Mr. and Mrs. Wrong

by Fay Robinson

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because that’s the way I feel about you.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I suppose I—” She coughed and grabbed her side. “Oh, Jack, help me!”

  “Lucky!”

  He grabbed her before she could hit the floor. Sweeping her up in his arms, he laid her on the bed. He reached for the phone to dial 911, but she threw an arm around his neck and giggled. “Gotcha.”

  “You little faker.” He tried to pull away, but stopped when she yelped.

  “Oh, don’t move, really. It hurts when you fight me. Bend to my will.” She pulled him closer, until their faces were only inches apart. “Mm, yes, that’s much better. Now—I order you to say you love me.”

  “I love you. You know that already. I’ll always love you.”

  “Then promise me you’ll come home and never leave again.”

  “No, I won’t do that.”

  “Ray said if you didn’t agree, he’d be happy to move in. I kinda like that idea. Imagine Ray and me on the loose together. I’m thinking he and I might even go into partnership. We could start our own private-detective business.”

  “Hell, no.”

  She giggled. “Then come home and keep me out of trouble. I can’t promise you’ll have a normal wife, but I can provide the family. We’ll build a house, buy a house, whatever you want. Grace and I will even move to Pittsburgh so you can take that job, if it makes you happy. We’ll sell the cabin and the land.”

  “You’d leave your home and the river?”

  “You’re my home, Jack. Where you are, that’s where I want to be.”

  His eyes watered. How he deserved this woman’s love, he didn’t know. “Do you mean that?”

  “With all my heart. Say yes to your dreams,” she pleaded, “and to mine. You’ll never be happy without me. You might as well face it.”

  She was right. Without her, happiness would always elude him. “If I turn you down, are you going to have one of those hissy fits?”

  “Oh, the biggest one ever pitched in Alabama. I’ll scream and kick and whine and get us both thrown out of here.”

  “Then…I guess I’d better come home.”

  She grinned. “We’ll start over and make it work this time.”

  “Do we have to go through another engagement?”

  “No, I don’t care about courtships anymore, or being engaged or having a big wedding. I’ll settle for a marriage. But a real one, with all its problems and joys. Can you give me that?”

  “Sweetheart, if it takes me a lifetime.”

  EPILOGUE

  Sixteen months later…

  THE HAMMOCK ROCKED gently in the warm spring breeze, reflecting the lazy mood of its two inhabitants. Contented, Lucky hated to get up, but she had a hundred things to get ready for tomorrow’s opening of the gallery wing of her new studio.

  “Stay with me,” Jack said, pulling her back down.

  “I can’t. Could you watch Grace for a while? I need to run in and check a few last-minute details.”

  “Do you have to go now?” He slipped his hand under her shirt. “I thought we might work on giving Grace a little brother like we talked about last night.”

  “Sounds intriguing, but I really have to go. Ray’s meeting me at three to recheck the system.”

  “You shouldn’t have hired that old swindler.” The affection was apparent in his voice.

  “I love that old swindler, and stop pretending you don’t. He did a great job putting in the burglar-alarm system, and I think I have some more business lined up for him. He has a real talent for security.”

  Jack snorted. “He should. He’s disarmed enough systems. Just watch him and make sure he doesn’t steal everything out from under you.”

  “You know he wouldn’t do that. He’s put his former life behind him—like you have.” She patted his leg. “How’s the search for your sister going? Learned anything new?”

  “We have a lead.”

  “A promising one?”

  “We’ll see. I turned everything over to that private detective my old boss recommended. Wes says if anyone can find Emma, it’s this guy. I sure hope so. I’m beginning to worry I might never see her again.”

  “Don’t run out of hope, sweetheart.”

  He wanted desperately to find Emma. Ray did, too.

  “It’s hard to keep hoping when she’s been gone so long,” he said. He let Lucky rise and sat up himself. “Go on to the studio. I’ll watch Grace.”

  “Thank you.” She kissed him. “I’ll only be a few hours. When I get home, I promise we’ll work on that little-brother idea.”

  He nodded toward the baby, gurgling happily in her swing nearby. Beanie sat gazing at her with expectation, waiting for her to drop her cookie as she would inevitably do. “Watching her is no problem. I have a built-in baby-sitter.”

  “And to think you were once the man of Beanie’s dreams.”

  “She gets more food out of Grace than she does me.”

  Lucky chuckled, then took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. She sighed with happiness. The sky was a brilliant blue dotted with puffy clouds, and sunlight twinkled on the water at the edge of the yard, making it seem jewel-like.

  From where she stood on their new dock, she could see both up and down the river. Nowhere could there be a more spectacular view. “Are you ever sorry we didn’t move to Pittsburgh?” she asked.

  “Not a day.”

  “Me, neither. I love it here.”

  They’d found the perfect spot to build, a hill that kept them close to the river but above the threat of rising water.

  The house was an eclectic combination of modern and country styles. Jack got everything he wanted—city services, a grass yard, a large family room. The rustic log structure also suited Lucky. Her feathers, shells, driftwood and other items looked wonderful displayed on the rough timbers inside.

  A wall of glass faced the water and let them enjoy the sunset every evening. At night they went out on the deck and studied the stars through Jack’s telescope.

  They’d moved in two months ago, just in time, or so it had turned out. The biggest flood in fifty years destroyed the cabin a week later, cutting a new water channel. Her land was now an island.

  She’d cried over the loss, but had accepted it. The river was a wild thing, unpredictable and free. Every once in a while, even she needed to be reminded of that.

  “What kind of turnout are you anticipating tomorrow?” Jack asked. He picked up the baby and followed Lucky to the Blazer.

  “Huge. We have collectors flying in from all over to look at the other pieces not on exhibit. And I think curiosity will bring a lot of people to the opening.”

  The renovation of the Register building included the day care and studio as planned, but Lucky had also insisted on a gallery to display and sell the works of local artists. The first show opened tomorrow—the landscapes of Terrell Wade.

  Substantial offers on the selected pieces had already come in, thanks to a cover story done on him by a national news magazine. The money would go into a trust to provide for Terrell’s needs the rest of his life and to fund an art program in his name in area schools.

  “Does Terrell understand all this?”

  “Yes,” Lucky told Jack with confidence. “He may not understand everything, but he knows people are looking at his work and liking it. He’s very happy about that.”

  “You’ve done a good thing.”

  “It hardly seems enough to make up for what I did to him all those years ago.”

  “Lucky, most people with the level of autism Terrell has end up in institutions. His own aunt admitted that. Even before all the business with Eileen Olenick, his mother was getting ready to give him up. She couldn’t take care of him at home anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve got to forgive yourself. Terrell has.”

  He was right. Above their fireplace was a painting Terrell had given her
as a present, of Lucky and Terrell sitting side by side at the river, both smiling. He had forgiven her. Now she had to do what Jack said—work on forgiving herself. This exhibit was a start.

  And seeing Deaton Swain and Paul Hightower punished for what they’d done would help, too. Deaton had pleaded guilty to murder and attempted murder and was serving a life sentence.

  Hightower, though, had decided to fight his charges. Based on the inability of the state to produce the body of his victim, Eileen Olenick, that case was still pending. He’d gotten twenty years for the attempted murder of Lucky, but she prayed he’d also be made to pay for the cruel murder of Miss Eileen.

  She kissed Jack and the baby, and put her key in the ignition. Jack squatted to talk to her through the open door, setting Grace between his legs. Beanie pushed in next to him. “Be careful. Got your cell phone?”

  “Yes, worrywort, I do.”

  “Call me if you have any trouble.”

  “Now don’t start with me.”

  “Don’t start with you?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Do the words bank robbery ring a bell?”

  “How was I supposed to know some fool would pull the first stickup in Potock history while I was cashing a check? Besides, that was months ago. I haven’t been in trouble since.”

  “That’s what worries me. You’re long overdue.”

  “Bye. I promise I won’t get into trouble.”

  “Don’t forget. When you come home, we work on a little brother. Right, Gracie?” He bounced her up and down, which always made her squeal. “See, she said, ‘Yes! Yes!’”

  “You’re too funny.”

  “That’s why you love me.”

  “That and a million other reasons. Now let me scoot. I want to take a few more shots of the flood damage on the way.”

  Once out of the drive, she turned right, heading downriver. The receding waters had left a blotted landscape of unrooted trees, thick mud and scattered personal belongings from destroyed homes and businesses. The area still resembled ground zero after a bomb.

  She slipped her feet into tall rubber boots and loaded her camera.

  An hour later, with two rolls completed, she engaged the four-wheel drive and cut through a series of abandoned mining roads—a shortcut along the river.

  She was about to get back onto the blacktop when an object caught her eye. Reloading the camera, she plodded through the trees and across the dried, cracked mud to where the river had deposited debris several hundred yards inland.

  The object was devoid of paint, but the shape of the funny little car—jutting fins and a blunt nose—was unmistakable. With certainty, Lucky knew she was looking at a 1960 Metropolitan, the missing car of Eileen Olenick.

  She went back to the Blazer to dial the house. Jack picked up. “You’re never going to believe what I just found.”

  “Yeah,” he said without hesitation. “I’m sure I will.”

  ISBN: 978-1-4592-4371-2

  MR. AND MRS. WRONG

  Copyright © 2001 by Carmel Thomaston.

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