We All Fall Down (Of Love and Madness Book 2)

by Karen Cimms

  “Oh, for crying out loud!” She shook him. The snoring stuttered, but his eyelids didn’t even flicker. “Billy!” She shook him again. Nothing.

  She yanked her pillow from under his arm and stormed downstairs to spend the night curled up on the living room sofa as all the reasons she didn’t deserve to be in this position played over and over in her head.

  Chapter Seven

  Night loosened its grip, and early morning gray gave way to dusky pink. Kate shuffled to the kitchen. She filled the coffee pot with water, then dumped half out. Billy wouldn’t be getting up for a long time, and when he did, he could make his own damn coffee. She mixed up a batch of oatmeal and topped it with a handful of early blackberries to make it palatable.

  After breakfast, she dressed and headed to the garden. It was too hot and she was too tired for a run. Besides, the tomatoes were ripening quickly, and this was as good a time as any to make marinara. Staying busy might also keep her mind off wanting to march upstairs and strangle the snoring, naked elephant asleep in her bed.

  She was about to dump a bowl of diced plum tomatoes into the sautéed garlic when she heard a knock on the front door. Her eyes darted to the clock over the stove. It had still been blinking last night but now declared it was a little past nine. Billy must have fixed it while she was getting ready for bed. Typical. There were far more important things in his life that needed fixing, but he was worried about the damn clock.

  From where Kate stood, she could see straight through the dining room—originally the main living area—to the front door, where a neatly dressed young man stood on the porch, holding a clipboard.

  She wiped her hands on a dish towel and headed for the door.

  “Good morning. My name is Mr. Johannson. I’m here to see William Donaldson.”

  Kate tried not to smile at the formality of his greeting, especially from someone so young. “I’m sorry, Mr. Donaldson is still asleep. I don’t anticipate he’ll be up for several hours. Can I help you with something?”

  “Are you Mrs. Donaldson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have a repossession notice for a 2010 Saab convertible belonging to Mr. Donaldson.”

  Her heart sank. “I don’t understand.” She opened the door and motioned for him to enter.

  “Mr. Donaldson is two payments behind. As of tomorrow, it’ll be three. He needs to make those payments now, or the car goes.”

  Kate could feel her blood pressure ratcheting back up. She pointed at the dining room table. “Have a seat. I’ll see if I can wake him.”

  Judging by the snoring she heard from the top of the stairs, it wouldn’t be easy.

  She gave him a rough shake. “Billy. Wake up.”

  Nothing. She tried again, harder, but it was no use.

  She dropped onto the edge of the bed. There was a little money in her savings account, but other than that, she had nothing. She didn’t even know where Billy kept the checkbook. His refusal to relinquish the financial reins had been a sore spot in their marriage for years, but no matter how much she had argued, he wouldn’t budge. He was doing her a favor, he’d said—one less thing for her to worry about. Unfortunately, that wasn’t always the case, and even though he gave her an allowance like some 1960s housewife, she’d been caught short more times than she cared to remember. It was insulting and embarrassing, and it was the exact reason she’d taken a job. Another marital bone of contention.

  Sad and desperate flew out the open window. Hello, furious.

  She grabbed her own checkbook. There wasn’t much in her account, but maybe Mr. Johannson would take a check for one payment and Billy could send the rest later. She’d make him walk his ass all the way to the post office, too.

  Turned out that wouldn’t be sufficient.

  “It has to be a certified check, or you can call this number and make a payment with a debit card.” He handed her a business card.

  She had less than $1,500 in her savings account and only a few hundred in checking. “How much?”

  “At $437.58 per month, that would be $1,312.74 total.”

  It would practically wipe her out.

  “I have to transfer money first.” The words on the card were all a jumble. She wasn’t even sure if she was holding it right side up. “Let me get my laptop.”

  The sticky air seemed thick as well, and she moved in slow motion.

  “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” she asked as she plugged in the laptop and waited for it to boot up. This was humiliating, true, but it didn’t mean she shouldn’t still be gracious. “Maybe something cold?”

  “No, thank you.” He looked uncomfortable. “I’m really sorry to do this.”

  She felt a need to fill the silence. “It must be a pretty horrible job.”

  “Not exactly my dream job, but with the economy the way it’s been, there are lots of available jobs in collections . . .”

  “They say it’s getting better.” Was it? She had no idea. For someone who worked in news, she didn’t follow it as closely as she should. She tapped an impatient finger on the table.

  “Let’s hope. By the way, my name is Jason.”

  “Kate.”

  When the computer finally booted up, she logged in and transferred most of her savings into her checking account, then dialed the number he had given her to make the payment. While she waited on hold, she made small talk, trying to ease the discomfort they both felt.

  “I kinda hate my job, too.”

  “Really?”

  Actually, no. She didn’t hate it. She was more or less ambivalent. “I’m a reporter.”

  “You don’t enjoy that?”

  She shrugged. “When I started, I worked for the local weekly. I handled all the fluff—weddings, engagements, birth announcements. I wrote some features, too. At least it was something I enjoyed. And the family who owned the paper, they were wonderful. Old Mr. Holmes was a sweetheart.”

  “So what happened?”

  “When he died, his son sold the paper to the Evening Examiner. Everything changed. He thought he was doing me a favor and included my job as part of the deal when he sold the paper.” She shrugged. “I felt obligated to tough it out.” She wrinkled her nose. “My boss pretty much hates me. I’m either too stupid or too stubborn to leave.”

  Jason nodded. “I know how you feel. Trust me, there’s no joy in knowing each job you complete successfully is going to upset the people you come in contact with.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse, being miserable or making others miserable.”

  “I think I’d rather be miserable.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Guess you have the worst job.”

  “Yeah, and people like you make it even harder.”

  “That’s a nice thing to say.”

  After she had confirmed her payment, Jason rose to leave.

  Kate held out her hand. “Thank you.”

  He chuckled as he took it. “For what? Trying to repossess your car?”

  “No. That wasn’t cool. But you could be a real jerk with a job like this, and you’re not.” She walked him to the door. “Believe it or not, this last half hour with you has been the best part of the past twenty-four hours.”

  He looked shocked. “Wow. I hope your luck changes.”

  She sighed. “Me, too.”

  Chapter Eight

  This was not cooking weather. A smart person would have just cut up a few tomatoes for salad or bruschetta, but two people could only eat so many. Kate couldn’t stand seeing her hard work rotting on the vine.

  She stood at the Viking range, one of Billy’s few household splurges, and tried to visualize her anger dissolving into the thick, rich sauce. No such luck. She was getting hotter by the minute, and not from the temperature, which was on track to hit a hundred by late afternoon.

  Cooking usually cleared her head, but not today. Her thoughts were melting like the sweat trickling down her back. She stretched, trying to work a kink from her neck. This
was almost unbearable. Maybe the heat made everything seem worse than it really was.

  “Right,” she grumbled. “It will all be a bad dream once this heat wave breaks.” She wound her ponytail into a messy knot on top of her head, the sudden coolness against her damp neck a brief respite.

  The sound of feet thumped overhead. Charlie, who was stretched out on the cool brick of the dining room hearth, lifted his head and let out a lazy woof.

  The floor creaked. Then the inevitable bump into the antique demilune table, followed by mumbled cursing and the sound of running water.

  When the shower stopped a short time later, the ominous riff from Jaws cued up on a loop inside Kate’s head. “Here we go,” she muttered.

  She was rinsing the last batch of plum tomatoes when Billy’s arms wound around her. The scent of fresh lemongrass from his shampoo enveloped her. His shirt was unbuttoned, his skin warm and damp from the shower. He pressed his mouth against her neck. The beard was gone. His hair dragged against her bare shoulders leaving cool, wet tracks as he kissed the spot behind her ear.

  “Dance with me,” he purred. “I’ve missed you.”

  The crack in her heart grew a little wider.

  It would be so easy to turn around, bury her face in his chest. She’d done it hundreds of times. Made excuses. Looked the other way. But this time, hurt and disappointment weighed her down. Her feet were rooted to the floor. She couldn’t dance. She could barely move.

  Billy tugged gently, trying to turn her toward him, but anger won out over instinct. She twisted far enough that his lips landed on her temple.

  “What’s your problem?” He seemed surprised, even a little irritated.

  She turned the heat on under the congealed blob of oatmeal that had been sitting on the back burner all morning and jabbed at it angrily with a wooden spoon, attempting to mash it back into something edible.

  Billy shrugged at the snub and pulled a stool up to the counter. “What’re you making?”

  He was doing his best to sound casual, but she wasn’t in the mood. She punctuated her silence with another stir of the oatmeal, which had begun to stick to the bottom of the Calphalon pot.

  “I could go for some eggs Benedict. I’m starving. I don’t think I ate at all yesterday. At least that I can remember.” He laughed as if this was funny.

  She pulled a paper plate from a cupboard over the microwave and slapped a spoonful of oatmeal on it. With a dark look, she shoved it across the counter.

  “Oatmeal?” He seemed truly offended. “I hate oatmeal. C’mon, babe. Eggs Benedict, and I promise I’ll take you to your favorite restaurant tonight to make up for yesterday.” He tried to charm her with his smile. “Or how about I call a car and we head to the city. We’ll go for the whole weekend, whatever you want.”

  She stirred her marinara and tried to steady herself.

  “What the hell’s your problem?” His patience was vanishing quickly. “I know you’re pissed, okay? I fucked up. I’ve had a couple of bad days myself. I don’t need shit from you too.”

  She shot him an evil look, then began scraping the burned oatmeal into the garbage disposal. The pot was probably ruined.

  “Aww, babe,” he sighed, pulling a Jekyll and Hyde. “Did you think I forgot your birthday?”

  Her head snapped up. “Please stop. Eat your oatmeal and stop talking.”

  He eased himself off the stool, fixing her with the smile that had reduced her to putty a million times. A few hours of sleep and a shower had done him some good, but she could see now that he’d lost weight. The marks on his face were also more noticeable. A large bruise, the color of an eggplant, was partially visible near his ribcage.

  His ragged appearance was worrisome—but she refused to let him off the hook this time. She reminded herself of the near repossession of her car and his lack of apology. She turned back to her scorched pot and her own simmering anger.

  Over the sound of running water, she heard the familiar click of the latches on his guitar case and the sound of strings being tuned.

  “I know what’ll make you feel better.”

  She recognized the first few notes of one of her favorites, a Journey song he played for her now and then, especially on the rare occasions she would come to a gig. His voice was warm and soft when he wanted it to be. She had to give him credit; he was really trying to nail this performance.

  She leaned against the sink, her arms folded, her lips pursed.

  When he was done, he settled the guitar in the case and snapped one latch shut. It was a habit he’d had ever since the day Devin had tried to play roadie and picked up the unfastened guitar case. Billy’s prized Martin, the guitar his grandfather had given him when he was ten, had crashed to the ground, the body cracking. Hungover and suffering from a lack of sleep, Billy’s visceral response had frightened even her. More importantly, the incident had left five-year-old Devin trembling. She’d almost hated him that day. When Billy had calmed down, he apologized to both of them, but it was something she’d never forgotten. And to his credit, it was something Billy made sure he’d never forget, either. Instead of having the guitar repaired, he left it the way it was. The crack didn’t affect the sound, but it did rub the inside of his arm when he played, scratching it raw if he played a long time. It was a small price to pay, he said, to help him remember never to lose his temper with either of his children again.

  With the guitar safely stored away, he cocked his head and gave her a tentative smile. When she remained silent, he moved toward her, arms open, but before he could speak, she cut him off.

  “Get out.”

  He stopped short. “What?”

  “Get. Out.”

  Confusion flooded his face. “I don’t—what?”

  “Get out of my house.”

  “Your house?” He shook his head and chuckled. “I hate to tell—”

  She pointed at the door. “Get out!”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

  The warm tone he’d used moments earlier had disappeared, and Kate’s reason along with it. She picked up the pot she’d been scrubbing and flung it as hard as she could.

  For someone so obviously hungover, he demonstrated impressive reflexes, ducking as the pot sailed over his head and crashed into the wall behind him. But the near miss flipped some switch in his head, and she wasn’t sure what he would do as he moved toward her, his eyes on fire.

  For that matter, she wasn’t sure what she would do, especially after she grabbed the large kitchen knife she’d been using to chop garlic.

  “Get out,” she demanded. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and sweat trickled down her back. Faint or throw up? Maybe she’d do both.

  “You’ve lost your fucking mind.” He started up the stairs.

  “No!” she cried, coming around the island and advancing on him. “Out. Now!”

  “I have no shoes, Kate.” His voice hung on the T, sharp and final. “You want me to leave barefoot?”

  “Get out!” She thrust the knife in front of her like a sword. Maybe she had lost her mind. Or maybe he just made her crazy.

  He watched her from the bottom step, a slow smile blossoming.

  “C’mon, babe. Put that down and come here.” His throaty little laugh infuriated her. “You know you’re sexy when you get all fired up.”

  Maybe they were both crazy.

  “We’ve been away from each other too long. I know what you need. You need me. Put that down and come here.”

  He licked his lower lip, catching it in his teeth. One eyebrow arched suggestively. Her heart thumped as she lowered her arm. What the hell was she doing?

  The phone rang. The sound was like a bucket of ice water. She let it go to voicemail.

  “I mean it, Billy. Go.” She motioned toward the door with the knife. Was this what it felt like to lose your mind?

  “I give up.” He threw his hands up and continued to climb the stairs. Kate spied his boots near the door.

  “No! Just ge
t out. I’ll get your damn boots.”

  The look on his face was one of extreme disappointment, as if she’d been the one to let him down. Slowly—deliberately infuriating her—he descended the stairs. When he neared the door, he turned back.

  She sent a vase filled with pink knockout roses sailing past his head. It crashed into the wall, sending flowers, water, and glass spewing in every direction.

  “I’m going, you psycho bitch,” he snarled. The screen banged open against the side of the house, then slammed shut.

  When he reached the sidewalk, Billy turned and ran his hand through his hair. She advanced to the doorway, still brandishing the knife.

  “C’mon, babe,” he pleaded. “Let’s talk about this.”

  If he didn’t start to walk away right now, she was convinced she would turn into some type of maniac. Flashes of white dotted her vision. She closed her eyes. Dear God, was she having a stroke?

  He mistook her hesitation for an opportunity. “Katie, please, let me explain.”

  “Stop!” she screamed, but he continued toward the front door.

  She grabbed the guitar case off the table, and as his foot touched the first step, she opened the door and flung it as hard as she could. It glanced off his left shoulder and skidded across the sidewalk.

  “What the fuck?” he bellowed.

  “Leave now, or I’ll call the police!”

  She threw first one boot and then the other in the direction of his head. The first landed in the grass. The second rolled into the driveway.

  A curtain moved at the Howard house in front of them. On top of everything else, they apparently now had an audience.

  “For what?” he shouted. “I didn’t lay a hand on you. Call the fucking cops. I’ll have you arrested for threatening to kill me and destroying my property.”

  “If you don’t go now, I’ll destroy more than one guitar. I’ll go after that whole room upstairs, piece by piece. And I will call the cops. I bet you have something illegal stashed around here. A little pot? Some coke? You must take me for the biggest idiot that ever walked this earth. It’s over, Billy. I’m done. I can’t do this anymore!”