The Superstitious Romance

by Anastasia Alexander

  “No lectures,” Camille said, her jaw clenching.

  Jackson stopped and gazed down at her. “I’m just trying to help.” He lifted his hat and ran his hand through his unkempt hair.

  Camille wrinkled her nose. Why had she ever thought this man attractive? He stunk almost as bad as she did.

  “Pardon my appearance. I’ve been working on my truck. It—has an oil leak. Ain’t leakin’ no more.”

  “Isn’t,” Camille corrected, instinctively.

  “No lectures,” he said.

  “One should always use correct grammar. How we speak reflects who we are.”

  “Spoken like a true educated snob.” Jackson strode ahead of her in complete confidence, as though he hadn’t just launched a verbal bomb.

  Adam had often played warfare like that. Brutal attacks, then complete innocence, staring in shock that she was upset. He would deny ever saying anything, much less something so mean. “What do you take me for anyway?” he’d asked once. “A heartless brute?” The memories, the layers of years of hurt from swallowing the attacks raged in Camille. No more would she tolerate the name-calling, the picking, the pecking at her identity.

  “You can leave now,” she roared at Jackson. “I don’t need your help after all.”

  “Sure thing, lady. You’re the one that’ll be stuck in the storm. Do you want to hop into the bed of my truck?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have a choice. Either get in or you’ll be stuck in this storm, and believe me, it won’t be pretty.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  “Mom!” Darlene cried.

  “Very well then.” He took off in his truck down the road, leaving them in a cloud of dust.

  Her daughter turned to her and screeched, “How could you do that?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.” She breathed deeply, trying to calm herself. “It’d be stupid to put ourselves at his mercy. There are too many rapes and murders today for us to take chances.”

  “You could’ve at least let him fix our tire. Now what are we going to do?”

  “Walk.”

  A few sprinkles fell on their heads. “But the storm,” Darlene said.

  “We’ll have to be pioneers or Indians and just plow through it. Let’s get our groceries and go.”

  Her sweater had fallen close to the car, and the smell made Camille’s stomach want to revolt. She remembered her weevil-infested oatmeal and slammed the door shut, turning in time to see a black feral cat crawl out of the forest. Of all the days to run into a black cat! With the skunk she’d lost every bit of reserved strength, and now she was freezing and smelly.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” she said to herself. The cat approached, his green eyes staring through her. “I know, I know,” Camille said. “You’re a British black cat?”

  “Why British?” Darlene, who had rounded the back of the car, asked and stopped when she spotted the cat.

  “Because to the British, a black cat represents good luck.”

  A loud ripple of thunder echoed across the mountain range. The sprinkles grew into quarter-size drops. “American cat, I tell you,” Camilled said, stifling a sob. “And on Halloween too.”

  Camille wondered what more problems seeing the black cat on Halloween might bring. What else could possibly go wrong?

  Chapter Four

  That long-ago day had been hot, sultry, and thick with mirage from the blazing sun. On those type of days there was only one thing for a teenage boy in Colorado to do, and that was to dive deep into the dark canal, emerging revitalized. Only one problem stood in Jackson’s way: his mother. He was sixteen, almost a man, and his mom thought she had control over him, his life, and everything he did. Her fear of misfortune had grasped hold of the family, choking them like a madman, squeezing out the last air bubbles of life. Three years previously, his dad could handle it no longer and gasped for air by leaving her and his two sons.

  His father’s desertion only made his mother more controlling and more caught up in her paranoid belief that fate waited to pounce on her and her family. Swimming in the canal was too risky—at least, that was the way his mom looked at it. That was why Jackson and his brother, Billy, were sneaking out of the house to do what every other kid on the block did with their parents’ blessing.

  “Where do you two think you’re going?” his mom had asked when she caught them at the side door. Her jaw clenched, making her chin look sharper than normal.

  “Swimmin’.”

  “No.”

  Jackson, not being one to be discouraged easily and knowing the power of his charm, said, “Don’t worry, Ma.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek and playfully snapped his beach towel at her legs. But this time his mom would have no fooling; instead she clasped onto his shoulder and said, “It’s Friday the Thirteenth. No good comes with tempting fate. Don’t do it, Jackson. Don’t sneak behind my back, thinking you’re pulling the wool over my eyes. You don’t want to be responsible for what could happen.”

  “Ma, no one believes in that stuff, ’cept you.”

  “It doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

  He grew angry. “You’re too uptight about things. Always worrying, smothering us with your fears.” It had been a mean thing to say. His father had often said that behind closed doors, especially toward the end of their marriage, late at night when his parents thought he and his brother slept.

  His mother slapped Jackson, then stormed out to the backyard. Jackson turned to his brother and tried to laugh the scene off. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Buuuut, what about Mom?” Billy’s face flushed. He liked to coddle their mother.

  Their mom hadn’t been the only one hurt by their dad’s departure, and Jackson wouldn’t play the “protect Mommy and do whatever she says because she’s been hurt enough” game. “Are you a cluck-cluck-cluck?” He flapped his arms like they were wings.

  “I’m no chicken. It’s just that—”

  “You know you can’t beat me,” Jackson sneered. “That’s why you’re chickening out.”

  “Shut up,” Billy snapped.

  Jackson could tell he had gotten to him, but he had to act fast before his brother thought out the situation more clearly. He grabbed the towel he’d dropped on the floor and snapped it at Billy with the same flare he had used on their mother. “Too bad you lost your chance to jumpstart on the race,” he said, taking off to the canal. He heard Billy behind him. Jackson glanced around and could tell he had aggravated his little brother from the way he tore after him. This race had promise, and Jackson knew he’d have to give it his all to maintain his bragging rights. It wasn’t long before both boys treaded through the brown, cool, bug-filled water, trying to beat each other across.

  * * *

  Camille’s refusal to ride back to the cabin with Jackson struck a nerve. It was almost as if she knew his crime and judged him to be no good. Not the type she would ride with even if she were stranded miles away from her cabin with her daughter and the reality of a mean storm on its way.

  The light sprinkles of rain he had left her standing in had increased to a downpour. He switched the windshield wipers on and then hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “Damn that woman,” he said aloud. He flipped on the radio and searched for a station, but the storm distorted the frequency. He snapped off the radio.

  Should he turn around? The ruts in the road made up his mind for him. He was in a rut all right. Every time he tried to do anything nice where a female was concerned, he fell in deeper. Better to avoid them. Besides, women brought pain much worse than the jolts from the potholes. A picture of his ex-wife’s beautifully deceptive face, with her china doll features, flashed into his mind. Why did she leave him? He remembered the sick feeling in his gut so vividly as he had begged her once more to explain as she exited their door for the last time.

  She had released her grip on the knob, glanced at him, then cast her emerald gaze to the floor. In a low, strained tone, she asked, “Do y
ou really want to know?” He had nodded. “Fine, I’ll tell you. Jaxy, you would never dream of not using American cheese on your noodles. It’s like you haven’t heard of Swiss cheese.”

  “Cheese? What does cheese have to do with it?”

  “You’re so predictable. You look at a bag of chips and try to decide the best way to open it to avoid a spill. I want someone spontaneous enough to rip it open from the bottom without thinking.”

  “Give me a chance.”

  “It wouldn’t be natural for you. I don’t know what I thought I’d be getting when I entered this relationship.” She shook her head, causing her blond hair to bounce. He longed to run his hands through the silky locks, pull her close, and make her his. Maybe it would—

  “It’s not only that,” she added. “It’s the way you try to rule me. You made me have a child when you knew I didn’t want one.”

  How could she accuse him of that? “But . . . I thought . . . you love him.”

  “You don’t meet my emotional needs, either—always pulling away, running into the cave, or whatever the psychologists call it now.” Maggie tugged her purse strap back onto her shoulder. “I’m sorry, but this is for the best. I stayed until Austin was old enough. My jail term’s up.” She kissed his cheek and left. He’d heard nothing from her since—three long months.

  Jackson had heard a psychologist on the radio explaining that breaking up was harder on men than women because men needed closure. They longed to understand why relationships turned sour, and if they couldn’t logically explain it, they became obsessive. The doc was absolutely right. If only he could switch off his thoughts, his well-organized and logical arguments as to why she was wrong and why she should’ve stayed and how he was the hopeless victim.

  Now another woman flooded his thoughts: Camille Britain. She seemed so helpless—a damsel in distress. He longed, despite his better judgment, to be Sir Galahad and slip on a knight’s shining armor to rescue her and her daughter. But she, like all the other modern women he’d run into, wouldn’t let him. What had happened to the good old days when a man knew his role—to be a gentleman, protector, provider—and a woman would be flattered? He gazed into the midst of the angry thunderclouds. Camille would pay a heavy price for insisting to walk.

  The thought gave him no satisfaction.

  * * *

  Two hours passed while they walked in the howling wind and winter-scented air. Finally the dull gray gate came into view. “The gate,” Camille said, exhausted.

  “I hope this will teach you, Mom. When a nice, good-looking man tries to help you—let him.”

  Camille lifted her chin into the wind, ignoring her daughter. Muddy water splashed over her slip-on shoes, seeping through to her socks, the icy cold water soothing her foot that was now even more swollen that it had been after the accident in the garage. She glanced at her daughter’s white, glistening skin, which held a trace of goose bumps. Thick strands of wet, black hair stuck artistically onto her face, as if a painter had painstakingly placed each strand into its proper place. She wore a royal blue windbreaker, which she’d zipped to the last tooth, and her cherry red nose stuck halfway under the fabric. No wonder boys tripped over themselves to impress her. How would she stop her daughter from falling for the wrong guy like she’d done?

  “Is that the security guard?”

  Startled, Camille looked up to where her daughter pointed. A cozy pine cabin sat along the side of the gate with a dark shadow in front. “Either it’s a person or a tree.”

  “I hope it’s the security guard and that she’ll give us a ride the rest of the way home. Your bad luck spell has to end,” Darlene said. She brushed at the hair stuck to her face, ruining the painting but instantly replacing it with another masterpiece.

  “Seeing a black cat makes me doubt there’ll be an end.”

  “You’re so negative,” Darlene said.

  The comment cut through Camille like a jagged knife. How many times had she heard Adam complain of the same thing? “That’s enough,” Camille said.

  “It’s true.”

  An awkward silence stretched between them as they came upon the metal gate. The distant object they hoped would be the security guard turned out to be a decaying tractor.

  “Did you remember to bring the key to the gate?” Darlene asked.

  The key. It was back in the car on the side of the road, miles away. She had remembered to grab the key to the cabin, but the one to the gate had been on a separate ring. “We’ll have to climb.”

  It wasn’t until Camille was almost over the gate that a jolting pain shot through her back, causing her body to stiffen. She fell, dazed.

  “Mom! Are you okay?” Darlene sounded panicked.

  “Yeah. I think so.” Camille managed, but she didn’t actually think she could stand up.

  “I’ll get help. Nope!” Darlene held up a finger. “Don’t even tell me no.”

  “I was just going to say to hurry,” Camille lied.

  Darlene flagged down the next car that passed and had the man carry Camille to the Westguards’s cabin. As the man carried Camille, he commented that she looked like a frozen Popsicle. A humiliated Popsicle, Camilled thought when the story of the skunk and the flat tire came out.

  The Westguards existed quite well without a car, apparently, so a ride home wasn’t possible, but they did know what would help with the stink—betadine. They also gave her a lecture on what a peaceful animal a skunk was—how they only squirted at danger and that they lifted their tail or stomped their feet in warning before that. Camille was too achy and cold to care much about anything, but Mrs. Westguard must have thought Camille was uncomfortable because she said, “You do know that people make perfume out of the skunk’s liquid.” Camille groaned as she thought back to Jackson and the effort he had made earlier to cheer her up. She’d have to apologize.

  After Camille took care of her smell as much as she could and caught her breath, she decided she’d imposed on the Westguards enough, though the wind still howled and the cozy cabin creaked under its blast. Camille forced her chilled-to-the bone limbs to move, trudging through the weather. The rain had finally lessened to a light sprinkle and then stopped as they approached the cabin, the heavy gray cloud cover lifting its shroud off the ground and revealing a golden glow of a sun that already hung low in the sky. The peaceful view made Camille feel slightly better despite the day, which had been almost entirely wasted.

  Once inside the cabin, her peace was ruined. Moving boxes waited to be emptied, and clutter was scattered throughout the small cabin, but the most upsetting sight was a pile of bread crumbs on the dining room table that could have only been made by their unwelcome guest, the squirrel. “Darlene, would you please put the Mason jar in the corner and see if that’ll really work?”

  Darlene did so without comment, for which Camille was grateful.

  When a sudden movement caught her attention, Camille looked up toward her daughter and saw a tail disappearing around the corner of the kitchen wall. “Quick! Guard that side of the room so I can drive him head-on into the bottle.”

  The squirrel stayed along the wall. After ten minutes of maneuvering, they chased him into the bottle, the squirrel screaming in high-pitched wails.

  “I’m not taking that jar out,” Darlene yelled. “No way.”

  That left Camille with no choice. She squared her shoulders and said, “I’ll do it.”

  “What if it bites?” Darlene asked. “What if it is a carrier of all sorts of germs? What if you get some deadly disease and die because he bit you? What if—”

  Camille closed her eyes. Holding firmly to the wiggling jar, she hurried outside and tipped the Mason bottle, causing one foot to dangle out, then another foot, and at last a head. The creature scurried away.

  “Way to go, Mom! You scared it half to death. He won’t be dumb enough to mess with you again.”

  With a smile, Camille patted her daughter on the shoulder. “Since I got the creature, you get to do the s
terilizing.”

  The way Darlene’s nose wrinkled in disgust was much like Adam’s expression when he was frustrated. Camille couldn’t shake that image as she filled the tub with hot water. I won’t worry about that, she thought, pushing it from her mind.

  It wasn’t long before iridescent bubbles floated through the small bathtub. She rested her head against the rim of the tub and closed her eyes, refusing to think of anything but the water on her aching body. When the water cooled, she let some out and filled it up with hot water again, not wanting to leave the room that had become her sanctuary from a really rotten day. She’d just started dozing when her peace was interrupted by a loud crashing sound. Hurried footsteps moved across the cabin toward the front. “Mom! There’s a truck wrapped around that tree out back by the road. You better come see.”

  Quickly, Camille wrapped herself in a bathrobe and met the onslaught of Darlene and her questions as they hustled outside. “Do you think anyone’s alive? Mom, aren’t you going to see if anyone needs help?”

  A boom echoed through the trees. Both she and Darlene screamed as a large man with cowboy boots and hat came around the hood of the truck to stand in the early afternoon shadow. “Is everyone all right?” Camille called to the figure, whose features were obscured in the darkness.

  “All but Sam.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “An ambulance wouldn’t help.” He took a step away from the truck.

  Someone had died. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she rubbed her hands over them as he came closer.

  “Oh, lady, don’t cry. I’ll just get Sam to a mechanic.”

  “A mechanic?” Her voice wavered as she looked up into Jackson’s familiar face.

  “Yeah, aren’t they the people to call when your car’s sick?”

  Camille was all too aware of Jackson’s eyes looking at her face and falling down over her robe. Her hair was probably stingy and her makeup smeared—had she even put any on this morning? And why did she care how she looked around him anyway? Especially after the fight they’d had earlier.