The Candy Bar Complete - 4 book box set: Candy Bar Series

by Patrice Wilton

  “Yes, well, it’s a decent job.” Changing the subject that always made me uncomfortable, I said, “So, you’ll cover for me?”

  “Of course. I’ll make an excuse to tell Mom and Dad so they won’t worry, and I’ll pick up Merrybell and bring her home. McKenzie will love taking care of her. She wants a pet so badly. Just promise me you’ll call me every single day.”

  “I will, and thanks. She eats one of those small cans once a day and a little dried food.”

  “I’ll tell her. She’ll baby that cat to death, don’t you worry.”

  “I know she will.” McKenzie is Leanne’s perfect little six-year-old. A darling, beautiful little girl and I would give anything in the world to have one just like her.

  “I love you guys. You’re the best sister in the whole world. It won’t be long, I promise.”

  “One week. I want you home in one week. Okay?”

  “Sure.” I sincerely hoped to be. I didn’t want to lose my job, but on the other hand I couldn’t possibly greet people as a receptionist with a droopy eye. And so I went around Key West wearing big, dark sunglasses, even in the bars and restaurants, and kept my chin up and my spirits high.

  Margaritas helped, of course, but it wasn’t just the refreshing taste of those icy, tangy drinks sliding down my throat that made me feel good. It was the rich new awareness of everything around me.

  Maybe the Botox I’d injected hit more than a nerve. Maybe it freed the artistic side of my brain, because I was definitely seeing. Sights and sounds were exploding on my senses, and I sucked it all in.

  Little things caught my eye. The sunlight glimmering on the water, a cloud drifting by, images of everyday life registered with me differently. I had always had an artist’s eye and paid attention to detail, but now, wow, things popped right out at me. Like viewing the world through a kaleidoscope or having X-ray vision.

  The sunsets are legendary in Key West, and painting them were pure pleasure. My father thinks art for me is a hobby, but he doesn’t understand. Painting a beautiful picture fills me with happiness in the way a bird’s song does. It makes me smile inside. My senses were awakened, and small insignificant things brought me unbelievable pleasure.

  Walking the beach barefoot and wiggling my toes in the sand, for example. The taste of an ice cream cone melting on my tongue. Things I used to take for granted became a rich, rewarding experience, and I wanted to gobble everything up.

  It was the third week of July and the annual Hemingway lookalike contest was taking place. When I finished painting for the day, I hung out at Sloppy Joe’s with a few of the old guys. We enjoyed our drink-related music and chillin’ in typical Key West style.

  One Hemingway wannabee was a computer analyst who designed programs for Microsoft, another, a pharmaceutical sales rep from New Jersey. The third was a violinist for a blues band in New York’s Village, and the sweetest one of all, a biker named Bill. I carried around charcoal and paper everywhere I went.

  I sketched pictures of them, and the bar and the beach, and the people on the sidewalk. I was a sketching fool, and I’d never been happier.

  “So, Susie,” one of them asked. “You planning on leaving us soon?”

  “I don’t think so.” I fanned myself with a coaster. “The only one missing me is my cat, and if she’s anything like me, she’s probably taken off too. We’re both working on commitment issues.”

  He gave me a quizzical look. “You ain’t told nobody where you are?”

  “My sister knows. She’s looking after Merrybell for me.”

  “I don’t get it. A good-looking girl like you hanging out with a bunch of old fuddyduds like us. You running away from a boyfriend, or something?”

  “I’ve gone AWOL.” I pushed my sunglasses up my nose. “I took a temporary leave of my senses.” I grinned, and they chuckled.

  A big man was standing at the entrance of the bar. His stance was familiar, but with the sun behind him I couldn’t see his features. He scanned the room searching for somebody, and instinctively I tried to make myself small.

  His voice boomed, “There you are,” as he strode purposely toward me. I cringed. The fact that he was here meant Leanne had folded under pressure and told him where to find me.

  The traitor. When we were kids she had tried to protect me, covering up my blunders, taking the blame for things I did because she felt guilty for being the “beautiful one.”

  Looks like her guilt ran out.

  I tried to slide down further in my chair, but I couldn’t hide from my father now any more than I could as a child. He took me by the arm. “Come on, Susan. It’s time to go home.”

  That’s the nice thing about Dad. He’s not the mushy type.

  “Hey, Dad. How’d you find me?”

  “It doesn’t matter how. It’s just a good thing I did before you do something stupid.”

  I bristled. “Like what?”

  “Like get into stuff you shouldn’t, and have to go back into rehab.”

  “That was seven years ago.” I glared at him, and raised my voice. “One mistake and you can’t ever let me forget it. Can you?”

  My new friends asked, “You all right, Susie?”

  I nodded and shrugged. Pulling out my wallet, I put a twenty on the table. “Guess my vacation is up, but it was a wild ride.”

  Dad tilted back my chair, and I stumbled as I rose. He gave me a disgusted look. “What are you on? Drugs, booze, or both?”

  I pulled my arm out of his grasp. “None of your business. I didn’t ask you to come here, and now, politely, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

  He propelled me forward, and I tried to hold my ground.

  One of the Hemingways stood up and pushed my father in the chest. “You heard the lady. Back off.”

  My dad told him to take a hike in some other words, then the Ernest fellow got really earnest and pushed his belly into my dad, knocking him backwards over the chair. Dad’s about six feet and a hundred eighty pounds, and he’s a triple A personality. Not the kind to be pushed around. He scrambled off the floor and lunged at my protector.

  Unfortunately, he lunged at the wrong one and careened into one of the innocent Hemingway bystanders.

  This guy didn’t like having his gut rammed by my father’s head, and used his fist to ward him off. Father went flying, and I ran to his aid. I tried to pull him up but he flailed at me and got me right in the face.

  All three Hemingways tackled him at once. Tables were upended, chairs went flying, and Dad and I were in the midst of a free-for-all. I was scared for my dad, so I grabbed him by the arm and hissed, “Keep low and follow me.”

  The two of us hunched down, sneaking around the tables and chairs, making our way toward the exit. No one seemed to notice.

  They were too hell-bent on throwing punches. Dad was looking a little disheveled. His tie was twisted around the back of his neck, his pants were dirty, and there was blood on his shirt. Oh, oh. His nose was bleeding.

  “Dad, I’m so sorry. Let me go back inside and get some napkins to clean you up.”

  He squeezed his nose with his thumb and index finger and kept his head back to stop the flow of blood. “Don’t you dare go in there,” he growled. “My car is over here. Come on. Let’s get out of this dump.”

  Once we got to his car, he had tissues in his glove compartment. I made an attempt to clean his shirt, but he brushed my hand away.

  “Don’t touch me, Susan. I’m so mad at you right now that I might lose the little control I have.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  The bleeding had stopped, thank goodness. He was using a bottle of water and the tissues to clean his face, and soak up the stains on his Brooks Brothers blue and white striped shirt.

  “How many times in my life am I going to hear that?” He glowered at me. “When are you going to stop screwing up? You’re twenty-nine years old. You should be behaving responsibly by now.” He peered into my face. “Is there something wrong with your eye?”
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  “No,” I turned my head away. “I have a sty or something. No big deal.”

  “Why are you here, Susie? What happened with your job?”

  “Nothing, Dad. I just needed a little break, that’s all. I’ve been under a lot of pressure lately with the course and the exams, besides working and getting ready for the art show. I needed some quiet space. That’s all.”

  He sighed. “Why don’t you just do one thing and one thing well?”

  “I paint well,” I said defensively, “but that doesn’t cut it with you.”

  “Try earning a living off it,” he sneered. “That’s why they call themselves starving artists.” He backed out of the parking lot and got to the main road. “Which way?”

  “Right, at the stop sign.” I directed him to the B&B, and we drove the short distance in strained silence. Silence was preferable to speaking because we’ve never had the ability to communicate with each other. Sadly, all our conversations lately ended in an argument.

  Dad drove away, and I packed my paintings and belongings into my car, checked out, and began the long trek home.

  * * *

  The two-lane highway through the Keys takes forever even without traffic, but I was in no particular rush. I was trying to figure out how to keep secret the name of the doctor who’d injected the Botox. I’d have my eyes poked with red hot needles, eat a bowl of squiggly maggots, and have my tongue ripped from my throat before giving him up. I couldn’t let Mike lose his clinic because of me.

  Oops. I just said his name. Mike Zimmerman. He’s a hottie, and I don’t want to see him in financial trouble over a little droopy eye.

  Dad had been so upset by the bar brawl he had accepted my excuse of a sty, but I wouldn’t be so lucky a second time. He’s got X-ray vision when it comes to me. Since I had two hours to kill, I decided to call my friends and tell them I was on my way back.

  “Hey, Fran. I’m in my car and on my way home. Did you miss me?”

  She didn’t laugh. “Dammit, Susie, we were worried about you.”

  “I know. I’m sorry about the show. I really am. You all worked so hard to make the evening a success and I blew it.”

  “We don’t care about that. We’re just concerned about you, and I think we’d like some kind of explanation as to why you split.”

  “I panicked, okay?” I blew my bangs out of my eyes and gave a weary sigh. “I had an anxiety attack, and I fled the scene.”

  “No phone calls or e-mails?” Her voice rose. “The only thing we get from you in one week is a lousy postcard sent to the Candy Bar, and it didn’t say anything except that you were fine.”

  I can’t lie. Every time I do I feel so guilty about it that I wished I’d been honest in the first place. So, after a couple of seconds I confessed. “Okay, okay. The truth is, I had a bad reaction to Botox and partially paralyzed my face.”

  “Jesus, Susie. Would you stop messing with that shit?”

  “I needed it.”

  “Like a hole in the head.” She breathed heavily. “You are going to do some permanent damage to yourself one of these days if you keep this crap up.”

  “No, I won’t. I’ll just stick to the tried and true professionals with top notch reputations. Forget the small clinics and Friday night specials.”

  “You are beautiful just as you are. None of us understand why you strive so hard for perfection. Do you want to end up like some of the ladies we see who’ve had too many facelifts, and have these scary, plastic-looking faces?”

  “Barbie doll faces,” I muttered, thinking how little she knew me. It had been hell growing up as the ugly duckling in a family of swans.

  “It’s a good thing you’re coming home, Susie. For one thing, you need to get back to work before you get fired, and we have another problem on our hands.”

  “What’s that?” Company policy stated a doctor’s certificate was required for a week’s absence, but I came from a family of doctors. It should be no problem getting someone to cover for me.

  But I had a funny feeling she had a more serious concern.

  “Billy’s missing.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Billy was Candy’s sixteen-year-old son.

  He’d been acting out lately and getting into all types of trouble at school. It was hard for Candy, raising him all alone. He was too big physically to make him behave, and she couldn’t make him see reason. Plus she worked nights at the bar, and he had little supervision.

  Not her fault. She did the best she could.

  “You’d have thought that last brush with the law would have smartened him up.” I liked Billy, I really did. I just wished he didn’t have to learn his lessons the hard way. Like me.

  “Yes, but I guess it didn’t.” Fran released a weary sigh.

  “Right. Thanks for telling me, Fran. I’ll go see her tomorrow.”

  It was after ten o’clock when I finally got home. I’d called Leanne from my cell, and she said she’d bring Merrybell back in the morning. I walked through my apartment and noticed a few wilted plants. I gave the fan-tail palms a healthy watering and left my patio door open to air out the place.

  I stepped out and saw a bright full moon, and a million stars twinkling in the sky. The night seemed to embrace me. Maybe it was the idea of being home that made me feel especially attuned to things, in touch with the cosmos, or something unusually deep. Whatever it was, I liked this new awareness I had been feeling lately.

  I walked back inside, listened to my taped messages, and felt like a creep for letting my loved ones down. It seemed like no matter what I did, it wasn’t good enough.

  I sold real estate for two years and made some good money at it too, but then something happened and I had to quit.

  So I became a licensed practical nurse to satisfy my dad, but I’d hated working in the hospital. It had depressed the heck out of me.

  I became a certified masseuse, but the problem was it had made my fingers ache too much for me to paint at night, which was all I’ve ever wanted to do. I think I knew from about the age of three that I enjoyed artwork. I did finger painting in nursery school and loved creating new colors. By the time I was four I could color inside the lines and draw nice pictures.

  My teachers praised my work, and I wanted my mom and dad to be proud of me too. I did a finger painting on my bedroom wall, but instead of being praised, I got spanked for it. I remember how upset I was when they wallpapered over my masterpiece. At night when I was supposed to be asleep, I would peel a tiny bit of the paper off so I could see the pretty colors I’d painted underneath.

  Guess I was rebellious, even then.

  Finally at around two o’clock in the morning, I crawled into bed and slept like a lamb until the phone woke me up. It was Leanne, telling me she’d return Merrybell around noon.

  I hung up, stretched and yawned, and climbed out of bed. I put the kettle on for a cup of green tea and changed into running shorts and a ribbed cropped top. Sipping on the tea, I read the Accent part of the newspaper, and then headed out for my usual three-mile run.

  It was hot and muggy, but I pushed myself to go the distance. I was out of shape. Too many margaritas and too little exercise had taken their toll.

  Breathing deeply, my lungs were bursting, but I didn’t stop. I had to run further, faster, to get this ugly fat right off me before it stuck. When my legs were burning and felt like rubber, I stopped, put my head between my legs and sucked in air.

  I heard a cyclist behind me and tried to get out of the person’s way. I stumbled, and the cyclist had to swerve to avoid colliding with me.

  “Hey, are you all right?” he called out.

  “Try the road next time,” I snapped. It was a pedestrian path but bikers shared it too.

  He stopped and hopped off the bike. He took off his helmet and I lost the last of my breath.

  It was Brett. Of all the people in the whole city of Miami, not to mention the entire world, why did it have to be him? And why did he keep showing up at the
most embarrassing moments of my ridiculous life?

  Here I was, ready to collapse on the sidewalk like a mass of quivering jelly, and he had to come along. Last I’d heard he was a New York firefighter. I wondered if he’d returned to Miami for good. Where was his wife? I hadn’t seen her at the Candy Bar the other night.

  I kept my head down, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me. “I’m fine,” I mumbled. “You can leave now.”

  “I’m not leaving until I know you’re all right. You’re pale and shaky.” I detected something in his voice, like maybe he was laughing at me. “I’ll stick around and see if you need a little mouth-to-mouth.”

  My head snapped up. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Susie?” He was smiling. “I thought I recognized you. How are you? I mean seriously. This humidity is a killer and I saw you running flat out.”

  “I’m okay.” I tried to suck in a breath, but it hurt. It probably wasn’t the smartest thing in the world to be running like I was trying out for a marathon, and in the August heat. But nobody had checked my IQ lately.

  He led me toward a bench, and we both sat down. Obviously, he was determined to wait it out with me. His fingers drummed the back of the bench. “I can’t offer you a ride or I would.” He cocked an eyebrow, “Unless you care to ride on my handlebars?”

  I managed a little smile. “I’ll just rest a minute and take it easy going back. No need to sit here with me.”

  “I want to.” His hand left the bench and began to rub my back.

  I was self-conscious about being all hot and sweaty, but I didn’t mind the feel of his hand on me. Not at all. “I saw you,” I said quietly. “The night of the art show. At the Candy Bar.”

  “I was coming over to congratulate you and then you ran off. I stayed around, hoping to talk to you, but you didn’t come back.”

  My eyes flew to his. I wanted to ask him what he had intended to say to me, but I was afraid of sounding pathetic. I mean, he’s the kind of guy a girl like me could never get.