Valentine's Child

by Nancy Bush

  The espresso shop two blocks from the beach smelled like a combination of briny air, rich coffee and cinnamon rolls. Sherry cradled a mocha between cold hands, a treat to herself that she seldom otherwise drank. But these were desperate times. She needed sustenance and strength and a whole lot of courage, and if the sweet, hot drink would help, so be it.

  The clientele at Beachtime Coffee was as varied as Oceantides’ residents. A couple in the corner wore matching royal blue sweaters tied around their necks, preppy–style, their heads bent close over an article in the newspaper. An elderly man sat rigidly in a chair, eyes focused on the clock although Sherry had come to understand he wasn’t watching time; he was merely faced that way, focused on inner thoughts entirely his own. Two teenagers with unwashed hair, baggy pants, T–shirts and skater shoes were digging coins out of their pockets, pooling their cash to purchase two coffees, leaving their skateboards propped against the wall outside the door.

  Sherry did a mental inventory of her own appearance: loose ponytail, blue jeans, black body–hugging ribbed turtleneck sweater, black belt with a silver buckle winking at her waist. She doodled on a pad with a red pen and found to her dismay that she’d written “J.J.” several times. Well, he was on her mind, wasn’t he? He was the reason she was here wasn’t he?

  She’d blown her meeting the night before. Blown it. He’d taken her by surprise, and she’d reacted like a teenager. Maybe that was to be expected since the last time she’d seen him they’d been teenagers.

  Not that she was so incredibly mature now. She still had trouble reviewing the events of the night she’d found him shivering by his car, for crying out loud. She didn’t want to recall that first kiss, when he’d wrapped her into his shower-dampened arms and pressed his mouth urgently against hers.

  Even now her pulse jerked in recollection, a wave of emotion rushing over. Damn it all. Swiping furiously at a loose strand of hair she wondered when–when–she would be immune to those memories. She should have quit with him right then, right after biting his tongue. That hadn’t been the end but the beginning. She’d come away from that night with a new awareness of J.J. Beckett. No longer could she cover her feelings for him with sarcasm; she was too affected, too attuned to him.

  And the number of times she’d sensed the weight of J.J.’s gaze on her after that rescue, said he felt the same way, although they both tried to act like nothing had happened.

  At school and at Bernie’s, while she was doing her homework, all the times she avoided her father who became less volatile over time but still was untrustworthy, Sherry’s life settled into a pattern. Somewhere after midnight every night, she would fall into bed to dream about J.J. Beckett. She lived for the times when she caught a glimpse of him, reviewed every nuance of the rare smiles he sent her way, every intense look. She liked school because it was where he was — and it was away from home. She liked working because J.J. dropped in at Bernie’s on a regular basis, and Bernie himself made Sherry feel special.

  Even now she could still visualize Bernie, hands covered with flour, shooing the other teenage employees home around ten o’clock. “Get outta here. Get some rest. Study hard,” he would yell at them, but Sherry stayed later, unwilling to leave. This concerned Bernie at first, and he shook his finger at her and demanded that she do her homework if she was just “gonna hang around and make trouble.” But later he seemed to understand home to Sherry was not a home at all.

  Bernie, himself, never seemed to tire. He had stories galore about growing up in a family of nine and what it was like raising five children on his own. That he loved them fiercely was self-evident, although Ryan seemed to always be in trouble for not treating one of his friends or family members the exact way Bernie wanted him to.

  “Don’t you want to talk to your mama?” Bernie demanded one afternoon. “All day long she waits for you to come home and then you go off with your friends.”

  “I come to work here,” Ryan replied, exasperated.

  “And then where do you go?”

  “Home!”

  “No, you don’t. You run around with that Jay Beckett and his fancy blue car and never talk to your mama.”

  Sherry felt empathy for Ryan. Ryan did spend a lot of time with J.J. but he was the first to say it was time he got home. Bernie was a bit unfair in his assessment of Ryan’s family duties, but at some level Sherry realized Bernie was just protecting Ryan from hanging out with the rich crowd from North Beach Road. He worried that his son would get hurt.

  She was the one who should have listened to his advice.

  As Sherry poured over homework in a booth on the other side of the restaurant, she couldn’t help but be witness to Bernie and Ryan’s arguments on the subject.

  “It’s J.J., not Jay,” Ryan would mutter, a last stab at rebellion.

  “I don’t care if it’s Gottrocks. It’s no good, you hanging with that crowd and neglecting your mama.”

  “I’m not!”

  Bernie would then turn to Sherry with a “you see?” expression before shooting Ryan a dark look and slamming through the door to the back storage room and office, and Ryan would turn to Sherry with a “can you believe this?” look, and she would laugh and want to hug them both.

  “I just love your dad,” she declared one night, smiling fondly.

  “Yeah …” Ryan gazed at her. Underneath his outgoing personality was an inherent shyness, particularly with girls. She knew he had a crush on her, and she’d been debating what to do about it. J.J. filled all her thoughts and her original plan to make Ryan her first boyfriend had died a quick death.

  The truth was, she liked Ryan too much to play with his emotions. And she was head over heels for J.J.

  Unfortunately her heartfelt remark about Bernie only seemed to increase Ryan’s admiration for her. She had to do something, and do it fast.

  In what would turn out to be her own particular behavior pattern, she ran.

  “I’ve gotta go,” she muttered, collecting her books and heading for the door.

  “It’s still early.”

  “I’ve got tons of homework.”

  “Do you want to do something, sometime …?”

  Too late. The words were out, hanging between them. Sherry felt awful. Once again, a girl had fallen for J.J. and Ryan, his sidekick, was passed over. She wished with all her heart that she felt differently.

  “I can’t,” she murmured, hating herself a little.

  “Oh, okay.”

  He didn’t even ask why — which made her feel even worse. Hesitating, she reached out a hand and touched the sleeve of his jacket. “Thanks, Ryan.”

  “For what?” he asked, perplexed.

  Shaking her head, Sherry hurried out. A car throbbing with stereo music suddenly zipped into the parking spot in front of her, scaring her so badly that she jumped back and gasped.

  J.J., of course. Emotions swarmed through her as he levered his lean body from his car. His scent reached her through the soft autumn air and the squeak of leather from his jacket sent a frisson down her spine. She wanted him so much sometimes it left her breathless; yet, apart from that one intense night, they’d done nothing but share a few stolen glances.

  “Hi, Sherry,” he said in his husky voice. The memory of his shower-dampened arms surrounding her swept over her, enveloping her. She pushed it away with an almost-physical effort

  “Hi.” She scurried into the night. Her parents’ house was five blocks west and three blocks north — a bungalow built fifty years earlier, ramshackle now and sadly in need of repair, but it was close enough to walk to.

  “Where’re you going?” he called after her.

  “Home.”

  “Want a ride?” he asked, his keys rocking musically between his fingers.

  She turned and stared, ignoring the raven thickness of his hair, his long legs and attentive look. Focusing somewhere near his neck, she shook her head. “Naw, it’s close by. Thanks anyway.”

  “You can drive again …”
<
br />   She refused to acknowledge their connection, refused to meet his gaze refused to know him. A long moment stretched out. Her heart beat heavily. She wanted to say something clever and sarcastic, but there was a blockage in her throat and her ears were deafened by her own heartbeat. Besides, she was crazy to feel this way. She’d bit him, for God’s sake. He wasn’t likely to forget.

  At that moment Bernie’s door flew open. Ryan peeked his head out, shattering the moment. “Hey, Sherry, let me walk you home,” he called, oblivious to J.J.

  Sherry opened her mouth to protest, but suddenly found herself saying instead, “That’d be great,” her smile a blinding light. Its effect on J.J. and Ryan was unmistakable, and Sherry groaned inwardly, aware she was toying with emotions she shouldn’t. She knew better. Ryan deserved better.

  But she wanted J.J.

  “I’ll walk with you guys,” J.J. said, pocketing his keys, and the three of them made their way to Sherry’s house.

  Sherry’s moment of feminine glory disintegrated. Growing dread took its place. What would they think when they saw her home? And what if her father was there, drunk and surly? She suddenly couldn’t bear the thought.

  “Thanks a lot, guys, but it’s right over there.” She waved vaguely. “I can make it the rest of the way by myself. See you later.”

  She ran to the end of the block and the darkened house around the corner. Ryan made an aborted attempt to follow after her but J.J. stood back and watched. She raced up the front steps, gasping for breath, her books slipping from her arms. Twisting the knob, she was relieved to find the door unlocked, but held her breath until she saw her father fast asleep in the armchair in front of the television.

  In the sanctuary of her bedroom she turned on the light, undressed quickly and climbed into bed, dragging her books with her. But although she furtively studied, frightened of wakening her father with the merest sound, her vision was clouded with images of J.J. Beckett climbing from his BMW, stretching his legs, and gazing at her with such studied vision that she read the same page of her history book over and over again.

  Now, a lifetime later, she could remember each and every feeling as if it were yesterday — not fourteen years ago. Twiddling her red pen, she scratched out J.J.’s initials by drawing scarlet hearts over the damaging evidence. Hearts she groaned to herself after noticing her doodles.

  Valentine’s Day…

  Memories were a plague. Her throat grew hot and arid. She felt weak all over. Drained. Empty.

  Picking up her mocha, she glanced around, certain Beachtime Coffee’s other customers would somehow divine her thoughts. She covered her suddenly quivering lips with a quick swallow of mocha. Wishing for a miracle — the chance to live her life over again — she whispered, “Oh, J.J.,” in a suffocated voice. She had to tell him the truth — and soon.

  “Could I pay a hundred dollars now,” the voice on the end of the line entreated, trembling, “and maybe the rest later on? I just don’t have it right now, and I don’t know what to do.”

  Jake stared out his office window. Jill Delaney had been perennially late with her rent since the moment she took over one of his least expensive apartment units. Already she was two months past due and getting deeper into debt each day that passed. She was Tim Delaney’s ex-wife, a sweet girl whose love for her husband couldn’t save their crumbling marriage. Tim just wasn’t made to be a husband and father. Three children and one half-baked reconciliation later, she was struggling to make ends meet, but Tim still wasn’t holding up his end of the bargain, and Jill had become dependent on Jake’s charity to survive.

  “I can’t turn you out, Jill,” he admitted with the characteristic honesty, “but we’re both in a tough position.”

  “I know.” Relief sang through her voice. She could hear he was about to relent — again.

  “Pay what you can now,” he said brusquely.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, fighting back tears.

  Jake gently hung up the phone. Jill was not his responsibility. His responsibility was to the family business. Now, if Patrice were running things she would evict Jill flat out, but since his mother had abdicated to the only Beckett male, well… he would just have to handle things his way, and she could stew. That is, if she ever found out. Since taking over the business wholeheartedly, Jake had made a point of forcing his mother to stay out of his way. She still fought him, but Jake had learned the power of “No” — “No, I’m not interested in your help… No, I’ve got everything under control… No, it’s time for you to relinquish control… No, thank you …”

  She might hate it, but there wasn’t a hell of a lot she could do about it.

  Outside his window lay a second-story view of Oceantides’ main street — a crooked two-lane avenue where lazy traffic crept between the shops, and intermittent rain spattered the cars and pavement. Late January with weather alternating between stormy and furious, and calm and benign. Yesterday was hell, today was okay. Life goes on…

  Watching a couple of kids, hands clasped together, surge between the traffic and scamper down the street, Jake was struck by an urgent desire to run. Run! Run away forever. The feeling was so strong he gripped the arms of his chair, heart thudding. His chest ached. Then the wave passed and he sank backward, nearly breathless.

  He shook his head in wonder, afraid to fully examine this sudden panic attack. He wasn’t normally prone to paranoia and stress. With a niggling feeling that he was somehow being a coward, unable to face his true self, he shrugged the moment’s anxiety away. Nothing to worry about. A symptom of too much reflection and not enough action. Not his style.

  Across the street and nearly out of his range of vision, he could just spy the sign for Bernie’s Pizza glowing dully under gray skies. Was Sherry there? The two went together in his mind: Bernie’s Pizza and Sherry Sterling. Although Ryan Delmato was still a friend, Jake had scarcely set foot inside Bernie’s since Sherry’s disappearance right before high school graduation. At first the idea of going in was just too painful, and then it had just seemed wrong somehow — a symbol of all that wasted, high school emotional trauma.

  God, it was good to grow up.

  The telephone intercom buzzed. “Caroline’s here,” Barb, his part-time receptionist, sang out.

  “Send her in,” he replied in his mock-important voice. Although the Beckett holdings were vast, the actual day-to-day operations were minimal and using an intercom amused him when he could just as well shout through the partially open door or use his cell.

  But, hey, the trappings of wealth and success were supposed to be important, weren’t they?

  When Caroline came into the room, Jake found himself holding his breath. There was a quality about his fiancée that always put him a little on guard, even though he truly cared about her. Sometimes she was cool to the point of icy — a personality trait that bothered her a great deal, but one she couldn’t seem to change. Sometimes she was overly friendly and clingy, as if she were trying to subvert her own inherent reserve by pure force. Jake had told her to “relax” so many times, he’d given up. She was what she was. Take it or leave it.

  Sometimes he wondered…

  Today she wore an emerald-green shirt and black slacks, her blonde hair tied back into a low ponytail, her face nearly obscured by a huge potted fern from which she peeked around, smiling.

  “I told you that you need a little life in here,” she said. “Look at this office. It’s so sterile.”

  Jake shrugged in agreement, just as he always did when she fussed over things that meant zero to him. This office. This job.

  This life …?

  Setting the plant on his desk, she leaned over and deposited a quick peck on his cheek. He caught a whiff of perfume, heavy, expensive and nameless, before she backed away. Caroline couldn’t handle hugs and sloppy affection, but then, Jake realized wryly, neither could he. They were both dispassionate to a fault, which was why, he supposed, he’d felt his skin crawl at the thought of getting married on
Valentine’s Day — a suggestion that had come up recently from a surprising source.

  “So, what’s the news this early morning?” Caroline asked, perching on a corner of his desk. Her breasts lay directly in his line of vision. Jake gazed at them through half-closed lids, wondering vaguely why his body didn’t react to her femininity. There was a time when he’d been consumed by sex in any way, shape or form. His teen years had been full of unrequited lust and a few conquests. Then at college, a few more. Then finally back to Caroline and a new, more mature relationship that had eventually moved to the bedroom.

  But he never again felt those raging, thrilling shots of pure desire he experienced with Sherry Sterling.

  “Jill Delaney called and I gave her an extension on her rent,” he said.

  Caroline clucked her tongue. “She’s using you.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not falling for her, are you?” she teased.

  Jake shook his head, irritated with her for no good reason. “What the hell is it with Tim, anyway? He’s got three kids to think about. They’re his responsibility, but he expects Jill to carry the entire burden.”

  “And you,” Caroline reminded.

  “He doesn’t know I give her a break on the rent.”

  “Ha. Guys like Tim expect it. He’s always been a loser.” Caroline smoothed back a strand of hair. “No sense of responsibility.”

  “You got that right,” Jake muttered, irritated anew that he was agreeing with her. “If he and Jill hadn’t broken up, he’d probably have a dozen kids by now and not care for any of them.”

  “You’re just mad because he’s self-indulgent and you’re careful and concerned.” Caroline touched her finger to the tip of his nose, smiling like a proud mother. Jake’s annoyance with her intensified but he kept it to himself.

  Besides, she was infuriatingly correct. Tim’s behavior reminded Jake of Rex, although Jake’s father had at least attempted to make financial reparation for his actions — or so Jake had been told. But the whole idea of indiscriminate fatherhood hit some tender part of his soul that had been hurt when he was young and had never quite recovered.