difficult to find standing above the crowds, but they didn't wave or shout. Juliette reached for both her sisters' hands, and Renata, in turn, grabbed Phoebe's free one. They stood in a tight circle and waited.
Sharon, from three rows over, turned as though she'd heard her name, and her eyes met Juliette's. Then somehow, she was up on the bench beside them, her arms around her friend, just as Grandpa spotted them.
From her perch on the bench, Juliette read the pain in his eyes; she saw the suffering on her grandmother's tear-stained face. And she knew with a certainty that felt like ice in her blood that Papa and Maman would never see any of their daughters graduate.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ANGELA CLINTON STARTED drinking hours before, and by the time she got behind the wheel of her car to get to her high school graduation, she was plastered. And late. She never saw the Buick Park Avenue pulling into the intersection in front of her. She did see the light turn red, but not soon enough to stop for it.
The sound of metal clawing and screeching against metal seemed to come from down a long tunnel, and she slumped into the ride as her car spun around and around, the steering wheel jerking out of her hands. She hit her head hard against the window and watched in confusion as the world outside swirled together like taffy, twisting her down, down into darkness.
With consciousness came pain, and she avoided both with every fiber of her being. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew something horrible had happened, but she didn't think she could bear to know what it was. She forced herself to float in that place between dreams and wakefulness, keeping reality at bay for as long as she could.
BECAUSE OF WHERE HER birthday fell in the calendar year, Angela was to be tried and sentenced as an adult. But everything moved in slow motion as the Gustafson family was made to wait for what little justice a trial could bring, while Angela lay unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit at St. Jude's. The doctors could give no reassuring time frame, because there was no clear reason for her delayed recovery. The days turned into weeks, and then months, while she continued to drift somewhere just out of reach.
Those months proved to be almost beyond endurance for everyone, especially Grandpa and Granny G, who not only had to deal with the loss of their only son and his wife, but were left with the four devastated girls to care for. Their burden was overwhelming, but somehow, they managed their grief in a way that allowed the girls to learn how to manage their own.
Little Georgie, too young to understand the finality of death, slept on a mattress in her grandparents' bedroom, her homesick tears in the middle of the night breaking their hearts.
For a time, the three older sisters slept together in the big bed in the guest room. They never talked about the accident, but they whispered to each other their memories of Maman and Papa long into the night. Granny G woke them each morning with hot chocolate, warm hugs, and soft words of comfort to push back the despair in their eyes long enough for them to face another day.
When the news came that Angela was finally able to go to trial, an eerie stillness settled over the household as they prepared for the coming ordeal. Juliette was the only sister who could attend, as the others were in school, but she promised to relay everything exactly as it happened.
Facing the teary-eyed, sallow-skinned girl who looked so fragile on the stand, it was all Juliette could do to remember that Angela had murdered her parents, leaving her and her sisters orphans. She held her own tears at bay until she got home that first day. After filling her sisters in on all that had been said in court, she disappeared into the bedroom. Burrowing under her covers, she stayed there until the next morning.
She surprised everyone by returning to the courtroom. She sat beside her grandparents, still as a stone, staring through Angela, willing her shattered heart to harden against her old classmate.
On the final day of the trial, as one by one, the jurors stated their guilty findings, Angela kept her head down, tissues pressed to her eyes. Somewhere in the stillness of the subdued courtroom, a woman wept quietly, and a man, in harsh whispers, demanded she get a hold of herself. Juliette wondered if they were Angela's parents, but she didn't care enough to turn around and look.
Then Angela murmured something to the judge, who nodded his assent, and stated for the record, "Miss Clinton would like to address the family of the victims."
Angela looked straight at Juliette and began to speak, her voice hoarse, but sure. "Juliette, I can never undo the horrible thing I've done. I deserve whatever sentence I receive and so much more. I should be dead instead of your parents. I am so sorry. I can only hope that someday you, and your sisters, and you, Mr. and Mrs. Gustafson," she glanced briefly at the elderly couple, "will find it in your hearts to forgive me. I'm sorry." Her voice caught on the words and broke.
Juliette stared at her, eyes dry, unwilling to acknowledge her speech with even a nod.
It wasn't long after the trial that Juliette decided getting up was no longer necessary. One morning, she turned away from the smell of hot chocolate. She refused the warm hug and covered her ears when the soothing words came. Granny G let her stay in bed that day. And the next. And the next.
But on the fourth day, the others were sent out of the room to drink their hot chocolate with their little sister and grandfather in the kitchen. Granny G sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed back the tangled hair from her eldest granddaughter's face. "Sweet Juliette, you must get out of bed today. And if you do nothing else, take a shower, because you smell like hopelessness. Your sisters are worried, and Georgie is wondering if you're going to die as well. She won't believe me when I tell her no. She wants to hear it from you."
Juliette stared blankly at the wall as though her grandmother wasn't there. Granny G tried again. "Your sisters need you, Sweetie. Ren and Phoebe. Georgie needs you." She sighed, a sound that rested on Juliette's chest like a boulder. "Grandpa and I need you."
Juliette finally turned and swept her empty eyes over the old woman's face. After a long pause, she said, "I need Maman and Papa. Who will give me what I need?" Then she slid her feet out over the edge of the bed, pushing herself up into a sitting position. More to herself than to her grandmother, Juliette spoke again. Her tone was lifeless, but her words were full of something else. Granny G flinched when she heard the gentle girl say, "I hate Angela Clinton. I wish she was dead."
But she did get out of bed that day. And the next. And the next. Something from deep inside of her, however, stayed behind, buried beneath the blankets of grief and anger, and the Juliette that rejoined what was left of her family seemed somehow hollowed out to the others.
Her whole life had changed that night; the night it was supposed to have begun. She didn't go to Hawaii with Sharon, even though Sharon was willing to wait; in fact, she avoided her friend altogether. Sharon was devastated, Juliette knew, but how could she understand that the sympathy and compassion in her eyes was more than Juliette could bear?
She didn't go away to college with Sharon either, but instead found a job at a local bookstore so she could stay close to her sisters. They were her life-lines, even though she knew it was hard for them to tell. She pushed them away more often than not, but the thought of leaving, even for a
semester at a time, terrified her.
Her life became ordered, routine, predictable. She got up in the morning before any of the others, showered and dressed, then woke Phoebe and Renata so they could get ready for school. While they were primping, she played with Georgie and helped Granny G with breakfast. Then after Renata and Phoebe ran out the door, she headed to the bedroom to pick up after her sisters. She straightened any beds that weren't made, scooped up discarded clothing, and organized items on the dressers, making sure everything was as it should be before pulling the door closed behind her.
By 9:45 every morning, she was unlocking the doors of Bountiful Books, and by ten, she was ready and waiting for the first customer. She kept the shop spotless, the books in order, and the cash register balanced. She always had a pot of coffee brewing in the tiny back office for Wendy, her boss, who showed up around 10:30, having learned quickly that she could depend on the young lady with impeccable manners and ethics. Juliette graciously greeted each of her customers, and they enjoyed conversing with the unpretentious clerk who knew something about every book in the store. She was creative in her displays, patient with the shoppers, and never left anything undone that she could do herself.
At seven o'clock in the evening, Juliette was home, often with a new book to read to Georgie, or, for Phoebe, the latest release in the series all the high school girls were reading. Renata's favorite author was Agatha Christie, and since Granny G had every Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple book ever published, she already had an unlimited source on hand. But Juliette also knew she had a secret penchant for Vikings, and every once in a while, when she stumbled across a piece on Norse mythology or Viking romance, she'd tuck it into Renata's backpack for her to discover on her own. For the grandparents, Juliette brought hugs and quiet conversation; it was all they wanted from her, evidence that she was doing all right.
And she was. With her routine in place, Juliette was beginning to put back together bits and pieces of her life. The day she called Sharon, Granny G secretly wept with relief. The restoration of their friendship was a giant step toward Juliette's recovery.
Even so, she had changed. Control became a domineering factor in every decision she made. Juliette knew it, and she wished she could be less constrictive, but she didn't know how to let go. She tried to write down her thoughts, but even her journals were columned, and labeled; precise. She and Sharon, or her sisters, would go clothes shopping, and inevitably, Juliette came home with another pair of black pants or straight-cut blue jeans, or a pair of black shoes and white underwear. The few times she ended up with something colorful or trendy, it sat in her closet untouched until she returned it or gave it away.
When Juliette met Mike, everyone was happy she'd found love. He didn't pressure her to be anything she wasn't. He encouraged her to take her portion of her parent's life insurance and put a sizable down-payment on a place of her own. She finally did so with a real sense of accomplishment. That act of independence spurred her on to look for a better job, one with benefits, and Sharon convinced her to apply for the secretarial position at the University. It was perfect for her, because it left her available to continue helping out Wendy on weekends and during the two months of summer break, and her schedule coincided perfectly with Mike's.
A knock on the door interrupted Juliette's reminiscing, and she was relieved. She did not want to be thinking good things about Mike right now.
The relief only lasted until it occurred to her who it was. Renata. Juliette gritted her teeth and glared at the door. She still didn't want to talk to her, and she was not happy with being forced to do so, especially so late.
She laid the binder down on the coffee table and headed for the door. "I don't want to talk to you right now," she called out, knowing that Renata probably had her ear pressed to the paneling.
Juliette waited, expecting her sister to holler something along the lines of not being so childish. Nothing. She stood up on tiptoe and looked out through the peephole.
Officer Jarrett?
CHAPTER EIGHT
WHAT WAS HE DOING HERE? She looked down at her oversized t-shirt and worn pajama pants, the pattern so faded in some spots, it was difficult to make out the cute little puppy faces all over them. She wasn't wearing a bra, and her hair was pulled up into a messy ponytail on top of her head.
"Just a minute!" she called, racing back to her bedroom for something to cover herself with, pulling the rubber band from her hair as she went. She shrugged into her pink terry-cloth robe and ran her fingers through the haystack of hair she'd just upended.
"Why is he here?" she wailed, eying herself in the mirror. The robe didn't make her look any more attractive, but at least it covered her childish night clothes, and made her feel slightly more secure beneath the additional layers of fabric. Besides, if the man was going to show up on her doorstep after ten o'clock at night, then he would just have to take what he got.
Juliette turned the entryway light off to minimize what he'd be able to see, then thought it might look suspicious, so she flipped it back on. She pulled the door open a few inches and eyed him from behind it, the security chain still in place. "Yes?"
Realizing how ridiculous that looked—he was a police officer, after all—she closed the door before he could respond, unlatched the chain, then opened it again, still only wide enough to be civil, if not exactly polite.
"Good evening, Ms. Gustafson. We received a request to come by and check on you." He smiled politely and indicated a printout he held in his hand. "Is everything all right?"
Was he trying not to laugh at her?
"I'm fine," she said, feeling a little defensive. Did he honestly expect her to still be all dolled up at this hour? "Who called you? Was it Renata Dixon?" That would be just like her overbearing sister to notify the cops because Juliette wouldn't take her calls. "I'll kill her."
"That's probably not something you want to say in front of a police officer, ma'am." He was mocking her!
"She's my sister. I'm allowed to threaten her life with no recriminations." She could almost hear Phoebe applauding her snappy comeback, and Juliette straightened her shoulders, rather proud of herself. Here she was, facing off with an officer of the law, and not making an idiot of herself this time. She sounded witty and confident. Let him laugh. His derision would roll off her back like water off a... "Off a duck," she chortled out loud.
Officer Jarrett cocked his head. "What was that?"
Why couldn't she just keep her thoughts inside her head these days? "I like ducks," she muttered.
"Ducks. You mentioned them earlier today, too."
"I know." She changed the subject. "So, did Renata call you?"
"The caller asked to be kept anonymous." He folded the printout and slipped it into his breast pocket, then hitched both his thumbs over the black belt around his waist.
"How convenient." She knew she sounded cranky, but it was awfully late for reticence.
He studied her openly. Something about the way he looked at her made her pulse quicken just enough for her to notice. It wasn't inappropriate; in fact, he looked genuinely interested in the state of her well-being. But there was something more, too. It was almost as if she was being measured, and she had little doubt she'd be found lacking.
He, on the other hand, didn't seem to be lacking in any way. There was just a hint of silver at his temples and in his neatly-trimmed sideburns, and she thought it suited him. It softened his otherwise pronounced features; his high forehead, his squared-off jaw, his large nose. Large noses on men were a secret weakness of hers, and his, even she had to admit, was a big one. But the way it divided the angles of his face seemed to work, to draw one's attention to his eyes. His eyes, almost black under the spotlight of her front porch, were deep pools of—
Whoa. Did she just compare his eyes to deep pools? She cleared her throat, and stared at his chest instead, certain the flat planes of the bullet-proof vest beneath his uniform would keep her wayward thoughts in check. Instead, she found
herself wondering how much was vest and how much was chest. With his height and wide shoulders, she was sure he wasn't lacking in the muscles department, either. Her gaze drifted up to his neck, his chin, then his mouth...before she caught herself again.
"Well, like I said, I'm fine. See?" She pulled the door open a little more so he could look inside to the quiet order behind her. Flustered, she kept talking. "But thank you for coming by, Officer. It's good to know how our tax dollars are being spent. Do you also get kitties down out of trees or is checking up on the crazy old maid as ugly as it gets for you?" She tried to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, reminding herself she was angry at Renata, not this unsuspecting man who was just doing his job, but it squeezed itself in between her words anyway. It had been a very long day and she couldn't imagine a worse way to end it.
He lifted a hand, drawing his thumb across his lower lip, as though trying to erase the grin settling on his mouth. "Look, Ms. Gustafson, I'm relieved to find you whole and healthy. Calls like this one often end quite differently."
He was lecturing her again, but this time she knew she deserved it. Feeling contrite, she hung her head a little. "I am grateful. I'm glad there are people looking out for me, and I do appreciate you coming to check on me." She wasn't quite ready to go as far as apologizing—he had laughed at her—so she offered him her hand instead. "Thank you."
His grip was solid and gentle at the same time, and she found herself wondering if his embrace would feel the same way. Blushing, she averted her gaze again and withdrew her hand quickly. Where on earth were these thoughts coming from?
"My pleasure," he said warmly. He pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "I don't think we were properly introduced earlier. I'm Officer Jarrett. Victor."
She took the card and studied it. Officer James V. Jarrett, it said, and she wondered why he went by Victor. She looked up at him and smiled ruefully. "I'm Juliette Gustafson. But then, you already knew that."
Juliette and the Monday ManDates Page 5
