Changes (The Magic Jukebox Book 1)

by Judith Arnold

  He shrugged. “Yeah, she’s apologized.” His voice was flat. Clearly he didn’t think much of his mother’s apology.

  “She’s right here in town,” Diana recalled.

  “I see her as little as possible.”

  “Do you talk to her at all?”

  “She calls me sometimes.” He exhaled, sounding weary. “She’ll invite me over for dinner or ask me to do an errand for her. She called a few days ago and told me one of her window shutters fell and she needed it nailed back on.”

  “Did you fix it?”

  “Sure,” he said sarcastically. “There’s nothing I’d rather do than drop everything and race to her house to fix her freaking shutter.” He shot Diana a sharp look. “Yeah, I’d rather spend an evening rehanging her damned shutter than being with you.” His tone hinted that perhaps hanging his mother’s shutter might be more pleasant for him than this conversation.

  Still, his broken relationship with his mother struck Diana as terribly sad. Her mother was angry, yet Diana couldn’t imagine their not remaining in touch. In time, she was convinced, her parents would accept her decision not to marry Peter. They’d resent it; they’d pressure her to rethink it. They’d argue with her. She’d argue back. It was what adult children did with their parents.

  Nick clearly didn’t do that with his parents.

  “You told me your father was gone. I assume that means he doesn’t live in town?”

  “I have no idea where he is,” Nick said coldly. “After he recovered from his injuries, he took off. No forwarding address. No money to support my mother. No paperwork.” He allowed himself a humorless laugh. “As far as I know, they’re still married.”

  “I think after a certain number of years, your mother can claim she’s been abandoned and get a divorce, even if your father isn’t around to sign the papers.”

  “Well, she never did that. She used to say the church wouldn’t allow a divorce, but that’s not true. You can’t get remarried in the church, but you can get a divorce. She never took that step, though.” He shrugged. “Who knows? She probably still loves the bastard.”

  Maybe she did. Battered women sometimes remained attached to their batterers. It was a totally irrational thing, but they did. Maybe Nick’s mother’s refusal to divorce her husband was just one more reason he was estranged from her.

  Yet despite his hostility toward his mother, he seemed to have healed himself. He’d kept going. He’d survived the horror of a criminal conviction, overcome it, triumphed. He was living a good life now, giving back to a world that had forsaken him. “You’re an amazing man,” she said.

  He snorted. “I’m a guy who almost killed my father. There’s nothing admirable about that.”

  “It’s admirable if you were trying to save someone else’s life.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t.” He stared out at the dark ocean, now barely distinguishable from the equally dark sky above it. “Maybe I just hated my father because he’d been beating up on my mother for so many years. He drank and became a bully. Maybe I hurt him because I hated him.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Diana said. She honestly didn’t. Not because she didn’t want to believe a man she loved could be that cold-hearted, but because she knew Nick. She knew him enough to know that he was a good man.

  She loved him.

  Astonished by the realization, she twisted in her chair to look at him. He must have sensed her gaze on him, because he turned to her. Even in the evening shadows, she could see the turbulence in his expression, the pain and regret and fear. The hope.

  “Nick,” she murmured, reaching across the arm of her chair to take his hand.

  As soon as her fingers touched his, he stood, clasped her hand in his and pulled her to her feet. His arms came around her as hers came around him, and they kissed. At first the kiss was light and forgiving, but soon it grew deep and needy, as dark as the night enveloping them.

  She was scarcely aware of them crossing the porch to the door, wandering through the lobby to the stairs, climbing them to her room. She didn’t hear her footsteps on the thick rugs, didn’t feel the slick surface of the key card as she slid it into the slot and clicked the door open. She didn’t notice the pale light from the bedside lamp, the plump pillows, the plush duvet covering the bed. She was conscious of only one thing: Nick. His hand clasping hers. His warmth permeating her. Her love for this strong, brave man.

  He kissed her again, and she was lost. This had to be love. It was so much more powerful than anything she’d ever felt for Peter. It left her dazed. Intoxicated. Yearning. Aching. Her hands tugged at his clothing. Her fingers seemed suddenly incapable of the most simple tasks—unfastening a button, untucking a shirt tail. He was much more dexterous. Her blouse slid down her shoulders, her skirt down her hips. She hated the garments because they separated her skin from his touch. She loved them because they were apparently so easy to remove.

  Once he’d stripped her naked, he helped her to remove his own clothing. Then they tumbled onto the bed. It was big, the duvet soft, the mattress cushioning and cradling her back. Nick rose above her, his arms propping him, his hips pressing against hers with an urgency that matched her own churning emotions.

  She yearned. She ached.

  She loved.

  His tongue plundered her mouth. His fingers tangled into her hair, traced the curves of her earlobes, stroked the underside of her chin. He slid down to kiss one breast and then the other, sucking hard on her nipples, causing her back to arch and her breath to catch. He kissed her belly. Her hip bones. Her crotch. For a few hedonistic seconds she believed her favorite part of him was his mouth—but then she decided that wasn’t true. Her favorite part of him was his soul.

  “I don’t have anything with me,” he whispered.

  She knew at once what he was referring to. “It’s okay,” she assured him. She’d been engaged to Peter a long time. She’d taken care of protecting herself.

  “You sure?”

  She was sure she wanted Nick, needed him, loved him. She was sure this moment was everything she’d been waiting for, everything she’d ever dreamed of. “I’m sure,” she murmured, opening for him, reaching down and guiding him to her.

  Their bodies merged, fused, burned together. His thrusts were slow, purposeful. Given how desperately they’d been kissing, she would have expected him to be wilder, but this wasn’t just sex. It was a merging of minds and hearts as well as bodies, and Nick seemed to want every instant, every motion, every sensation to matter.

  Her muscles flexed. Her nerves tensed. Her breath caught. She closed her eyes, wanting to savor the sensations.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispered.

  She obeyed and found him gazing down at her. His hair was disheveled—her doing, she admitted as she dug her fingers convulsively into the dark, wavy locks. His jaw was tense. His eyes were as soft as she’d ever seen them, a deep, mellow brown, taking her in, absorbing the sight of her.

  Oh, God, yes. She loved him. She loved Nick Fiore.

  Her body arched in a blissful release. She shuddered, convulsing around him, feeling him climax inside her, hot and hard. They moaned together, a sweet, ragged chorus of bliss. Of love.

  Slowly, carefully, he eased off her. He rolled onto his back, nestling his head deep into one of the oversize down pillows, and drew her against him. His shoulder was her pillow. It was much harder than a pillow, but she didn’t mind.. She couldn’t imagine anywhere she’d rather rest her head.

  He stroked his fingers lightly up and down her arm as his breath slowed and his body cooled. She traced an aimless pattern across his chest, smiling when his nipples stiffened, smiling again when his abdominal muscles clenched at her touch.

  Love. This had all happened so quickly, it was all so intense, but she couldn’t deny what she felt. Nick was the most honorable man she’d ever known. He had triumphed over injustice and betrayal, and now he was giving back, giving of himself to kids who might have been dealt the same bad hand he�
�d had when he was their age.

  What would her life have been like if she hadn’t entered the Faulk Street Tavern last Saturday night? She would be acquiescing to Peter right now, saying that if he really preferred that ostentatious mansion in Newport, Rhode Island, they would have their wedding there. She would be yielding to her mother and buying some frou-frou white gown that cost more than the national debt. She would be at Shomback-Sawyer in Boston, pacing two steps behind James, taking notes and nodding at whatever he said. She would be knocking herself out to make everyone happy.

  But she had entered the tavern. And she’d heard the song. And she’d changed.

  Her hand stilled on Nick’s chest, her palm feeling the deep thrum of his heartbeat. She’d changed, because of the song.

  “Nick,” she murmured.

  “Hmm?”

  “You have to change.”

  ***

  Chapter Fifteen

  Great. Diana was one of those women—the ones who adore you, support you, make you feel like a million bucks, take you into their beds and into their hearts…and then try to change you. Nick tried to laugh off her comment, but honestly, it irritated him.

  And he didn’t want to be irritated right now. He was unwinding, wallowing happily in post-coital drowsiness. Loving the way her compact body felt against his. Loving the way her knees nudged his leg, and the way her hair splayed across his arm like a net of silk. Loving the way her breath skimmed across his throat and her fingers sketched his skin.

  And she wanted to change him?

  How? Was she going to tell him he had to eat less red meat? He’d given up cigarettes. He drank with restraint. He worked out. If he wanted to eat a damned slab of steak, he would.

  Did she think he should drive more slowly? Listen to opera? Replace his leather jacket with a tailored wool blazer? Was she going to try to turn him into a stiff, proper imitation of her former fiancé? Sorry, babe—that’s not going to happen.

  “The song,” she said. “The song said we had to turn and face the strange changes. We had to change. I’ve changed. You need to change, too.”

  “I’m not changing,” he said. “I’m where I want to be.”

  “You’re perfect, huh.” She laughed.

  He allowed himself a reluctant smile. No, he wasn’t perfect. That didn’t mean he wanted to change. Being imperfect was all right with him. “Fine,” he said, just to shut down this conversation. “I’ll get a haircut.”

  “Hair grows back.” She lifted away from his shoulder and peered down into his face. He remembered what she’d looked like the instant she’d come, the instant before he’d come. She’d been the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, her eyes as bright as diamonds, her mouth so soft and lush, her skin the gentle pink color of a springtime sunset. Her body had been so tight around him, her hips rising off the bed, her hands clenching. No condom. Just skin to skin, soul to soul.

  Remembering made him hard enough to agree to change anything she asked for. A new job? A new face? Whatever she desired, he’d do it.

  No, he wouldn’t. He’d never changed for any other woman. As much as he savored the weight and warmth of Diana’s body against his, the glow in her eyes, the hopeful beauty in her smile, he wasn’t going to jump through hoops of flame for her. She’d described jumping through those hoops for her former boyfriend. Surely she wouldn’t turn around at treat Nick the way she’d been treated in her last relationship.

  “You need to reconcile with your mother,” she said.

  He recoiled, appalled by her suggestion. Was she insane? After what he’d shared with her, after what she knew about his life…she wanted him to make nice with the woman who’d sold him down the river?

  “Fix her shutter,” Diana murmured.

  Christ. Nick did not need to hear this. “Diana—”

  “No. Hush.” She silenced him with a gentle brush of her fingertips against his lips. That one light caress was enough to turn him on again. He was angry and confused…but damn, he was horny for her. Couldn’t they just make love and go to sleep, and not have this awful conversation?

  Apparently not. She stroked her index finger across his lower lip, pulling back when he tried to catch it with his teeth. She drew a line over his chin, down his throat to his chest. Her smile could have wrung tears from Satan, it was so sweet.

  “The song said we have to change,” she reminded him. “I changed. You have to change, too.”

  “What happens if I don’t?” he challenged her.

  “I’ll stop believing that the jukebox was talking to us. I’ll believe it was talking to me alone.”

  She didn’t have to say anything more. He understood what she was getting at. If he didn’t change, if he didn’t believe in the power of the song to bind him and Diana, she would leave.

  She might leave anyway. She lived in Boston—which wasn’t that far away in miles, but in culture and style it was light-years from sleepy Brogan’s Point. Her life was there, her job, her family. Her ex-fiancé.

  Even if she left, he knew she wouldn’t go back to the ex. She had changed. She’d listened to the song and let its magic transform her.

  If he didn’t want to lose her, he would have to do the same.

  “All right,” he heard himself say. “I’ll fix the goddamn shutter.”

  ***

  The missing shutter was noticeable as soon as Nick pulled his car to the curb in front of the brown-shingled Cape Cod house Saturday morning. Four windows flanked the front door, two on each side. Each window was framed by a pair of white shutters except for one missing shutter that made the house look lopsided. The front yard was small and early-spring scruffy, tufts of grayish-brown grass poking through the soil, resembling a bad haircut. The shrubs flanking the cement front porch looked pruned, though. Someone had made an effort with them.

  Nick stood on the front walk, staring at the house as if it contained a dragon he had to slay. Diana could see a muscle ticking in his clenched jaw. His hands were curled into fists. His posture was rigid.

  She rubbed the small of his back, a massage she hoped would soothe him. “It’s going to be fine,” she assured him, even though she had no way of knowing whether Nick or the dragon would win. “You’re going to be fine.”

  His jaw tightened even more, but he squared his shoulders and strode up the slate front walk.

  “Is she expecting us?” Diana asked, following him to the porch.

  “I phoned and said I was coming.”

  I, not we. Did his mother know Diana would be standing beside Nick when he showed up? Did Mrs. Fiore know that Diana and Nick had been all but inseparable every minute they weren’t working?

  He’d had a full day yesterday at his office, and Diana had spent the day at the warehouse, sorting the items from Lenore’s grandmother’s house with James Sawyer and trying not to suffocate beneath all the praise he’d heaped upon her. He’d been bowled over by the estate, even more excited about the price she’d paid once he’d had a chance to see what that price had purchased. “Whatever you’re doing,” James had said to her, “just keep doing it.”

  What she was doing was taking chances, being adventurous and daring.

  What she was doing was loving Nick.

  Today, after he fixed his mother’s shutter, she would love him even more. Not just because the repair would be a kind thing to do—she already knew Nick was considerate—but because by fixing his mother’s shutter, he would prove that he’d changed. They both had to change, according to the song. Diana was a pragmatic person, not into weird woo-woo superstitions, but she knew this: they both had to turn and face the strange changes if the jukebox’s magic was to be trusted.

  Nick pressed the doorbell button, and Diana heard its muffled chime through the closed door. The door swung inward and a small, dark-haired woman of late middle age stood before them, smiling so brightly Diana’s heart broke a little. Nick’s mother looked like him—dark hair, although hers was generously laced with gray, and dark, intense e
yes, a firm chin and a smile that could illuminate the world.

  She was petite, though, small-boned, several inches shorter than Diana. Nick must have inherited his height from his father. The thought of such a tall man slapping around such a small, fragile-looking woman caused Diana to wince inwardly. Nick’s fear that his father might kill his mother all those years ago would have been reasonable.

  “Come in!” She beckoned them inside but fell back a step as they crossed the threshold. Diana wondered whether she wanted to hug her son. If so, she opted not to. His face wasn’t exactly welcoming.

  “This is Diana Simms,” he said curtly, gesturing toward her. “Diana, my mother.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Fiore.” Diana extended her hand and Nick’s mother gathered it in both of hers, clasping tight, as if desperate for human contact.

  “You’ll both stay for lunch, right? I’m making lasagna. Nicky loves my lasagna.” She sent him a smile that broke Diana’s heart a little more. It was loving and pleading and tinged with a vague hopelessness.

  That hopelessness was well placed. Nick didn’t return her smile. At least he didn’t say they wouldn’t have lunch with her. “Let me get to work. Where’s the shutter?”

  “In the garage. Everything’s in the garage—the ladder, the tools, whatever you need. I’m so grateful you’re doing this, Nicky. The house looks—well, you can see how it looks. Like it’s falling apart. It isn’t. I take good care of it. I always have. But I’m too short to fix that shutter.”

  Nick touched Diana’s shoulder. “I’ll be outside if you need me.”

  With that, he was gone.

  “Take off your jacket,” Mrs. Fiore said. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ve got things to do in the kitchen.”

  Diana slid off her blazer, draped it over the newel post of the stairway and followed Nick’s mother through the cozy, obsessively tidy living room into the equally cozy, tidy kitchen. The appliances were old, the sink white porcelain, the floor linoleum tiles. But everything was immaculate. Even the twin cat dishes that sat on a rectangular plastic mat near the back door, one filled with water and one with dry cat food, were clean and neat.