by Mandie Tepe
To his relief, she seemed fine when they met up that morning.
“Hey, Jimi . . .” he called softly as he wedged his fishing rod between a small boulder and the edge of the dock boards. He picked up his second rod and cast the line.
“Yeah?”
After he set that line, he looked over at her. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Last night on the way home you seemed really quiet. Did something happen to upset you at the party?”
“No, I wasn’t upset,” she answered shiftily. “I was just . . . I was concerned about what your impressions were about it.”
“Mine?” he asked in surprise. She bit her lip but stayed silent. “My impression was that you are loved fiercely by some very intense men,” he half-joked.
Jimi dropped the knotted cords and pushed to her feet abruptly. “Do you want a beer?”
“Sure, but I can get it.”
She already had his cooler open. After digging around she came up with the cans—his beer and a soda for herself—and walked over to him. He was even more worried that she didn’t meet his eyes. He took the can and opened it as she sat on the edge of the broken down dock, her well-worn sneaker-clad feet dangling a few feet above the water.
“Maybe I should ask about your impressions about me being at the party,” he commented uneasily. “Did I do something wrong?”
This startled her. She jerked her eyes to his as he dropped to sit beside her. “Of course not. You were great.” After watching him for a moment she continued, “This is where I give you the opportunity to back out.”
“Back out?”
“Uh huh. Usually after my new boyfriends meet the family they decide we’re not such a good match after all.” Chance blinked at her in disbelief. She kept going. “Although—sometimes if they stick after that hurdle—it’s their parents who decide it for them after meeting my folks.”
“You’re kidding—right?”
She shook her head. “No. It’s why I’ve never really had a serious boyfriend before.”
He was looking down into her face. “You feel like your family is the reason you never settled down with anyone?”
She snorted. “No. The MC and their old ladies can be annoying. Rowdy and crazy too. But the real reason is that those guys never cared enough about me in the first place and they were lame enough to let their parents get between us.”
Chance grinned. “Just so you’re aware of the fact it was their fault and not yours.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she acknowledged with a sigh. “But still . . . I really liked a couple of them that I met through the Bible college. I would have thought they wouldn’t be so judgmental.” She shrugged. “Maybe it was because they had always been sheltered from people like my family.”
He shook his head. “And yet—even after all the rejection—you never turned your back on the family,” he remarked.
“Of course not. I love them. I don’t always love their crazy so much, but . . .” she shrugged. “What’re ya gonna do?”
Staring intensely into her eyes, he murmured the words he’d used so often with her. “You’re interesting. I like you.”
Her lips quirked. “There you go with that again,” she admonished.
He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. “My parents turned their backs on us every time they found new partners. But, you’d never do that. You valued your family more than any new guy and their promise of a future.”
“Because as odd as we are, we love each other.”
“How good must that feel to your family?” he asked softly as he moved in for a more serious kiss.
When she pulled away, she had an uneasy expression on her face. “So your mother didn’t advise you to cut me loose after she met Axel and the MC guys at his place that morning?”
“We don’t have that kind of relationship. I don’t think she’d have the nerve to chime in on any life choices I—or River, for that matter— might make. Not with our family history.” He grinned. “Besides, after her afternoon hanging out with you and Isla, I think she’s pretty firmly in your camp.”
“Really?”
“Yes. She thinks you’re interesting. She likes you,” he teased.
Just when he thought that would earn him a really good kiss, something in her peripheral view stole her attention from him. “Fish!” she squealed. One of his fishing rods had begun jerking violently, but he didn’t notice.
He watched her in confusion as she leaped to her feet and began jumping up and down on the rickety decking. “Hey! Be careful. It’s not as sturdy as I led you to believe. What’s happening?” He pushed to his own feet.
Jimi was jabbing a forefinger at something behind his back. “Chance! You caught something,” she hollered.
He turned his head to see the rod bowing and barely got to it before the catfish could yank it out and into the river. When it was all said and done, he got the twelve-pound blue catfish pulled in while Jimi continued jumping around and squealing. After her pestering, he finally gave in and posed with the fish while she took a cell phone photo before throwing it back.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
A few hours later—after feasting on the sub sandwiches Jimi had made, chips, and apple wedges with caramel dip—he had caught a few more fish and posed with them so she could keep a photographic record. Like the first, he had tossed them back into the river to continue with their fishy activities.
All the while, Jimi worked on her macramé and occasionally engaged him in light conversation. For the most part she was quiet and let him fish. He appreciated that she seemed mindful of that, but he really was there to spend time with her so he wouldn’t have minded if she gabbed his ears off. The radio was a soft soundtrack to their day and—even though he wouldn’t necessarily have chosen to listen to that particular station—the music was pleasant . . . especially when he could hear her softly singing along to some song or other.
The sun was starting to lower late that afternoon and he began reeling in his lines and gathering his things. He was about to suggest they pack up and head back to town when suddenly the calm peace was interrupted.
“OMG! I love this song!” Jimi burst out.
This startled Chance so much he spun around to see her dive toward the boombox, crank the volume and surge to her feet in one graceful movement. The sound of The Five Stairsteps’ Ooh Child swelled through the air as she rushed him.
“C’mon, Chance. You can’t not sing when this is on,” she declared. “This is the best song ever!” She pulled the rod out his hands and tossed it to the side.
“I don’t sing,” he protested with a grin.
“Do you dance?”
“Not normally,” he answered, taking in the happiness in her face. “But I can’t say no to you.”
The smile that lit her face chased away the shadows cast by the lowering sun and they danced while she belted out the words. She wasn’t a very good singer, but he had never enjoyed a vocal performance more than he did that one. It was a moment of perfection unlike any he had ever experienced.
As the final “right now” faded away, he stopped their movement and laid his palm against her face. “Ever happen across something you didn’t know you needed, but are left wondering how you ever got along without it?” he asked softly.
Her brow puckered in confusion, but then cleared as her face softened. The realization of the meaning behind his words sank in. “Like a cupcake batter dispenser . . . or a pineapple slicer?” she teased breathlessly.
A glint of humor appeared in his eyes. “Yes. Exactly like a pineapple slicer,” he murmured before kissing her . . . and kissing her . . . and kissing her.
When they finally came up for air, he brushed a lock of her hair away from where it had caught at the corner of her mouth. “So, you really own a pineapple slicer?” he quipped.
“Not yet. I happened upon something better, though.”
“What�
�s that, baby?”
“You.”
He pulled her even closer to kiss her again.
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
The two of them were discussing what to do with their evening on the drive home when they were interrupted by Chance’s ringtone—ACDC’s Thunderstruck. He saw on the dashboard display that it was his mother calling. She was apparently his new best friend. He had been hearing from her every day.
Hitting the Bluetooth button on his steering wheel, he answered, “Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, Suzanne!” Jimi chirped from the passenger seat.
Chance added, “Full disclosure, Mom . . . we’re in the car and you’re on speaker.”
Suzanne laughed. “Hi, Chance and Jimi. If you’re in the car, that must mean you’re out and about and have plans for this evening.”
“Not really. We’ve been at the river all day and we’re just now getting back to town. What’s up? Do you need something?”
“Oh, no. I know it’s short notice, but I was wondering if you two would want to come over for dinner. I put a roast in this afternoon and remembered how much you loved it when you were little.” There was a long moment of silence before she added nervously, “I guess it’s sort of late for an invitation and it’s no big deal if you can’t make it.”
Jimi poked Chance hard with a finger to his biceps and when he looked over at her she was nodding her head and giving him a hard look.
“Umm . . . sure, Mom. We can make it.”
Jimi chimed in, “That sounds great.”
“When do you want us over?” he asked. “Can you give us time to get home and cleaned up. I could use a shower after handling catfish all day.”
“Of course,” Suzanne said. Her son couldn’t remember hearing so much delight in her voice. “Take your time and I’ll see you in a couple of hours then?”
He glanced back at Jimi who nodded. “That’ll work.”
“Can we bring anything?” Jimi asked.
“Oh, no. Just yourselves. Maybe I’ll call River. The band’s probably playing somewhere, but I can check.”
“River’s in Kansas City for a couple of weeks,” Chance reminded her.
“Oh. That’s right,” Suzanne said—embarrassment tingeing her voice. “I should have remembered that . . . I don’t know why it slipped my mind,” she murmured.
Chance felt sorry for her in that moment even though her sons had almost always slipped her mind. “We can do a family dinner when he’s back.”
“Right. That’ll be nice. Well . . . I’ll see you two in a little while at least,” Suzanne answered, her voice lifting.
“Okay. Bye, Mom.”
CHAPTER 12
Their get-together was doomed to go off the rails. It all started when Chance pulled into the lot and he and Jimi found a couple of police cruisers parked there—again.
“Maybe they’re here to give Axel an update on the robbery investigation,” Jimi suggested optimistically.
After they loaded up and made their way inside, she was to be sorely disappointed. The officers, several residents, and Ben were gathered in front of the mailbox wall. Jimi watched as the police took photos of the mailboxes and that’s when she saw that several of them appeared to have been tampered with. The locks were gouged in an attempt to pick them and some tool—a heavy duty screwdriver maybe?—had been wedged between the doors and the frame as if someone had tried to pry them open. Luckily, back when the building was built, things like those mailboxes were manufactured better than they would have been today. The steel was bent and bowed in places, but it had held tight. By the look of the damage, that wasn’t for lack of trying though.
Jimi looked up at Chance’s hardened face and watched as he set his gear down in a corner away from the action. She followed his lead and dropped her tote and blanket along with his stuff before trailing after him to join the group.
“What’s going on?” he asked Roscoe discreetly.
“Someone tried to get into the boxes,” Roscoe said in disgust. “Looks like they only hit us older folks. Time’a month it is, they must’ve hoped to find social security checks.”
Jimi’s stomach dropped. “They didn’t get them—did they?”
Roscoe gave her a grim, crooked grin. “Honey, this is a new era. They don’t mail checks out anymore. At least not to any of us here at the Crosswinds.”
Chance looked down into the stooped old man’s face. “Direct deposit?”
“Yep.”
Jimi was craning to look between the heads of the group clustered around the area. “Yeah, they only went for the retirees’. The boxes belonging to me, Chance, Marisol and Hector, the Hansons, and the Tylers look like they haven’t been touched.”
“Kids wouldn’t know about the direct deposits,” Chance observed.
“Same kids that hit Axel’s place, ya think?” Roscoe asked.
Chance shrugged. “Makes sense. And probably stupid kids at that. It’s not too smart to keep hitting the same building. Seems more and more likely they’re the ones that took Willy’s jewelry. That might have been a trial run.”
This seemed to upset Roscoe. “Yeah. Wonder what can be done about security.”
Chance looked up at the ceiling. “Security cameras here in the entryway and in the hallways would help. Even if they got in and robbed other apartments, we might get them on video going in and out.”
Roscoe rubbed a scarred hand over the coarse thinning hair on top of his head and said introspectively, “Prob’ly would be a good idea.”
Jimi agreed. “Maybe we should mention it to Ben and have him contact the building owner . . . see if they’d be willing to invest in that.”
None of them had ever met or had any kind of contact with the mysterious owner.
One of the four officers—her name badge identified her as Officer L. Riley—made her way over to them. “We have your statement, Mr. Glover. Can you think of anything else you may have noticed when you returned to the building?”
“No, ma’am . . . I don’t believe so.”
“Alright,” she said, handing him her business card. “If you do, please give me a call.” She turned to Chance and Jimi. “Where are you two coming in from?”
And that started their questioning. Of course, they had been gone since mid-morning, so didn’t have any information to share. They found out that the entire building had pretty much been cleared out for most of the day. Anita Tyler appeared to have been the only one home the entire day, and she had been “under the weather.” It hadn’t taken long after Jimi moved in that she understood that was code for Anita being either passed out drunk or hung over. Either way, the manager’s wife hadn’t seen or heard anything.
After their talk with the officer, Jimi and Chance made their way upstairs and—as upsetting as the situation downstairs was—things for her were about to get a whole lot worse. They split off, Chance going to his door and Jimi to hers.
He stood watching as she unlocked her door and pushed it open. “I’ll be over in an hour or so and we’ll head over to Mom’s,” he informed her.
“Great. I’m looking forward to seeing her new place.”
She turned to step into her apartment and immediately sensed something was off. She stopped short two paces in and dropped her bag and the blanket at her feet. What is it, she wondered. Something wasn’t right.
Because she hesitated and didn’t go on in and close the door, this signaled something to Chance. The pleasure of watching her drained out of his face and he dropped his own belongings outside his still-locked door. She didn’t notice any of this because her back was to him as she tried to get her bearings.
Chance took three long strides across the hallway. “Jimi? What’s wrong?” he asked in concern.
The only thing that had settled in her brain at that point was the odor. “Bleach,” she muttered bizarrely.
“Bleach?”
“Do you smell that?” she asked. “Bleach. A lot
of it.”
He put his hands to her waist and gently pulled her to the side so he could step in ahead of her. “Did you clean this morning?”
“No.”
He moved into the space and his breath caught at the sight of the kitchen. Someone had been inside her apartment. Flour, sugar and coffee—the contents of the pottery canisters she’d made herself—were thrown all over the countertops and floors along with the broken crockery. There was an empty shortening can left in the middle of her living room floor. The shortening had been rubbed into the upholstery of her sofa and one of the chairs.
“I guess I should be grateful that I was running low on shortening so they didn’t get all of the furniture,” she tried to joke. “Where is the bleach smell coming fr—” she broke off abruptly, before wailing, “Nooo!”
Startled, Chance watched her dart across the room to stand in front of her awesome betta fish aquarium. The beautiful colorful fish were floating lifeless on the water’s surface in their partitioned spaces and the jug of bleach was lying on its side on a woven rug in front of the shelves. Jimi had woven that rug herself, but now the colorful yarns were bleached out in garish splotches where the chemical had splashed and been left to drain out of the jug. She hadn’t noticed the rug or the wood stain on the entertainment center that had been eaten away by the undiluted bleach. She was focused in horror on her gorgeous poisoned fish.
Chance turned a slow circle while studying the room with an objective eye. Oddly, there appeared to be nothing missing. Her television and kitchen appliances were still in their places.
He reached out and turned her into his arms, looking down into her tear streaked face. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmured. Raising a hand, he curled a hand around the side of her neck, catching a tear with an extended thumb.
She reached up and brushed the rest of her tears away. “It’s stupid to cry, I know,” she hiccupped. “They’re just fish. They didn’t even have personalities,” she said on a sob. “But, I loved ‘em.”
