Worth the Fall

by Mara Jacobs

  Alison let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, he’s a total perv. But he’s my total perv.”

  “And you love him,” Lizzie said, almost as if she was still trying to come to terms with it, six months after they told their friends they were a couple.

  “Yep. I love him,” she said to her friends, though she was watching her man. He grinned that stupid, sexy grin at her and she sighed once more. This time the sigh was not of suffering, but of contentment. Then the smile grew wider, dirtier, and her sigh turned to an tiny gasp of anticipation.

  Their friends had been shocked back in February when they went public with their relationship. Petey and Alison let them all believe that it had grown out of the proximity they shared during Petey’s recovery. They didn’t feel the need to throw in the story of their history, so they’d allowed the misconception.

  Petey had moved back in with Alison and had stayed, even when his house had become vacant. They’d talked about moving there, but they both liked the coziness of her cottage, so the conversation never got much traction.

  In early May, they’d made the trek to Detroit where Petey was honored at the last home Red Wings game. Lizzie had gone with them to be there for the ceremony and for meetings with her staff. They’d gotten Petey’s condo cleaned out, moved what they couldn’t take back with them to Lizzie’s place, and met with a realtor about listing Petey’s place.

  Alison was thrilled to share Petey’s last Red Wings moment with him, and so happy that he was able to get some closure on that chapter of his career.

  And his new chapter—as a local business owner—was moving right along. He and Darío had gone into business together to build an indoor driving range. He’d even hired the engineering firm where Denise Casparich worked, and she was one of the main people on the project. Petey oversaw the project on a daily basis with Darío, Katie, and Peaches now on the road most weeks during the golf season.

  Darío was having a so-so year on Tour, but didn’t seem to care. Alison wondered if it might be his last—he seemed to want nothing more than to stay in the Copper Country with Katie and Peaches. At least, now that winter had passed.

  Finn’s horse boarding and training business had gained a few new clients, but his bread and butter was still the family strawberry farm. In fact, it was rare to even see him in the summer, he tended to be too busy with the crops.

  Katie had just sold her first freelance piece to a women’s magazine about becoming a first-time mother in your mid-thirties.

  And Alison? Well, not much had changed in her life.

  Except for Petey.

  Which meant everything had changed.

  “Have you told them yet?” Petey asked her as he rubbed the towel through his hair. He’d wanted to cut it when the summer began, but she’d asked him to keep it longer.

  “More for me to grab on to,” she’d whispered to him that night in bed.

  He’d left it long.

  “Told us what?” Lizzie asked as she sat up in her chair, her head turning from Petey to Alison and back again.

  “Obviously not,” she said pointedly to Petey. He did a “so sue me” shrug and grinned again.

  Katie craned around Lizzie and looked at Alison. More specifically at Alison’s left hand. Knowing what she was looking for, Alison quickly said, “We’re not engaged.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” Petey said. He threw the towel at Alison, who caught it and draped it over the back of her chair to dry.

  “You’ve proposed?” Lizzie said to Petey and then looked at Alison with accusing eyes.

  “I didn’t tell you because—”

  “She didn’t say yes,” Petey cut her off.

  “You said no?” Katie said, surprise evident in her voice.

  Alison put her hands up in surrender. “No. I didn’t say no.”

  “But she didn’t say yes,” Petey added as he nudged her legs aside and plopped down on her chair.

  She shot him a look. “This was not how this was supposed to go,” she said to him in a warning voice.

  “Al. Baby. When has anything with us ever gone the way it’s supposed to.”

  She shrugged. He had her there.

  “What were you going to tell us, then?” Lizzie asked.

  “Well it wasn’t supposed to be some big announcement or anything,” Alison said, softly kneeing Petey’s thigh. “I was just going to tell you guys that Petey and I…that we’re going to…we’re thinking about…”

  “We’re going to try to get knocked up,” Petey finished for her.

  Their friends all sat stunned for a moment, then began with congratulations and well wishes.

  Alison held up a hand. “It’s very early. Who knows if I’ll even be able to conceive,” she looked at Katie who gave her a sympathetic, and knowing, look. “And I’m certainly not telling people or anything. I just wanted you guys to know.”

  “Well of course we should know,” Lizzie said.

  After a moment Katie said, “Not that I’m one to talk, but are you guys planning on getting married, too? I mean, before you get pregnant? Or at least very pregnant?”

  “See?” Petey said, addressing Alison, but motioning to Katie. “See how scarred Katie is from having a shotgun wedding? We should definitely make that trip to the altar soon, Al.”

  Everyone laughed, even the obviously unscarred Katie.

  Alison knew that they’d be taking a trip the altar—as Petey called it—soon. He was wearing her down with his almost daily proposals. And really, she had no doubts about marrying Petey. She loved him, knew he loved her, and they were committed to a life together.

  But she did like how he begged.

  “I mean, seriously, Al, we need to get cracking on this,” Petey now said. “We need to have a bunch of kids.”

  “Ummm…a bunch?”

  “Yeah. With your genetic pool, and all those concussions I’ve suffered, we’re going to need a whole brood to take care of us in our old age.”

  He teased, but he knew how her parents’ conditions and the risk of their heredity scared her. They’d talked about it several times, and it was probably the real reason Alison held out.

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, then whispered in her ear, “Don’t worry, Al. I’ll be there through it all. No matter what happens. I’ll catch you if you fall.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and held on tight.

  Lizzie, Katie and Alison may have found their Happy Ending, but the Worth Series is not over.

  Alison’s patient, Denise (Deni) Casparich, is featured in the next installment,

  Worth The Effort

  due Spring 2013.

  While waiting for the next Worth book, check out Mara’s Romantic Suspense

  Broken Wings

  Read on for a Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  I stare into the eyes of the man who killed my father.

  Maybe.

  I mean, maybe he’s the man who killed my father, not the staring part. Although, to be honest, I’m not really staring into his eyes, because I’m looking at a photo of him on a computer screen.

  Okay. Let me start over.

  I stare at the eyes of a man who maybe killed my father.

  I only knew him for a few weeks before witnessing him murder my father, twenty-two years ago. And, I was only a five-year-old girl, not the most reliable witness.

  But yeah, it’s him.

  I try to calm down. This isn’t the first time I thought I saw someone from my past. I’ve quickly left grocery stores, abandoning my cart mid-aisle, when seeing the flash of a handsome man with dark hair. Only to be embarrassed as I hid in the parking lot and saw a complete stranger walk out later.

  But I never thought I’d seen Uncle Chazz before. Until now.

  The picture is the desktop picture of my newest acquisition, a used Mac IMAC. The man – I knew him as Uncle Chazz though, even at five, I knew he wasn’t really an uncle – stands behind the bar in a bar/restaurant. To the right of him
, in front of the bar is a young couple standing with their arms around each other. They’re more dressed up than the people in the background of the bar, like maybe they’ve come from somewhere else. They look to be about my age.

  The woman is blonde and pretty. The man is handsome with black hair and blue eyes – a combination I used to love on a man. I quickly dismiss them.

  I do a couple of quick clicks and realize that the previous owner didn’t wipe the hard drive clean. That’s not as unusual as you might think. In fact, it’s somewhat common. Even after doing this for four years, I’m still amazed at how people can sell their computers without totally obliterating every bit of personal data.

  Some don’t know how, I suppose. Some don’t care. And of course, some computers are stolen, but those are mostly laptops.

  The shock value of seeing people’s personal things wore off long ago. And there were some shocking things. On one of the first machines I dismantled, I found a folder of the most disgusting pornographic photos I’d ever seen.

  I’ve been around the internet a while, and I’ve …stumbled upon...a lot of porn. Some made me laugh, some aroused me, some got no reaction, some made me sick. So when I say this was DISGUSTING…well, you know it was bad. A couple of folders down from the porn folder on this machine were all the letters the owner had sent out…to his parishioners.

  Yeah, that’s right, the guy with all the hard core porn was also a minister.

  After awhile I became immune to all the personal docs on the computers I refurbished. Now, I simply don’t care enough to look.

  I pick up the ebay receipt that was in the box. The seller is an N. Carpenter. There’s a hand-written note that I’d tossed aside when I unpacked the computer.

  I hope you like it. It served us well, but time to move on – Nick

  Nick Carpenter from Tennessee sold his Mac on ebay and I bought it. He probably joined the PC nation. Or maybe got a laptop with a new job. Or upgraded to a new Mac. I get a lot of Mac sales that way. Mac users love to have the newest version of everything.

  I wonder if the bartender – Uncle Chazz, now, to me – is a part of this Nick’s everyday life, or is he just a bartender that happened to be in one of his pictures? The likelihood of him being my Uncle Chazz slims in my mind. The bartender has the same basic features that Uncle Chazz had, but that was twenty-two years ago. He would have been in his early thirties then. The bartender looks to be younger than mid-fifties. And hopefully, Uncle Chazz is rotting in prison somewhere. And if he isn’t, then he got away with killing my father, is running free, and I really can’t imagine him – or any of his ilk – in Tennessee.

  Those guys don’t leave their home turf unless they have to.

  Like I did.

  But the more I stare, the more my hand doesn’t move on the mouse. I can only see the desktop picture.

  And Uncle Chazz.

  My mind races as to how I can confirm this. Or, better yet, to eliminate the possibility that it’s him. My fingers itch to start Googling, but I know better. No search like that can be traced to this IP address. Or anywhere in the vicinity.

  I know there are ways around that, proxies and other stuff, but I don’t trust them. I’ve learned not to.

  A thought hits me. The bank. My safe deposit box. I look at the clock, I still have a few hours before my branch closes. Thank goodness they have Saturday hours.

  How to do this? I think it through. I don’t want the contents of that box in this house. I know it’s overkill, but it’s how I feel. That life, even the remnants of that life, have no place in this house.

  I’ve been through too much to make sure I had this one, small, safe haven.

  I take a screen shot of the desktop and then open it up. I enlarge the pic as much as I can without totally blowing out the pixels. I crop out the blonde and her good-looking boyfriend – presumably Nick Carpenter. I hook up a printer to the IMac and print out a copy.

  As if someone is watching me, I quickly fold the picture several times, image inward, and place it on my work table. I run upstairs and change out of my sweats, baggy turtleneck, Hello Kitty slippers – my basic work uniform – and into slacks, a light-weight sweater set and loafers. I have about three such outfits for the rare times I go to the bank or to some other professional establishment.

  At home I just wear sweats or yoga pants. To run out for take out or to the store, I usually wear jeans. Or sometimes I just stay in the yoga pants.

  Pretty inexpensive wardrobe needs. It makes for an uncluttered closet. And not a lot to have to pack on a moment’s notice.

  I make the thirty-minute drive to the bank in silence, the print out of the picture sitting on the passenger seat, as if Uncle Chazz is coming for a little ride with me.

  I feel a moment of panic at the bank when I pull out my two forms of ID. No reason I should, this is my safe identity. No one outside of this town knows me by this name.

  At least no one who wants me dead.

  The woman looks at both forms of ID for a while. I don’t blame her; they’ve never seen me in the four years since I got the box. I do my financial stuff at a different bank and most of all my transactions are done online anyway.

  The woman finally takes me in the little room and we put our keys into the drawer together and then she leaves to give me privacy. I take the box out and bring it over to the high table in the center of the room. There are four tall stools around the table. I scooch onto one, wishing I was bellying up to the bar to order a brew, not opening the lid on my deadly past.

  I turn the key and lift the heavy lid. I open it slowly, as if something inside could strike out at me.

  There are only seven items in the box. My birth certificate. My California driver’s license. My Social Security card. A stack of hundred dollar bills totaling four thousand dollars. A picture of my father. A gun. And a sealed envelope.

  The identification things I quickly move to the bottom of the box. They are no good to me now, and could get me killed. The cash is my safety net, it goes back into the box. The gun…the gun may be needed, but not today.

  I finally come to the sealed envelope, not able to put it off any longer. I don’t know why the procrastination now, after I’d hurried like hell to get here before the bank closed.

  Yeah, on some level I do know why. Because what I find it this envelope may blow my safe world apart.

  I take a deep breath and place my finger under the flap of the envelope and quickly slash it across, causing a momentary flash of pain from a tiny paper cut. The envelope flap turns a diluted pink where I bleed, ever so slightly, onto it.

  Holding the offending fingertip out of the way, I pull out the contents of the envelope, careful not to let them touch the bloodstain. Two photos. Both single shots of a man alone. Different men. The first is a face I know well.

  Knew well.

  Or maybe, never really knew at all.

  I see now that the resemblance to the handsome man in the desktop picture is surface, at best. Black hair, blue eyes, extremely good-looking, yes. But this man…my man…has a gleam in his eye, a charming predator look that draws one in.

  Drew me in.

  But I flew away.

  I swallow down emotion, careful not to examine closely what the exact emotion is, and place that photo back into the envelope. Left remaining is a photo of Uncle Chazz. I take the folded printout of the desktop picture out of my pants pocket. I slowly unfold it, pressing out the creases with my now shaking hands.

  I lay the picture from the envelope, a smaller snapshot, onto the table next to the unfolded printout.

  He has aged, but it’s Uncle Chazz. There are differences, yes. But even if I hadn’t been sure, and I now was, the man in both these photos has a small scar running through his right eyebrow. Very tiny, not very noticeable, unless you were looking for it.

  Or looking at it. As I had, at five years old, when I saw him standing over my father’s body, gun in hand. He’d lifted his index finger to his lips as he
watched me watch him, in a “shhhh” motion. It wasn’t necessary. I didn’t scream. I didn’t speak. I only stared at the man who had just killed my father.

  My little eyes had followed the line of his index finger as if it were pointing straight up, and saw the scar that bisected his eyebrow. I suppose I was already going into shock because all I could think at the time – and I still remember this, twenty-two years later – was “ I wonder how Uncle Chazz got that owie?”

  My finger glides over the scar in the printout of the desktop photo, as if it might be embossed, and I could feel the nail in Uncle Chazz’s coffin.

  I’m not sure how long I sit and stare, but I finally put the snapshot back in the envelope, careful not to look at the other picture in there. I fold up the printout and add it to the envelope. I don’t want it in my home. In fact, Nick Carpenter’s IMAC is going to be nothing but nuts, bolts and motherboard by then end of the day.

  My hand slides over the gun as I place it on top of everything in the box. Yes, I silently tell it, I will be back for you soon.

  I put the box back into the long drawer, call the woman in and we both lock it up and take our respective keys with us. I thank her and walk out of the bank, wondering how I can possibly drive home.

  I can’t. Not yet. I’m not even sure I’d be able to find my way home, as shaken up as I am. I look at the coffee shop across the street and head over. I spend the next two hours nursing a black coffee, turning a muffin into a pile of crumbs and plotting how to kill Uncle Chazz.

  My hands stop shaking at some point and I know it’s okay to drive. I clean up my mess, half expecting to see napkins littered with murder plots, but no, I’d done all the planning in my head.

  On the drive home I turn over all the different ways to exact revenge.

  No, not revenge. Vengenance.

  Plots and schemes skim through my head, one idea more delicious than the next. I turn down my street and head toward my driveway. The entrance to my safe haven. My nest. A place I hadn’t ventured far from for four years.

  A soft sound, almost a wail, escapes from me as I realize none of these plans for Uncle Chazz will happen. None can happen.