Her mother gave her a wry look and rubbed away a smudge on her cheek. "You can start by telling your brother that if he doesn't show up for my birthday party, he may as well leave the country."
Bad as her mood had been, Wendy had to laugh at the mere concept of any of them missing the Big Six-Five. "I will certainly pass on your message," she said, not at all solemnly. "Anything else?"
"Yes," said Grace, looking first at Jim and then at Wendy. "I'd like you to host my birthday party."
"Really!"
"I'll pay for the food and refreshments," her mother said instantly.
"No, that's not what I meant. I meant, I thought you wanted to have the party at your place. We all thought that. You told us that."
"I did. But. That was before the new couch arrived."
"We're not going to use it for a trampoline or anything," Wendy said wryly. "And Marjorie's pregnant and not drinking; she won't be spilling any wine this year."
"Ha, ha, dear. Very funny. As a matter of fact, the reason is definitely the new couch. It makes the easy chairs look ratty. We have to replace them before anyone can come over."
"Mom, nobody cares, believe me. You're our parents."
"Excuse me? Does that mean I'm not allowed to have anything nice of my own? Only my rich children can have nice?"
"Okay, that came out wrong. Let me rephrase. We are getting together to celebrate the fact that you're healthy, happy, and—"
"A misery to you all," her mother said, slanting her head appraisingly.
"That, too."
"Stop it. Are you going to let me use your fancy new house, or not?"
"Mom ... I would be overjoyed. Honest. I think it's a wonderful idea. Mark and Marianne will be able to sleep in a guest room instead of on someone's Hide-A-Bed. And Frank and Sharon and all the kids would fit there, too," she said, warming to the idea of an immediate houseful of company. "The kids will be able to play on the beach; it'll be great."
"I wonder," her mother said with a wry glance at Jim.
Jim took the bait. "Now, come on, Gracie," he countered. "You know that family is always welcome here."
"Yes; you're right about that. You've been very tolerant of us, for someone who has no family and isn't used to a mob. Especially considering what an earsplitting bunch we all are."
"Music to my ears, Grace," her son-in-law said with his most charming grin. "Okay, no more chitchat. I gotta get back to work or no one'll be sleeping anywhere."
He positioned himself in front of a cardboard wardrobe and, using straps, lifted it with a grunt onto his back. Wendy held the front door open for him and then ran ahead to open one of the doors on the Expedition. Jim slid the heavy box into the cargo area and drove off.
Wendy went back inside and started to say something to her mother, then smacked her forehead. "Nuts! That was the wardrobe with winter clothes!"
She ran out on the porch to flag her husband, but it was too late; he had turned the corner. She turned to go back into the house, and that's when she saw Zack behind the wheel of his pickup, roaring down the street. Odd. Did he see her? She didn't think so. He was too hell-bent on getting somewhere.
He must have been using the street as a shortcut. She frowned. It was a weekend on a residential street where children played; Zack had no business driving like that.
Chapter 9
Surprise, surprise. The Hodenes apparently had decided to move out. As he drove slowly down one of a neighborhood of crisscrossing lanes, Zack caught a glimpse of his brother-in-law unloading a wardrobe box from his Expedition, parked in front of a house that was more his style than the one on Sheldon.
Funny. If Jim Hodene were going to hide, you'd think he'd run farther than to a bedroom community of Providence. Maybe all he was hiding from was the construction mess. Not that it mattered either way to Zack. After a quick trip back up to Hopeville to see his sister—and after coming to the conclusion that Zina was on the verge of a meltdown if he didn't have an answer for her soon—Zack had decided that today was going to be the day.
The fact that Jim was moving some stuff on his own was a lucky break for everyone: Jim, Zack, and—although she wasn't aware of it—Wendy Hodene.
Without thinking about what he was going to say, Zack pulled into the drive and walked up the steps to the front door of the expanded Cape. The builder in him was impressed by the house's well-executed facade, good use of stone, and elegant layout. The blackmailer in him was pleased by the rose-covered arch over the door, where he could threaten an occupant without being seen by the neighbors.
He rang the bell, waited, and then knocked hard, trying to control his rising sense of fury and loathing; he was ready to break down the door. When his brother-in-law finally did appear, it was all Zack could do not to flatten him on the spot.
Jim looked staggered to see him. "Inside, before someone sees you," he said quickly, leaving Zack room to pass.
Without a word, they walked into a sitting room furnished with Persian rugs and period antiques, some of them of museum quality. In one corner Zack spied a shield-back open armchair that he would have paid good money to touch and to study, but he allowed himself no more than a glance. He felt like a kid at a carnival who's been told, "Look but don't ride," and it made him despise Jim still more.
Zack got straight to the point. Legs astride, he said, "I don't have time to play games anymore. I don't care how you've managed to glom onto a new identity. Your name's Hayward, you shit, and you're still married to my sister—who has every right to claim half your winnings."
"Jesus Christ," Jim murmured. "So that's what it's going to be?" With grim courtesy, he added, "Sit down, please."
"I'll stand," Zack answered. He sized up his opponent—receding hairline, thickening waist, still good-looking, Zina would think—and waited to hear what he had to say.
Jim glanced around the room as if he'd left his notes on a table somewhere, then took a seat in the coveted shield-back chair. With knees apart, he began tapping a silent tune on the upholstered edge of the seat. "So. You're really going through with this ridiculous plot to squeeze me. You've got balls, man; I'll give you that."
Without bothering to respond, Zack folded his arms across his chest and waited for the weaseling to be over with.
"I'm not the guy you think I am, Zack. And you know it."
Zack allowed himself a blink of contempt.
"Nonetheless, you're an embarrassment to me. You know? I'm not cool with you hanging around my wife—"
"What wife?" Zack shot back. "Your marriage to Wendy's a fraud."
"My wife, and my son all day. I'm not cool with that at all."
"So call the cops."
"I'm considering it," Jim said, sounding judicial. "But of course, before I do it I'd like to know just what it is that you want from me in real dollars and cents. I know it's not half. You're not that stupid. But I'd like a number, anyway, for when I do file a report."
Zack snorted; his brother-in-law was a real piece of work. "Tell me this," he said. "Why did you run? You ... what? Lost your way? Lost your key? Lost your mind? Tell me, asshole. I've been waiting twelve long years to hear the reason."
He felt his right hand ball into a fist as if it had a will of its own. Just one blow, he begged himself. That was all. Just one. He vowed to grant himself his wish if he didn't like what he heard next.
"You've got it all wrong," Jim said, rising in a huff from the chair. "I am not the man you're looking for."
At that, something in Zack snapped. He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed Jim by the throat. "You son of a bitch," he growled. "You are the man, and you'll pay."
Jim's eyes got wide, but he didn't struggle. It was all Zack could do not to squeeze the man's throat until his face turned a satisfying shade of blue.
"Zee's always been fragile, you know that," he said, his voice seething with pent-up fury. "Now she's a ghost. Every day she dies another death, waiting for a dumb shit like you to come back. Do you get how
wrong that is? Try to understand that for one lousy minute. Try to—"
He stopped himself. Why was he bothering? He wasn't there to explain. He was there for money. "Get out your checkbook," he said, shaking the other man free from his grip. "I don't have all day."
"Okay, look," Jim said, rubbing his throat. "I'll be straight with you. I ... ah ... have had some women in my life. I admit it. There have been some women, and it's nothing that I want getting back to Wendy. They were a long time ago; I'm done with all that. I don't want anyone who claims she used to know me showing up. So if it costs me something to get you the hell out of my life ... okay, I might be willing to pay."
"Fine," said Zack, uninterested in the other man's rationale for coming up with the money. But Christ, the guy sounded convincing. It almost gave Zach pause. "Let's get this over with."
"How much do you want? Seriously."
"Seriously? Three hundred thousand, in one payment."
"A lump sum? No dice," Jim said angrily. "Wendy's bound to notice a payout like that!"
"Be creative. Or hire a professional to be creative for you," Zack snapped. "I don't care how you do it. Just do it."
Of course, Zack had absolutely no idea how he was going to get the money into Zina's hands, but that was tomorrow's problem.
Jim shook his head while he pondered his next move. Zack prayed that his brother-in-law wouldn't see the gaping hole in the case he had just presented on behalf of his sister.
Unfortunately, his prayer wasn't answered. After a moment, Jim said, "Your sister never tried to divorce this Hayward guy?"
"She's convinced he's coming back," Zack said dryly.
After another, longer moment, Jim's eyebrows twitched down. Zack could practically see the lightbulb turning on over his head.
"The money's your idea, then, not hers," Jim said.
Shit. "Obviously."
"Your plan is to admit to her that I'm not Hayward."
"Unless you force my hand," said Zack, bluffing shamelessly.
Jim's shoulders squared up a little. "You know what? I don't see you doing that to her, Zack. I don't see you putting a sister you care about through any more agony. It's a paradox, isn't it? You're here because you want to protect her, and you could easily be sent packing because ... you want to protect her."
"Try sending me packing," Zack growled. "And see what happens."
Jim's face assumed a thoughtful, pensive look: he was working the angles, as he always did. His brows came down as he chewed on his lip, the perfect picture of a banker trying to decide whether or not the applicant should get the loan.
"Here's what I can do," he said at last. "I can give you a hundred thousand by the end of the week. The rest, within a month. I just can't do better than that. I've got a wife and a son to think about."
He did have a family, legitimate or not; even Zack saw that. A great wife and a good kid. Zack could well understand why a man, even a slimebag like Jim, wouldn't want to endanger that.
"Just give me the money," he agreed, almost wearily. "I want the first hundred thousand in ten separate cashiers' checks, ten grand each. I'll stay on the job on Sheldon Street for the next couple of weeks, just in case you get any funny ideas about the balance."
Jim didn't like that plan at all. His brows came down again, this time in a scowl. "No deal. You'll get the rest of the money. I give you my word."
"Yeah, right, your word," Zack said without bothering to hide his contempt. "As I said: I'll stay on the job."
There didn't seem to be much else to negotiate, so Zack indulged himself in a thin smile and said to his brother-in- law, "Don't get up. I'll let myself out."
****
It was late by the time they got sheets on their new bed, but neither of them was able to sleep. Wendy couldn't bring herself to draw the drapes across the moonlit water and instead lay in a state of happy exhaustion, gazing at the shimmering ripples on the sea while random inspirations about her mother's birthday party came and went.
Jim, on the other hand, seemed unable to find a good position, tossing and turning and ending up hopelessly tangled in the antique linens that Gracie Ferro had given them as a housewarming gift.
Wendy said knowingly, "You threw your back out, didn't you? Do you want me to get the rubbing alcohol?"
"No ... no, I'm fine," Jim mumbled into his pillow. He punched it up and threw his shoulder back into it with the force of a sumo wrestler, then sighed deeply and flipped onto his back again.
"Wendy," he said to the ceiling.
"Mm ... what?"
"You do like it here, don't you?"
Surprised by the question, she said, "It's wonderful. Ty is so happy. We should have moved out right away. The whole addition project will be so much pleasanter now." She shifted onto her side and propped herself up on her elbow. "I was wrong," she admitted with a gentle poke in his ribs. "And you were right."
He didn't answer at first, which also surprised her; he loved to crow whenever she apologized. His tone became even more grave as he said, "Can you see yourself living here—or on Sheldon, or anywhere else—without me?"
Cancer. It was the first thought, the only thought, that flashed through her mind. It explained so much: his moodiness, his desperate need to have everything at once, his paranoia every time she answered the phone. Of course he was paranoid; he'd been dreading some doctor at the other end!
She lifted herself up so that she hovered over him, supported by the palms of her hands. She could scarcely hear her voice over the thundering of her heart. "I don't want to live somewhere without you. Why are you asking me that?"
When he didn't answer, she said in a pleading voice, "Tell me, Jim, please! I'm your wife. I want to be here for you. Tell me; I can handle it!"
He started to say something, but it got carried away on his sigh. "I will, Wen. With any luck ... I will."
Her voice moved from bedtime whisper to high-pitched protest. "What does luck have to do with it?" she demanded, aware, even in her panic, that Tyler was now far enough down the hall not to hear. She had the luxury to shout if she wanted to, and that's just what she wanted to do. "Why can't you tell me?"
"Because of, of ... there may be nothing to tell," he said, stumbling over his words. He sounded as mystified as she was.
"Don't put me off, I want to know now," she insisted, pushing herself up to a kneeling position. She hovered over him, desperate to know what he was hiding. "You can't keep doing this to me, stringing me along like this! It's not right! You said that when we moved here—"
"We've been here a couple of hours!"
"—you'd tell me. Tell me what it is that's eating you, Jim. Are you sick? Is there something wrong with you, something frightening you? Do you have cancer?"
Her husband was sitting up now, too. He took her by her shoulders and said, "Shh, shh, they can hear you on Sheldon, for God's sake. Calm down, Wendy. There's nothing wrong with me, I'm not sick, I don't have cancer. Why does everything always have to be cancer with you?"
"Then what? Are you having an affair?" she blurted.
Besides cancer, what else was there? He couldn't be bankrupt.
"I am absolutely not having an affair," he said with hushed vehemence. "I haven't looked at another woman since I married you. Geez, how can you even ask?"
He was keeping her pinned in position; she had to struggle to get free of him. In her effort, she heard a tear in the fabric behind her; the antique sheets were more antique than they looked. It made her spirit recoil and fueled her anger.
"If you're not going to tell me," she said, scrambling out of bed, "then I'm sleeping in one of the other bedrooms you were so desperate for us to have. Damn it, Jim!"
She grabbed her pillow and snatched up her robe from the foot of the bed, but Jim went around and intercepted her. "Okay, look, look ... cut it out, will you?" he begged. "We don't need this on our first night here. If I give you at least the big picture, will you come back to bed?"
"I'm not promi
sing anything," she said, clutching her pillow.
"Okay. All right. I can see that." He sat at the foot of the tall-post bed and studied the floor, apparently composing his thoughts.
"This happened before I ever met you," he admitted in a low murmur without looking up. "Over two years before. I did something I'm not very proud of."
"What? What did you do?" she asked, wildly sick of his vagaries. When he didn't answer right away, she said, "Most people do things they're not very proud of. Did you break the law?"
"No."
He didn't sound grave so much as he sounded simply confused. It couldn't have been that terrible a deed, Wendy decided.
"Well, then what are you worried about? That I won't forgive you?"
Again he looked up. His red hair was disheveled, tumbling over his forehead; his smooth torso was bare. In that light, he still looked like the youthful, bike-riding, irresponsible bad boy who had instantly earned Gracie Ferro's seal of disapproval—except that he seemed in real agony now.
"If you did that ... if you ever stopped loving me," he said in a choked voice, "I'd jump off the nearest bridge."
His words, his look, melted her heart; it was impossible to stay angry at someone who so clearly wanted forgiveness. If only she knew what she was supposed to forgive him for. She let out a sigh that had him at once rising to his feet and embracing her.
"Wendy, sweet, sweet darling, I love you," he said in her ear. "You know that I love you ... I could never hurt you, never ... it kills me when I've caused you pain. You know that I love you," he insisted between kisses to her temple, her jaw, the tender place where her neck curved into her shoulder. He seemed to be everywhere at once, electrifying her with every soft, sizzling touch, leaving burning paths between kisses.
If her sigh wasn't forgiveness, the moan that followed it certainly was. She didn't care about something he'd done in the distant past. She did not, and her moan was an admission of it. As long as he loved her, as long as he wanted her.
Something about the night, the moon, their beautifully strange surroundings, made her feel as if he weren't her husband at all, but some man she'd met in the park and had taken back home with her. She felt uniquely aroused. When he kissed her, she kissed him back, harder and deeper than she had in a long time.
Sand Castles Page 9
