Caught Up In Raine

by L. G. O'Connor

  My jaw tenses. “What do you mean?”

  “All I’m saying is he may have had another reason to keep you away . . . to create the hatred.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask as tension radiates across my shoulders.

  “John?” Jillian says, reaching for my hand and looking at him intently. “Tell us what you know.”

  He looks from one of us to the other before settling on me. “Your father made the deal with the Feds under the agreement that they keep you safe at all costs. He believed if he kept you estranged, his associates wouldn’t use you as leverage. I’m not saying that what he did to you was excusable in any way or that he didn’t have deeper motivations outside of these problems. Just that I think he cared about you in his own way.”

  I sway backward in my seat. Could it be true? That my father actually cared enough about me to want to keep me safe?

  “Here are his personal effects.” John stands and pushes the bag marked “Evidence” toward me. “The Medical Examiner will release the body to the funeral home tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. I mean it.” I take the bag. The shoes inside make it heavy. Rising, I offer my free hand in a handshake.

  Jillian meets him on the other side of the table and wraps him in a hug. “Thanks for doing this, for all of it.”

  He looks at her warmly and smiles. “As I always tell you, anything for Kitten McNally’s little sister,” he says, referring to Kitty by her maiden name.

  Whenever he says stuff like that, it makes me wonder why they never ended up together. That’s got to be a story worth hearing.

  We all make our way to the First Avenue entrance and say our good-byes. Jillian and I head to where her SUV is parked in the Park & Lock across the street while John heads across town.

  “You okay? You haven’t said much since we left,” Jillian says as we drive through the Holland Tunnel on the way home.

  I’m glad I asked her to drive. My nerves are shot. I can’t stop thinking about what John said.

  “I’m here if you need me,” she adds and gives me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder.

  My heart swells and I muster a half-smile for her. When we get home, I might sleep for a week from the stress of the last few days.

  “I know. Thanks for coming with me.” I say and glance down at the bag on my lap. Without thinking, I open it. Keys, a beat-up pair of wing tips, and a wallet are all it contains. I slip out the thick rectangle of battered brown leather, and lay the bag on the floor. A strip of leather and a snap closure keep it shut. I flip it over in my hand, examining both sides. I don’t remember ever seeing it or associating it with my father. Based on the thickness, for a moment I think it might contain some cash.

  I unsnap it and look inside.

  My father’s driver’s license is visible through the clear plastic window on the inner flap. On the other side, an ATM card pokes out of one of the credit card pockets.

  In the billfold section, there are only two bills—a five and a one. What’s making it so thick is a small insert with some pictures.

  I take it out.

  My parents’ wedding picture is visible on top under the soft matte plastic. They look elegant and happy. I flip the little plastic page. A professional headshot of my mom is on one side and a picture of her pregnant with me is on the other. I’m not surprised his wallet is filled with her pictures. He adored her.

  I turn the page again.

  A small gasp escapes through my lips. It’s a picture of my dad and me on the slopes in Switzerland when I was seven. The other is my class picture when I was nine. Both pictures were taken before his crazy behavior started. Before he not-so-subtly acknowledged I was competition for my mom’s affection. A lump forms in my throat. Based on how I thought he felt about me, I didn’t expect to see any pictures of myself.

  I flip to the next page and freeze. There are two more pictures. Recent ones. All taken after the height of our conflict started. One of me as a senior in my varsity soccer uniform—my mom had the big one framed and kept it in her studio. The other of me receiving my diploma at my high school graduation. A tremor runs through me . . .

  I turn to the last page. There’s a small folded square of paper held between the plastic sleeve. Working my fingers inside, I retrieve it.

  I unfold the paper and air drains from lungs when I see the block letters. I wrote it when I was six years old, one afternoon during a Swedish lesson with my mom. I remember how proud I was, and how big of a deal he made over receiving it at dinner that night.

  My lip quivers as I stare at the letters until I can no longer see them through the hot blur of tears.

  Pappa, Jag älskar dig. Raine—Daddy, I love you. Raine

  After all these years, he never threw it away. Could it be that maybe he loved me a little bit after all?

  Chapter 36

  10 weeks later . . .

  Raine

  PLINK. PLINK. PLINK. I refuse to open my eyes as my hand slams around the top of the nightstand, searching for the goddamn alarm clock. Jillian crawls over me to reach it, and her breast lands in my face. I consider this the first thing to be thankful for today. A smile forms on my lips and my tongue darts out to say hello.

  “Hey, I thought you had to get up,” she says, half-asleep.

  “I do. If I don’t get the turkey in the oven, we’ll be eating nothing but stuffing and string beans later,” I mumble before I pull her nipple into my mouth and caress it with my tongue. I turn over onto my back without letting her go, and curl my hands around her hips. She moves one of her legs over my waist to straddle me.

  “Mmm. The other one feels ignored,” she moans from above. I switch sides, and run my hands up and down the hollow of her back until they settle on the round globes of her ass. My blood rushes south, and I’m ready for a proper good morning. I let her go and shift underneath her until I find my way inside and sink into a nice, hot welcome.

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” I say in a deep rasp and move underneath her. My lips find hers, and I kiss her deep before she breaks the kiss and her lips travel over my jaw and down onto my neck. I hug her close and expel a satisfied groan as I rock inside her and pick up my pace. I can’t dally too long since I have a date with a turkey downstairs. There’ll be plenty of time tonight for an extended play version of my thankfulness.

  She moans, and her hand gently caresses my cheek. “I’m so thankful that I found you.”

  “Me, too, baby. Same here,” I growl as the pressure builds inside my groin, and I head toward release. “Sorry for the quickie. I’ll make it up to you later. I promise.”

  “Ooo, Raine . . . I might beat you there,” she says, and then cries out and clenches around my length. Two seconds later, my body tenses before exploding in sensation. I ride the wave home and join her with a primal moan.

  We rest for five breathless minutes with her on top of me, and my arms wrapped tightly around her. “That’s what I call starting Thanksgiving with a bang,” I say in a hoarse whisper.

  She rests her chin on my chest, and looks me seriously in the eye. “All kidding aside, we have a lot to be thankful for today.”

  I squeeze her tighter. “I know.”

  With Jillian’s help, I hired a dealer to run an estate sale out of my father’s rental once the Feds let me in, and with the exception of my mother’s paintings, I sold everything and donated what remained. Of the one hundred–plus paintings, I shipped half to Sweden to my grandparents to disburse among my mother’s family and put the other half into storage until I can figure out what to do with them. I may sell some of them through my mom’s old dealers, and the others I’ll keep.

  I gave my father a quiet burial, and he now lies at rest beside my mom. I’ve forgiven him as much as I’ll ever be able to. More than that, I pity him. His old, shiny façade masked the life of an unhappy addict trapped in a personal hell. What really matters is that I have the closure I need to move on.

  Jillian supported me through all these things. Every s
tep of the way.

  I push a piece of her thick mane of hair behind her ear. “I couldn’t have made it these last few months without you.”

  She lays a sweet kiss on my lips and traces my lower lip with her fingertip. “Ditto.”

  I glance at the time. “Shit, I have to get up!”

  An hour later, I’m running around the kitchen like a lunatic with the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on TV in the background. Underdog and Hello Kitty float by on the screen, keeping me company while I scramble around, hyperventilating. Why did I think it was good idea to invite Jillian’s family to her house for Thanksgiving? The bigger question is: Why on earth did I think I could make the whole meal from scratch?

  The turkey is safely in the oven, but the counter is covered in the ingredients I need for stuffing, cranberry sauce, apple and pear pies, and a sweet potato puree that I thought looked good. My laptop is open to the Food Network, and all the bookmarked recipes I found earlier this week are lined up in memory.

  My fingers are woven into my hair, and I’m wearing a look of panic when Jillian comes into the kitchen. I’m about thirty seconds away from screaming at the top of my lungs.

  Her face screws up in a frown. “Raine, are you okay? You look like you’re about to snap.”

  “I need help,” I say, feeling like a drowning man clutching for a life preserver.

  She comes over to me and places her hands on my shoulders. Her golden eyes lock me in her gaze. “Relax. I’ll help you. Take two deep breaths.”

  I blow my breath in and out twice. “Done.”

  “Feel better?”

  “No.”

  “Sit.” She chuckles and points to the stool.

  I sit. She walks over to get a pen and paper and then settles down beside me.

  “Calmly, tell me the temperature of the turkey and how long it takes,” she says.

  “350 degrees for six hours,” I say, wringing my hands and bouncing my knee nervously up and down on the stool. “I put it in at eight a.m.”

  She jots it down. “Okay, tell me what else you’re going to make, include the time it takes and the temperature.” I recite my list of side dishes and desserts including the specifics she asked for with the help of the recipes on my laptop.

  Done, she hands me the list. Thank God for double ovens. There’s a grid of both ovens with start times, end times, and prep times all calculated.

  “This is amazing,” I say as I watch her roll up her sleeves and wash her hands.

  “I’m going to be your sous-chef,” she says. “Let’s start on the sweet potatoes first, since they take the most prep.”

  My eyebrows fly up. “Have you been holding out on me?”

  She chuckles. “My planning is great; it’s my food that tastes like crap. Together, I think we’ll be a kick-ass team and make a decent meal. Ready?”

  I pull her into my arms and growl into her neck. “I love you.”

  “Hey, that tickles.” She giggles, and clenches her shoulders up to protect her neck. “Love you, too. Now, let’s get crackin’.”

  I frown and let her go. “Don’t you need to work on your manuscript this morning?” A twinge of guilt passes through me. She’s running way behind and probably going to miss her deadline.

  She shrugs. “Becca and Drew can wait. This is more important.”

  “Thanks.” I sigh gratefully and clap my hands together, feeling calmer and a little bit selfish. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  By two o’clock, we’re actually dressed and presentable with food ready in the warming drawers and on the stove by the time our guests arrive. Jillian is wearing a nice black dress, and I’ve changed into a pair of pants and a clean shirt.

  Bottles of wine, nonalcoholic drinks, and appetizers are neatly lined up on top of the island. I replace the blare of the TV with some holiday music when the doorbell rings.

  Kitty, Bob, and Jenny are the first to arrive. There’s a young guy with dark curly hair with them whom I’ve never met before.

  Jillian speaks up before Jenny has a chance to introduce him. “Hi, Russ,” she says, and gives him a hug. “How’s everything going out west?”

  Russ lights up in Jillian’s arms. “Great, thanks for asking.”

  Jillian turns to me, “Russ, I’d like you to meet my partner, Raine.”

  Russ extends his hand and I take it. I feel his eyes sizing me up.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  “You, too,” he says tentatively, and moves deeper into the foyer.

  Jenny walks in behind him and leans in for a quick peck on the cheek. I glance quickly toward Russ and lift my eyebrows at her. She rolls her eyes and shrugs. “Tell you later,” she whispers.

  I kiss Kitty and shake Bob’s hand, and Jillian takes everyone’s coats and hangs them in the hall closet.

  Before we even make it to the kitchen, the bell rings again. Jillian answers the door, and it’s her cousin, Cheryl, husband Joe, and their two little girls, who are three and seven.

  The noise level jumps several decibels when we all get into the kitchen. Jillian sets up Nickelodeon for the kids in the family room, while the adults cluster around the island to have a quick snack and catch up.

  I jump when the timer for the turkey rings. Throwing on an apron, I continue to channel my best chef and fellow Scotsman, Gordon Ramsey. I take out the turkey, set it on the stove, and put in the pies.

  Jillian comes over and whispers in my ear. “Do you need help carving?”

  I look at the huge bird with chagrin. Nah, I could do this. I shake my head. “I think I can manage, why?”

  She glances in Bob’s direction. He’s nervously stirring his drink, looking like he could use something to do. “I think it might make his day if you asked for his help,” she says quietly.

  I give her a wink and turn to Bob. “Hey, Bob, would you be able to give me some help with the turkey? I think it’s a two-man job.”

  Bob’s face lights up with purpose, and he makes a beeline around the island to join me. “Sure, Raine. No problem, buddy.” I’ve never seen him so animated.

  “Thanks, sweetheart.” She leans over to give me a kiss and then glides off to mingle.

  “Here you go.” I hand Bob the knives and let him have at it on the carving board. “I’ll arrange the slices on the plate as you cut.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says and attacks the bird with gusto.

  Within five minutes, Bob has the turkey expertly carved and cleaned. “Awesome job, man,” I say, truly impressed.

  Jillian joins us, and we take the rest of the food from the warmer and set it up family style along the counter. Everybody fills their plates and meets at the dining room table. Cheryl delivers a paper plate to each of the girls in front of the TV, and we gather for an adult dinner.

  Now that the food is served, I can relax. Tension drains from my shoulders as I sit back and listen. The one thing I can say about Jillian’s family is they aren’t quiet. Everyone talks at once. Their conversations include a liberal amount of gesticulating with their hands punctuated by raucous laughter. It’s so not what I’m used to, and I love it.

  I sample the meal Jillian helped me make, and the food tastes amazing.

  “Did you make all this yourself, Raine?” Kitty asks from across the table, ready to eat her next forkful of sweet potatoes. “It’s absolutely delicious.”

  Cheryl chimes in from farther down the table. “Kitty’s right. Bravo, Raine. Fabulous meal.”

  A blush rises in my cheeks. “Thanks. Jillian helped . . . a lot.”

  “Barely at all,” she says and rubs my arm. “I only calculated the schedule and did some chopping. He did the rest. Great meal, sweetheart,” she says, and my face reddens more.

  “Thanks.” I’m not used to being the center of attention.

  “I thought Brigitte was going to be here,” Kitty says to Jillian between bites.

  “She’s in Paris with her new boyfriend. He surprised her Sunday night. She’s sorry she couldn
’t make it. But I think I can forgive her for ditching us for Paris. Lucky her,” Jillian says. There's a dreamy look in her eye.

  I lean over and whisper, “You want to go to Paris someday?”

  Her smile is bright and airy. “Most definitely. Especially if it’s with you.”

  “Then we will,” I say seriously, thinking maybe we can swing it during spring break. The weather should be nice by then.

  “Raine, how is your internship going?” Jenny asks.

  I perk up. Another thing I need to be thankful for. “So far, so good. I’m helping with the big project they landed for a total redesign of the company’s website and their international branding campaign.” Lucky for me, the timing worked out perfectly. I started a week ago, after the landscaping season ended.

  Her eyes spark with interest. “Do they have any entry-level positions open?”

  I cut a piece of turkey. “I don’t know, but I can find out for you.” I feel bad that’s she’s still desperately looking for a job.

  She smiles brightly. “Thanks. That would be great.”

  Russ leans over and whispers in her ear, and she frowns. I wonder what that’s about, suddenly feeling protective of her . . . like a future uncle. A cool, young uncle.

  “Jillian, how’s the book going?” Cheryl asks.

  She sets down her fork, and her face darkens. “I’m running a bit behind on my final revisions. But on the bright side, Brigitte let me know that the publisher is leaning toward using one of the covers that Raine designed.”

  “Really?” I ask as a spike of pleasure shoots through me.

  She nods and squeezes my hand. “Really.”

  The dinner conversation buzzes around the table. It fills me with warmth to be included. When the timer rings for the pies in the kitchen, I lean over to Jillian. “You want more? I’m going to get seconds while I’m in there.”

  “Maybe later. I’m kind of full,” she says, and presses her hand to her stomach.