Valentine's Child

by Nancy Bush

  “I’ll try to work on my vocab,” he told her as a goodbye, heading toward his hovering group of admirers without another look back. Sherry hugged the lumpy book bag in her arms and turned down the opposite hallway, glad that Jennifer and Julie hadn’t been around to witness her downfall.

  Throughout geometry class she revisited their conversation, her spirits sinking lower and lower as she realized how awful she’d been. Not just to him, but socially. What an idiot! She’d only succeeded in proving she was the loser, destined for nothingness.

  Sherry finished sophomore year with a vague feeling of things left undone, and over the summer she distanced herself from Julie and Jennifer until neither girl called her anymore. By the time school started in the fall she was virtually friendless, but tensions ran so high at home — her parents living in a silent war of wills — that Sherry only felt relief.

  Junior year, a miracle happened. Almost overnight, she metamorphosed from a skinny, unremarkable ugly duckling to the proverbial beautiful swan. Her legs lengthened and took on definition, her tiny freckles smoothed out, her skin grew so sleek and fine it was hard to believe she possessed pores. Her breasts grew to an acceptable size. Not nearly as huge as Jennifer’s but rounded and lush enough to provoke more than a few looks of male admiration. Her lips seemed to thicken into sensual, pink crescents, and her eyes gleamed like amethysts with only the faintest application of makeup. Lastly, her brown hair deepened into a rich mahogany. Shoulder-length, it swung like a shining curtain, thick and soft and inviting.

  From the “Girl Most Easily Forgotten”, Sherry became “The Hottest Girl in School” Oceantide High’s newest sensation.

  There was only one problem. Although she could see the physical changes, and could feel the heightened awareness in her classmates — especially the males — within herself, where it mattered most, she was still the old Sherry Sterling, the girl not good enough to be asked to J.J. Beckett’s birthday parties, the girl whose razor-sharp tongue was her only defense.

  Then two things happened within a week of each other. The first was a golden opportunity. Early into her junior year, on the verge of her seventeenth birthday, while she sorted through her uneasy emotions, Ryan Delmato told her his dad was looking for someone to work at Bernie’s Pizza Parlor, the family business.

  “My dad wants somebody who’ll be there everyday,” Ryan explained, his dark gaze serious, although Sherry watched it skate quickly over her face, down to her breasts, and back again. The old Sherry would have been embarrassed, but the new Sherry was faintly amused.

  “Well, I don’t have any extracurricular activities,” Sherry told him. “And I’d really like a job.”

  “That’s what somebody said.” Ryan nodded enthusiastically. “Go on down to Bernie’s after school. Tell my dad you talked to me. He’ll hire you. If it’s what you want.”

  “Thank you,” Sherry said, meaning it. Bernie’s was a cool place to work. Everyone wanted a job there, but Bernie only hired a few teenagers each year — select ones who filled his own special requirements of poise, friendliness and efficiency. His system worked, for he invariably hired the best employees and therefore ran a successful establishment.

  “No problem.” Ryan grinned and the tips of his ears turned red. Sherry smiled back. Ryan Delmato was one of J.J. Beckett’s closest friends and definitely a member of the popular crowd. He didn’t live in a house “on the water” like the Becketts and Newsmiths, but he was one of those guys everyone liked and so the snobs accepted him.

  Ryan hadn’t really had a girlfriend yet; he’d palled around mostly with J.J. and his other football buddies’ leftovers, but no one had reported any major kissing between him and any girl. Female companionship wasn’t his top priority. He seemed happy to just be J.J.’s sidekick, and he was J.J.’s greatest promoter and marketing agent.

  “Did’ja see that pass? Right into his hands. Into his hands! Beckett smokes ‘em again!” Ryan had yelled at the last football game. He stood in front of the crowd, arms lifted as if he were about to join the cheerleaders in a “Hail to J.J. Beckett! Reigning King of Oceantides High!” and induced the crowd to scream J.J.’s name over and over again until they were hoarse.

  Sherry was just weary of the whole damn thing.

  But that was last week, and now Ryan had grinned at her in excitement and Sherry wondered what would happen if she made Ryan Delmato her boyfriend…

  “Thanks, Ryan,” she said, blinding him with her smile.

  “You bet.” Slightly dazed, he wandered away, glancing back at her once. Sherry waved, thrilled with a power she heretofore had not known she possessed.

  Ryan’s father, Bernie Delmato, was a pussycat. He shook her hand, then embraced her as a part of the Bernie’s Pizza team, flourishing an apron emblazoned with Bernie’s in red and green letters before placing it in her hands. His joy and exuberance caught at Sherry’s heart. This was a father to love. She suddenly envied Ryan so thoroughly she wanted to cry.

  “What is it, sweetie?” Bernie asked, concern pushing aside his laughter for the moment. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” Sherry clutched the apron tightly between clenched hands. “Thank you. Thank you very much.”

  She started the job the next afternoon. At first she worked the till, marveling at Bernie’s expert toss of the dough so that it spun into a round circle, the perfect size for the pan. He winked at her, showed another teenager, Wendy, how it was done, watched her rip fifteen holes in the dough as it landed on her untrained hands, then slapped his thighs and howled with laughter. He was like Santa Claus all year long.

  Sherry ached to love him as a father should be loved, and their relationship throughout her last two years of high school was as close to that kind of father-daughter feeling as she had ever had. When she found out she was pregnant she’d thought of going to Bernie; he would have helped her. But events took place that superseded her chance for Bernie’s surrogate-parent support, and she’d walked away from him just as she’d walked away from the rest of her life in Oceantides.

  The second event that took place that fateful week was an encounter with J.J. that changed everything between them, even though nearly another year would pass before she actually admitted that she loved him.

  She ran into J.J. Beckett after a football game and saved his life.

  She herself had not gone to the game; she hated watching J.J. lead his team to victory and then embrace the accolade and adoration from his band of groupies. She’d stayed home, listened to music, half written a paper on teen nutrition and then, because she’d heard her father stumble in drunk, had sneaked out the back door and taken a long walk toward the beach.

  Mariner Lane was a small street at the edge of town that ran perpendicular to the beach and was flanked on each side by summertime businesses — bike rental places, kite shops, and ice cream huts — and ended in a wide cul-de-sac parking lot. Mariner Lane was also not too far from North Beach Road — the rich people’s haven. It was there Sherry ended up walking, heading toward the concrete stairs that led down to the beach. At this time of year the whole area was closed up and lonely, perfect for her mood. She just wanted to be alone.

  But a blue BMW was parked against a piece of driftwood that doubled as a bumper barrier. J.J.’s car. Sherry recognized it instantly and huddled inside her coat. It was chilly. Downright cold. Half expecting to find him making out with some girl in the BMW’s back seat, she hid in the shadows of the shuttered-up snow-cone hut.

  And then she saw a dark figure staggering up the beach toward her. Sherry gazed in amazement. The figure had come straight from the water. A skin diver? Good Lord. No one in their right mind would go swimming in water cold enough to kill them.

  She gasped as he came into view. J.J. She almost stepped forward to help him up the stairs to the parking spot but her own reserved nature made her hesitate.

  He was shaking from head to toe — hypothermia. His pants and shirt were sodden with icy water. His keys rattled betw
een blue fingers. He couldn’t get them in the lock. He leaned against the car, spent and frozen. She knew he would collapse.

  She stepped forward and went to him, standing several feet away. She said something, something cool and aloof and undoubtedly sarcastic. She couldn’t remember exactly what, now.

  And then she’d taken the keys from his hand, helped him into the car, driven him to his home, stripped off his clothes and led him to the shower.

  Oh, God.

  That was it. The beginning of the end. Even now, the memory was so sharp it cut and, with an effort, Sherry thrust it away. Shivering, she took a step back from the motel window. Her fingers dug into her cheeks. She’d helped him and he’d thanked her for saving his life.

  But that wasn’t all. Oh, no, there had been so much more…

  Snatching up her small suitcase, Sherry unzipped it and began unfolding her clothes. She couldn’t think about the past anymore tonight. Recalling every word and gesture was exquisite torture, and although she was here to resolve the hurt, there were still areas she refused to touch. She couldn’t. It was just too painful.

  Tomorrow, she thought shakily. I’ll face the rest of it tomorrow.

  VALENTINE’S CHILD — NANCY BUSH

  Chapter Three

  “Is that you, J.J.?” Patrice Beckett called from her sitting room, her voice dry from years of bitterness. It rubbed against Jake’s flesh like sandpaper, a near-physical sensation.

  He stood just inside the front door, in the circular entryway beneath the crystal teardrop chandelier. Before him was the sweeping staircase his mother had sued a wood craftsman over, demanding each post be re-lathed, each step be shortened, each board be reset until the man had quit the job and his occupation and retired to a small fishing town on Puget Sound, beaten and old.

  The wood — a polished, glossy, deep reddish-brown mahogany that looked as rich as caramelized frosting — shone softly in the spreading light. Everything smelled sweet, like cinnamon and apple, and Jake’s gaze flicked to the crystal bowl of potpourri on the hall sideboard. Everything oozed sweetness for the Becketts and looked even more so. Patrice made certain of it.

  “J.J …?”

  He almost corrected her. Everyone else these days who made that mistake got a tongue lashing, but telling Patrice Beckett to call him Jake instead of J.J. was an exercise in futility, so he bit back the automatic retort and strode down the hallway to the room at the end from which a yellow light melted outward.

  He found her just where he’d expected in a stiff-backed leather recliner, half-moon pewter glasses perched at the end of her aristocratic nose, a New York Times crossword in her lap. She was a widow, and it seemed she had been for nearly as long as Jake could remember, although truthfully his father had lived until Jake was in college. Rex Beckett just hadn’t been around. Inherited wealth had made him self-indulgent and family life wasn’t for him.

  Rex’s father, Elijah Beckett, had made a pile of cash buying up beachfront property years ago, selling it off little by little, then buying it back again at bargain prices because most of the subsequent purchasers found themselves in dire need of ready cash sooner or later. Young Rex never lifted a finger to help out, as near as Jake could tell. He didn’t know exactly how his father had spent his youth, but it hadn’t been as a model for the Protestant work ethic. And that attitude had spilled into adulthood because as a husband and father, Rex had spent his days depositing money in the bank, making love to young women with long legs, then kissing Patrice’s expensive cheek with dry lips before retiring to his own bedroom.

  Rex’s self-indulgent life-style had produced a few minor scandals. It was rumored that Rex had fathered more than one child outside his marriage. Jake used to lie awake and wonder about his other brothers and sisters. Apart from Heather, his elder sister by twelve years, those other siblings were never admitted to, or acknowledged. It bothered Jake deeply, but neither Patrice nor Rex would speak on the subject.

  As for Heather, Rex paid as little attention to her as he did Jake. Heather was not Patrice’s child and although Patrice had agreed that Heather be raised under the Beckett roof, pseudo-mother and daughter never quite got along. Heather was a by-product of one of Rex’s amorous liaisons before Patrice had actually gotten him to the alter. Heather’s biological mother had dropped the child on Rex’s doorstep and run away, and although Patrice did her duty by Heather, the child was a bastard and therefore something to be “dealt with.”

  Still, the acknowledged Beckett children wanted for nothing. Heather was given the same lavish childhood — if not the affection — that Patrice heaped on Jake. However, when Heather married young and moved to Alaska to live a simple life, Patrice was infinitely happier. Unfortunately, with little else to do, Patrice then turned her intense attention on her only child, and although Jake struggled for his independence, it was a losing battle. His mother scrutinized everything he did, every move he made, every award he won. He could not recall a time when she hadn’t tried to monopolize his life and his attention. Jake learned to outfox her at a very early age, but she won the most important battle.

  During his sophomore year of college, dreaming of occupations that would take him far from Oceantides, Jake was summoned home one rainy weekend right before his father’s death to learn a strange truth: Rex’s will left everything to Heather. Neither he nor his mother would get a dime. Jake should have been indignant, but he was more hurt than anything else. Although he and his father hadn’t been close, there were a few shared memories, and they were bonded by their love of football.

  It was at the reading of the will that Jake learned the real truth, however. If Jake would stay and run the family business, Heather would get a sizable chunk of fortune but the bulk of the estate would go to Jake and Patrice. If Jake refused, both he and his mother would receive nothing.

  He knew, then, what had happened. Patrice had set this up. She’d convinced Rex that Jake would never accept his duty as head of the family interests unless he was coerced — blackmailed — into it. If Jake didn’t take over, his own mother would be penniless.

  A terrible gamble. An incredible risk. Jake could remember staring at Patrice in cold disbelief.

  He’d refused, of course. Ranted and raved and fled back to school. But then Heather called him. What Patrice had done was sick, rotten and totally unnecessary, she explained, but she, Heather, really didn’t want the problems of the Beckett business, either. Couldn’t Jake forgive his mother and realize just how lonely and desperate she was? Sure, her methods were diabolical, but the truth was: Jake should run the business. It was his heritage, his duty. “She’s as screwy as she can be,” Heather stated flatly, “but she only wants what’s best for you.”

  Jake was sick to the back teeth of that, but with Heather siding with Patrice, he had no real choice. It was his dubious distinction to inherit charge of the family real-estate holdings, and so he finally agreed.

  Patrice reveled in her victory, but quietly, as if she knew Jake might change his mind and chuck the whole thing at a moment’s notice. She did make a stab at pretending remorse, but her intense pleasure at hearing a full accounting of every boring, nebulous transaction that took place during the workday revealed the real truth: she was a control freak through and through. Her machinations were merely the means to have everything she wanted: Jake, the business and ultimate power.

  He managed to graduate from college before she really pushed the job on him, but she steered him through a degree in business administration after a knee injury knocked him out of football in his junior year. Looking back, he could remember her concerned face as he was taken into surgery, but superimposed on that picture was another one: Patrice faintly smiling as Coach Miller bemoaned the fact that he’d lost his starting quarterback, at least for this season.

  She’d been glad he was finished with football. Glad she had control again. Rex had died the previous spring and she wanted Jake to take over as soon as possible. Not that she couldn’t do the j
ob herself. She was tough, smart and every bit as cagey as any wheeler-dealer he’d had the misfortune to run across. She did take over, in fact, while he finished up school, but there was another aspect to Patrice that was almost laughable. She was a strict traditionalist and in her mind, women didn’t overtly run the family business. It didn’t look right. She’d been, after all, a Huntingford before she married the far less prestigious Mr. Rex Beckett with his oodles of money and distressingly nouveau riche ways, and Huntingford women behaved in certain undisputed ways.

  It never seemed to matter to Patrice that Huntingfords might have connections to all the important political families of Boston since America was a colony, but nobody gave a damn who or what you were in Oceantides, Washington. She was going to have her son run the company, come hell or high water. Jake was doomed.

  Huntingfords… tradition… appearances…

  What’s best for you …

  Now Jake stared at his mother and wondered for the billionth time why she’d ever left her prestigious East Coast roots. She must have lived in misery with a man as untamed and unrepentant as Rex Beckett, yet the word was that she’d loved him once. They’d met at Brown University where Rex had taken some graduate courses. Jake’s Great-aunt Trudy, who loved a good yarn with her tea and rum cakes, had implied on many an occasion that Patrice Huntingford had “lost her head and virginity” over that “good-looking cowboy” and that it was a “love match — nothing more, nothing less.” This truly was an overly romantic scenario, since Jake’s father had been no more a cowboy than he was. No, it was much more likely that Patrice had smelled the sweet, flourishing scent of Beckett money and had gone after him like a rocket since the Huntingfords were well-spoken, well respected and well documented, but not well-heeled. Their lineage needed a little shot in the arm with the money needle.