I smile at my niece. “How was your job interview?”
Buttoned-up and conservative, with much better taste than her mother, Jenny looks polished and professional in a pinstriped suit with her light-brown hair coiled in a tight bun. She has her father’s bright-blue eyes. Tall and thin with shapely hips, she’s a knockout.
She claps her hands together, brimming with enthusiasm. “I think it went well. They’re making their final decision in the next two weeks.”
“That’s fantastic, sweetie! Tell me all about it,” I say as I edge out into the flow of cars leaving the station.
She beams and then turns on her serious face. “Well. This job would report to the digital advertising director and would manage client accounts behind the scenes to maximize the return on their digital investment. The salary is decent.”
“That sounds very exciting.” If you like that kind of thing. Sounds kind of dull, but hey, as long as Jenny maximizes Kitty’s return on investment for her $250,000 education at NYU, I’m all for it.
Jenny looks at me with wide eyes. “Aunt Jill, I’ve been in a near panic all summer thinking I would be working as a waitress for the rest of my life. I really want this job.”
I smile. Jenny tends to be melodramatic. “Sweetie, even if this one doesn’t pan out, you’ll get something. It’s been only a few months since graduation. I guarantee you won’t be working in food service for the rest of your life.”
Kitty had hoped Jenny would be a CPA like her, or go into finance like her father. Instead, Jenny chose digital communications. I applaud her for making her own choice. At least it wasn’t ancient basket weaving techniques, or something equally as useless.
She sighs. “Sometimes it feels that way.”
I reach over and squeeze her hand. “I know. But it’ll work out, I promise.”
Turning in her seat to face me, I glimpse her expression shifting to worry. “How’s Great-Aunt Vee?”
I sigh. “Not good, sweetheart. Your mom can fill you in more when she gets home.”
Up ahead is her street. I flick on my blinker. “How’s Russ?”
Silence.
I glance over, and she’s staring out the window. “Trouble in paradise?”
“He accepted a job in California,” she whispers.
My eyes widen. We all expected that Russ would be a part of our family someday. They’ve been dating since their junior year in high school. “Did he ask you to go with him?”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she wipes away a tear. “No. He didn’t. It’s over.”
“I’m so sorry, Jen,” I say softly, my heart breaking for her. “When did this happen?”
“Two days ago. That’s why I have to get this job. I need to show him he’s not the only one who’s important.”
I frown at her. “Don’t ever let anyone else determine your self-worth—especially some guy. We love Russ, but we love you more. You need to stand on your own two feet, always.” But as I say the words, I can’t help but wonder how much I ignored my own advice with Robert when he was alive. My photography career was more lucrative at the beginning of our marriage, until I let it slide. I hit a lull in my thirties when my life shifted to entertaining Robert’s clients, supporting his career, and trying to start a family. I went from living my own life to letting myself get swept up in Robert’s wake. More my fault than his.
Jenny wipes away more tears. “He said nothing has to change, that we can visit each other and see how the long-distance relationship works out. But if he really loves me, he would’ve asked me to go.”
I shake my head. “I know you’re not going to want to hear this, but you’re young. This isn’t such a bad thing. Almost everyone I went to college with who got married or lived together out of school broke up or got divorced before they turned thirty. You need to experience more of the world to really know what you want.”
She turns to me. “But you married Uncle Robert when you were only a year older than me.”
My brows furrow. “I have to admit sometimes I think I should’ve waited.”
“Really?”
I press my lips together and nod. God help me. It’s true. Marrying Robert seemed right at the time. I loved him, just in a different way. He was my best friend, my savior—rescuing me from myself and my all-consuming grief. Honestly, he was the perfect distraction . . . the safe choice. I was happy with Robert—I really was—but the passion I felt with Drew . . . that just wasn’t there. Right or wrong, after what happened to Drew, I convinced myself I probably didn’t deserve it. Looking back, I should have waited and worked out my guilt another way. Maybe then I wouldn’t be wrestling with even more guilt . . . that my sadness over Robert’s death is tinged with relief. But I could never admit that to anyone, much less my niece.
“Tell me how you feel about Russ,” I ask.
“Huh?”
“What does it feel like when you think of being without him?”
She sniffles. “What do you mean?”
“Can you go on? Can you breathe?” Part of me isn’t sure if I want to open this can of worms, but another part of me wants someone else to learn from my mistakes.
“Remember, senior year of high school, that day you saw Russ and that girl at Starbucks?”
“Amber?” Jenny interjects.
“Yes, Amber.” I smirk. “You saw them through the window with their heads bent down together, whispering. You came home crying, convinced Russ had found someone else. You wouldn’t come out of your room, skipped school for two days, wouldn’t take Russ’s phone calls . . . you drove your mother crazy. Remember that?”
“Yes, I remember,” she whispers.
“Turns out he was failing calculus and Amber was only helping him study,” I remind her. “That’s what it feels like not to breathe, to need somebody so much your soul aches with the mere thought of him being gone. Does it feel like that this time?”
She shrugs. “It hurts, and I’m so mad. But I can breathe . . .”
“Then, I promise, you’ll be fine. If Russ was still the one, you would feel like you did that day.”
She gives me a weak smile. “Is that the way you felt about Uncle Robert?”
I pull into her driveway. “When I was a little younger than you, I felt like that, but with someone else. I married Uncle Robert later.” At eighteen, Drew and I had our lives mapped out—same college, marriage after graduation, career then kids . . . a boy and a girl. Hannah and Alex. A Boston terrier named Spike. In one breath, one summer day it was all taken away by a hunk of twisted metal, and I buried my first love two weeks before my freshman year of college. Jenny knows nothing of Drew. For eighteen years, my marriage was the perfect place to hide . . . and forget that I was the one driving the car.
I lean over and give Jenny a kiss on the cheek. “I want you to have the best in life. Don’t ever sell yourself short, okay?”
She reaches for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, Aunt Jill, and the advice.”
“Tell your mom I’ll call her later tonight.”
“Okay.” She closes the door to the SUV, and I release a sigh and hope I haven’t scared her. I want better for her than I’ve had for myself. For years I’ve believed that the absence of emotional pain equaled happiness. I’d never let one of my heroines settle for that.
The second I turn into my driveway in Chatham, my phone plings with a new text. I pull into the garage and park before taking it out. It’s from Raine. I only half believed he would contact me.
Are you available tomorrow afternoon for that photo session? Raine
My palms are suddenly moist, and with shaky fingers, I reply.
3 p.m.?
With surprising speed, I receive a response.
I can make that work.
Chapter 5
Raine
I CAN’T DELAY the inevitable any longer. After two hours in the Laundromat, clothes that were dirty are now clean, folded, and repacked inside the bed of my truck. Dread coils in my stomach a
s I navigate my pickup toward the other side of Morristown. My father expects me by ten o’clock. Less than fifteen minutes from now.
I promise myself I can be out of there in a month. That should be long enough to scrape together a small security deposit and the first month’s rent for a shared living situation. The thought of being here doesn’t thrill me, but before I know it, tuition for spring semester will be due.
My skin crawls when I spot his house, probably a sign my body is remembering past injuries at a cellular level. Dad is like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. For the most part, when he’s sober he’s manageable. When he’s loaded—coke, alcohol, whatever—all bets are off. I wish I had a weapon.
His random attacks started when I hit puberty and got worse after his sobriety ended the day of my mother’s funeral. Openhanded slaps and “the belt” turned into punches by my mid-teens—all done outside my mother’s line of sight. My father was nothing if not calculating. He always found leverage, something I couldn’t or wouldn’t tell my mom, to keep me quiet and force me to lie and pass off my black eyes and bruises as sports injuries. Once I bulked up and learned to fight, I shut that shit down with a couple of rare exceptions that happened while he was loaded. At least he never lifted a hand to my mom; he worshipped her. Had he touched her, I might’ve had to kill him.
I pull into the driveway, cut the engine, and fill a small overnight bag from the boxes in the back of my truck. Everything of value stays locked in the truck—only toiletries, something to sleep in, and tomorrow’s clothes come in with me.
I ring the bell to his unit and shift awkwardly on my feet. My lungs contract a little, like I’m preparing to step into a small enclosed space without an exit.
An air conditioner hums in the upstairs window. My gaze sweeps across the covered, dilapidated porch of the multifamily Victorian while I wait. It’s a dump, but it comes with a detached garage, giving my father a place to store everything he kept from the Mendham house. The dim glow cast by an outside light reveals the peeling paint on his door. A tricycle sits in the corner along with some dirty plastic lawn furniture and dead potted plants.
The seal on the door cracks open and I face my father. I’ve only seen him once since I moved in with Vanessa. We met for breakfast. It went well enough until he asked me to loan him some money for a debt he had to pay off.
His hair and thick eyebrows are mostly gray, and he looks worn. But I’ve learned never to underestimate him. A couple of inches shorter than me, there’s still power behind his wiry frame. His forearms are roped with veins over muscle. If nothing else, he’s never lost his vanity when it comes to keeping in shape.
“Come in, son,” he says. “Your phone call surprised me.” His voice is amiable, without its usual condescending and resentful tone. True to his word, he’s sober.
I size him up. “Thanks for letting me crash here. It should only take me a few weeks to find a new place.”
He opens the door wider, and I step inside.
The apartment is sparse, but neat enough. The living room is a strange blend between some of the small pieces of nice furniture that were once in our Mendham house and some practical IKEA necessities. My father sold all the best furniture over time. I have no clue what he did with the money, and I don’t want to venture a guess. Despite what he’s told me, even if he’s sober, I suspect his gambling has slowed but not fully stopped.
I reach into my pocket and pull out five twenties. “Here. For the first week,” I say, handing him the amount we agreed upon. It gets me a room and a place to shower, but I’m on my own for food.
He lights up and takes the money without hesitation. The look in his eyes reminds me of a junkie the moment before he sinks a needle into his vein. Even after six years, I still have trouble reconciling the man standing before me with the polished Wall Street investment banker I idolized as a child.
“How’s school?” he asks.
Bile rises in my throat. “Good,” I say trying not to grit my teeth. No thanks to him. I’d be living a whole different life if he hadn’t stolen it from me.
He glances at my hair—drawn back in an elastic—like he’s thinking of making a comment but decides against it. I shift my bag in my hand and tip my head toward the back bedroom where I stayed for a couple weeks three years ago. “I’m going to take a shower, then settle in.”
He nods and gives me one last look. “Make yourself at home.”
“Thanks.” I think about the irony of his words. Home is not a place where he and I would ever coexist. This is merely a pit stop on my way to somewhere else.
I stop halfway down the hall. “Do you still have Mom’s paintings from her studio in the garage?”
“Some of them. Why?” he says from the living room.
“No reason, just asking.” The last thing I need is to have him blackmail me over the piece I want.
I take my stuff into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. Thankfully, the shower looks like it’s been cleaned recently. I sigh, feeling better with a locked door between us.
Fifteen minutes later, clean and dressed in sweats, I take all my things into the bedroom. It looks the same as it did the last time I stayed here and holds the musty smell that comes with lack of use. The queen-size bed takes up most of the space. A dresser, chair, and a TV are the only other things in the room.
“Shit.” The bedroom door doesn’t lock properly, so I wedge the wooden Windsor chair underneath the door knob.
Drained, I collapse on the bed and stare at the ceiling.
A knock sounds at my door and I tense.
“Yeah?”
“I thought you might want a key. I’ll slip it under the door.” My father’s voice is muffled through the heavy wood.
I make no move to get up. “Thanks.”
As his footsteps recede down the hallway, tension eases out of my shoulders. Sweeping a hand over my face, I click on the TV as my cell phone chimes from inside my bag with a new text. I rummage around until I find it.
Welcome back. Declan says you’re back in the saddle on Saturday night. I’m savoring the tips already. Let me know if you want to go for a ride to heal your broken heart. Fi
Fuck. Fiona. I snort and shake my head. If I had any intention of returning to our pre-Vanessa “friends with benefits” arrangement, I’d be sleeping in her bed tonight rather than lying here. I like Fi, but there’s no mistaking that she’s a bit psycho, and I have enough problems right now. Plus, I have a general policy against having to fuck someone in order to keep a roof over my head—hence my issue with Vanessa. We stopped having sex about a month ago when my anger far outpaced my desire. My fingers fly over the touch screen.
Appreciate the offer, but not ready for anything. See you Sat nite.
My eye catches Jillian Grant’s phone number in my list of text messages, and I smile. The thought of being on the cover of a book gives me a little thrill. Then I remember her ass, and smile wider. Now that’s something I could get excited over.
Chapter 6
Jillian
MY STOMACH LURCHES at the sound of the doorbell. I see a slice of him through the slim fan light flanking the large entrance door.
After another hospital visit to see Aunt Vera this morning, I came home to set up my studio. Her improvement since yesterday lifted my spirits and propelled me into motion. The last two hours flew by in a blur.
It’s been a long time since I’ve held a photo shoot, so setting up the lighting and preparing the backgrounds were no small tasks. All of it made worse by the nervous anticipation taunting my midsection as I worked. I chided myself more than once. He may look like Drew, but he isn’t. There’s no denying he’s attractive in his own right . . .
Finding something to wear had proven more difficult. Nothing looked right. I settled on one of my more flattering pairs of jeans and a white, summery blouse that hid my sins. Then there was the makeup. Subtle, yet enough to hide even more flaws.
I will my face to relax and open the door.
Raine fills the entrance, a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder. I hadn’t realized how tall he was yesterday. Standing in my flat sandals, I tip five-six, but I have to look up to meet his eyes. I smile, and he smiles back. It softens the lines of concentration on his forehead. He stands at probably six-two. His tawny-colored hair is pulled back tight at his neck. He’s wearing a casual button-down in a flowing fabric, open low enough to get a peek at the top of his pecs, the sleeves unbuttoned. It’s paired with nice-fitting jeans and . . . flip-flops.
“Hi. Come in,” I say and step aside. I take him in from behind. Gah! The woman inside me purrs at his deliciousness. There it is. What I glimpsed yesterday . . . the most perfect posterior I’ve ever seen in a pair of jeans. Holding my breath for the true test, my eyes drop down to the floor. The flip-flops are Tommy Bahama, and his feet are well manicured and nicely shaped—sexy. My fantasy is safe for now. Relieved, I release a silent breath. Nothing kills my passion faster than ugly feet. I give myself a mental slap and remind myself again that he’s not Drew, in addition to being way too young for me.
He turns back to face me. “I brought some extra stuff. I wasn’t sure how you wanted me to dress . . . or undress.” He blushes, then smiles shyly. His discomfort is endearing.
I eye his backpack and tease, “Looks like you brought a lot of stuff.”
His brow knits for a moment in confusion, and then he cracks a smile. “Oh, it’s not all clothes. I have my laptop and some books for class.” He shifts it off his shoulder and into his hand.
Brigitte’s words from yesterday—as long as he’s over eighteen—come back to me. “Where do you go to school?” If he names a high school, I might faint.
“Rutgers.”
Pheww! He’s in college. I walk ahead and motion for him to follow me. “What are you studying?” I ask, leading him to the stairs down to the lower level. His backpack rustles as we take the stairs.
“Right now, I’m focusing on digital art and computer-aided design,” he says.
“Really? Sounds interesting. When do you graduate?” I ask, liking his artistic bent. Drew could sing but he didn’t share my passion for art of any kind.
Caught Up In Raine Page 3
