by Mary Campisi
She sipped her wine and acknowledged the last possibility was perhaps the truest. What did it matter? Her life had always been about being forgotten, neglected, left out. Even the one time she’d thought she mattered to someone had ended in disaster and betrayal. She didn’t mind being alone, would rather spend time with herself than fabricating niceties to get through a dinner or an occasion with a stranger she neither liked nor cared about. She had her work, her books, her flowers, her friends. There was no point adding family in that last thought because they weren’t there for her, had never been there for her, not even when she was a lonely child, struggling with self-doubt and weight issues. In fact, a therapist would probably pin them as being responsible for the self-doubt and the weight. What child wanted to hear she wasn’t cute enough, thin enough, clever enough? What child wanted her mother to say she wished she could be more like her cousin, the one the whole town knew was a slut?
The Servetti clan did not value intelligence, loyalty, or integrity. They were interested in shiny things that drew attention—people’s good looks, flashy personalities, and cleverness, even if those attributes fizzled in the bleariness of daylight. As for their only daughter, Carmen and Marie Servetti were only interested in her when they needed money or a signature on a loan. She hadn’t seen them in six weeks, even though Carmen Servetti worked at the auto body shop five minutes from Gina’s job at Magdalena General Hospital. It had stopped mattering so much a long time ago.
“Gina?”
She jumped at the sound of the male voice, splashing wine on her shorts. “Damn. Who’s out there?”
“Ben Reed.” The voice grew closer. “I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
“What?” She stood and swiped a hand across the wet spots on her shorts. “How did you find me?”
He moved up the steps, his large frame illuminated by scraps of moon. “I’m on the police force, remember? I can find anybody in this town.”
“I do not appreciate the fact that you used the benefits of your job to gain personal access to private information.” What possible reason could Ben Reed have for waltzing into her backyard, invading her privacy, peeking into her life?
“Consider it a shortcut. You’re in the phone book and searchable online. If you’d been unlisted or unsearchable, I might have reconsidered coming here.” He paused, held out a bottle of wine. “Vintage merlot, the best Sal’s Market had to offer.”
“I already have wine.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you can show me the kitchen and I’ll uncork this one so we’ll both have a glass.”
She didn’t miss the half second of awkwardness filtering through his words. Bet that was a first. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here but it’s late and I was relaxing, so…” Surely he could figure out the rest. Leave, leave now.
“I need your help.”
Ah. So this wasn’t about saying hello or sharing a glass of wine. This was about Ben Reed needing something. Now that made a lot more sense. She should ignore the comment and send him on his way, but curiosity and manners won out. “How could I possibly help you?”
“How about wine first, questions later?”
She tried to control her annoyance but the man knew how to agitate her without even trying. “When a person barges in on another person, he usually forfeits the right to make demands and suggestions.”
His voice dipped, filled with humor. “Unless the other person takes pity on the intruder’s parched lips and grants him one last wish. Come on, Gina, what’s one glass of wine?”
She should have known better than to trust the man. He didn’t talk about the real reason for his visit until he’d almost finished his entire glass of wine and poured another. Sitting at the kitchen table. In her house. It was a stretch to say he’d been invited but he didn’t seem to notice her reticence toward him, or her annoyance. If she’d had her way, he’d have remained on the deck while she retrieved a glass and a wine opener, but he’d pulled a folded piece of paper from his back jeans pocket and told her he needed light to read his notes, and that meant inside her house unless she handed him a flashlight, which she considered.
Why did people think they had a right to invade another person’s life? Gina preferred her own company and her own thoughts, unless she was with her friends. Tess, Christine, and she guessed even Bree provided a welcome diversion and a safe place to talk about things that mattered. Bree tended to go off kilter, but lately she’d been less “cotton-candy sweet” and more subdued. Who wouldn’t be subdued after what she’d been through? Damn that Brody Kinkaid.
Ben Reed set his wine glass on the table, retrieved the paper from his back pocket, and scanned the contents.
“What’s that?”
He glanced up and threw her a smile that she was sure was meant to be charming. It might have worked if she’d been one to succumb to such antics. But she wasn’t. And the hitch in her breath had more to do with the pepper she’d eaten at dinner and less to do with a good-looking man and his smile. “Let’s call it a cheat sheet for the residents of Magdalena.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “In the city, you don’t have to know people’s names, much less their dogs’ names. By the way, Mrs. Olsteroff’s Lab, Marjorie, had ACL surgery this morning and is recovering quite nicely.”
Gina stifled a smile. “Mrs. Olsteroff is very attached to Marjorie. She found her two years ago, right after her husband took off. The dog was all bones with her ribs sticking out, an eye infection, and a bad gash on her shoulder. Scared of everything, even birthday candles.”
“Do I dare ask how you know that?”
“Birthday party.”
“I see.”
He said it like he didn’t see at all. “Marjorie is like Mrs. Olsteroff’s child. She never had any of her own, so it all worked out.”
“Sure did. The old man takes off and the dog gets the kingdom.”
Gina shook her head. “Not exactly, but animals can help people in more ways than the obvious. Marjorie gave Mrs. Olsteroff purpose.”
“Purpose.” He rolled the word around on his tongue as though it were foreign and sour.
“Yes. Purpose.” She tried to glance at the words on the paper but she was too far away. “So, now you know about Mrs. Olsteroff and Marjorie.”
He reached for a pen and marked the paper. “Checking off Mrs. Olsteroff. How about Jeremy Dean? What’s his story?”
“What do you mean?” Jeremy was a nice boy who had no business near a gun or a desk. He belonged in a kitchen, creating recipes and filling bellies. If she told Ben Reed the boy only signed up to please his father, he might hold it against the boy.
“Jeremy belongs in a police department about as much as Mrs. Olsteroff’s dog does.”
Gina toyed with the base of her wine glass, pretending great interest in it. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s obvious. The kid’s not interested. I picked that up within five minutes of meeting him.”
“Maybe.” She would not tell him he was dead on, or that Jeremy snuck away to Lina’s Café a few times a week to try out new recipes on her customers. Most of the town knew about it—except for Jeremy’s father—but they wouldn’t dare breathe a world about it. A secret was a secret until the owner chose to reveal it.
“If he doesn’t like it, he should quit and find something else.”
She sipped her wine and said, “Have you ever risked going against your parents to do something you knew they wouldn’t like?” She’d done it when she headed to college and later, when she returned and bought her own house and refused her mother’s matchmaking attempts. Marie Servetti believed the worst cross in life was to be alone.
“My parents are dead.”
“Oh.” A spurt of sympathy trickled through her. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “Don’t be.”
She thought he might say more, but he didn’t. The brackets around his mouth and the coldness in his voice did, however, say quite a bit. Even to someone like herself, who was
not good at reading people or their emotions, his reaction said he had issues with his dead parents.
“What about Mimi Pendergrass?”
“What about Mimi?” She didn’t feel right talking about these people as though they were being prepped for dissection. It was one thing to grow up here and know the good and bad of the town, but for an outsider to come in and attempt to pick apart their lives, well, that didn’t sit well.
“I’d like to know more about her. She’s one strong woman, but there’s a sadness about her that creeps in every once in a while and I’m trying to figure that out.”
“Why?” Of course there was a sadness about the poor woman. She’d lost a teenage son in an auto accident, buried a husband and a brother, and mourned the loss of a daughter she hadn’t seen or heard from in years. No one knew the details about that last one and no one dared ask. Still, Mimi never complained. Some said they spotted her at her son’s gravesite every Sunday, on her knees, head bent in prayer. It wasn’t Gina’s place to tell him any of this, especially the part about the gravesite or the estranged daughter.
Ben sighed his annoyance. “I like the woman. I just want to know her backstory.”
“I don’t think so. If Mimi wants to tell you, she will.”
“Come on, Gina, help me out here. You could make this transition a lot smoother if you gave me the inside scoop on these people.”
“Maybe. But it feels like gossip, and I don’t gossip.”
“Oh, for the love of…” He shook his head and uncorked the wine bottle. “Can’t you consider it information sharing?”
Was the man serious? “Not when I’m doing all the sharing and you’re doing all the gathering.”
That made him smile. He was probably used to women giving him anything he asked for; maybe he didn’t even have to ask, maybe they just gave it away: information, secrets, their bodies. She coughed and almost spewed her wine on that last thought.
“You okay?” He stood and moved toward her, but she held up a hand to stop him.
“Fine.” It fell out like a croak, but two coughs later, she cleared her throat and repeated, “Fine.”
He refilled her glass, then his own, choosing to lean against the sink, a few feet away. The man didn’t fit in her kitchen; he was too big and the kitchen was too small, but he didn’t seem uncomfortable. No, she was the one who was uncomfortable. When was the last time a man was in her kitchen? It didn’t take long to remember: three months ago when Herb Carey fixed her garbage disposal.
“How about we come to an agreement? You give me as much information about the people in this town as you’re comfortable with, and if I ask something you can’t or don’t want to answer, you simply say pass.”
That was the most one-sided agreement she’d ever heard. Ben Reed had laid it all out for her with his “stay in your comfort zone” spiel, but what was he offering her? She was the one doing him a favor, and a big one. If he didn’t want answers so much, he’d never have come to her. “Why didn’t you go to Cash with your questions? He’s your friend and I’d think he’d give you what you want.”
He cleared his throat and shook his head. “Cash can’t see much past his new wife, and besides, I don’t think Tess much likes me.”
“Oh?” Gina lifted a brow and let that single word sink in his brain. “Do you think it has anything to do with the fact that you brought your cousin here? A woman Tess knew nothing about?”
He pinned her with his blue eyes. “I never even knew Tess existed, and I doubt my cousin did either. Cash and I didn’t talk about the past,” he paused, “or our women.”
Women, as in more than one. That was not a welcome visual and one she’d just as soon erase. She stared back at him, let her voice mirror her distaste. “You almost cost him the woman he loved.”
His gaze narrowed, zeroed in on hers in a flash of emotion. Anger? Despair? Sadness? And then the look was gone. “Yeah,” he said, his voice a mix of calm and resignation. “Lucky for everyone things worked out.”
Did he really mean that? Did he know anything about relationships, especially ones between a man and a woman that involved commitment, maybe even love? Doubtful. She’d peg him for more of a short-term parking kind of guy, the kind she found absolutely disgusting.
“So, do we have an agreement? I ask questions, you answer when you want or say pass when you don’t.”
“You’re a crafty one, Ben Reed.” She crossed her arms over her chest, wishing she weren’t wearing a ten-year-old T-shirt with paint stains on the shoulder. “What am I getting out of this, other than indigestion at the thought of your questions?”
He laughed and slid her a smile. “My company isn’t enough?”
“No, definitely not.” Though she could see where some women might disagree. Okay, most women would disagree. But not her. Thank goodness she was composed of sturdy, practical DNA and was not about to succumb to a handsome face and a nice set of biceps.
“Fine.” He straightened and made his way to the fridge, opened it, and peered inside. “I’ll cook you dinner.” He closed the fridge and sighed. “You can’t live on Greek yogurt and chocolate-covered pretzels.”
“I’m not living on—” she stopped, glared at him “—how did you know about the pretzels?” She kept them in the freezer, behind the packages of kale and spinach. “Were you looking in my freezer?” She’d gone to the bathroom and had hesitated leaving him unattended but hadn’t really thought he’d go snooping around her kitchen.
He shrugged and pretended great interest in the napkin holder resting on her counter. “I wanted an ice cube for my wine and I spotted the bag of pretzels.”
The man was ridiculous and he was a liar. Well, she was having none of it. Gina closed the distance between them in three seconds. “You spotted them buried behind the kale and spinach? Hardly.”
When he looked at her, she thought she saw remorse, but whether it was because he’d offended her or merely because he’d been caught was hard to say. “I’m sorry. I was just curious.”
“Curious? About me? Why?” She didn’t want him to be curious about her; she didn’t want him to think of her at all.
“Damned if I know.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and said, “I guess I find you intriguing, like a puzzle.”
“You need to leave.”
His gaze darkened. “I really am sorry. I was out of line.” He held out a hand and said, “Can we start over? Ben Reed, nice to meet you.”
Gina ignored him and his outstretched hand. “You came to my house, uninvited, I might add, asked for information on the residents of this town, some of whom might not be thrilled to have their life stories shared, and then, when I leave the room for two minutes, you rifle through my freezer? And lie about it?”
The outstretched hand slipped back into his pocket. “Look, I said I’m sorry, and I am. I shouldn’t have done that and I shouldn’t have lied about it.”
She looked up at him, narrowed her gaze on his. “But you did. And now I’d like you to leave.” She snatched the paper from the table and handed it to him. “Here. Find someone else to spit out information for you because I’m not doing it.”
***
The roses arrived the next day. Twelve of them. Blood red. Forgive-me-red. I-really-am-sorry-red.
No one had ever sent Gina flowers, unless she counted the bouquet a twelve-year-old patient brought from his mother’s garden. The note accompanying the roses was bold and direct, like the man who’d sent them.
I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.
Did he mean the snooping or the lying? Or both? She could send a response to him at the Heart Sent with a comment that read, You’re right, it won’t happen again. Good-bye, Ben Reed. That’s what she should do. That’s what she’d intended to do from the second Mick Hastings stepped out of the delivery truck and handed her the box. But once she opened it and smelled the delicious scent of roses, her brain clogged and she couldn’t send them back.
No one had ever sent her r
oses before and for just a little while, she wanted to enjoy them, pretend they came from someone who truly cared about her; someone who loved her, and not a man she barely knew.
***
Harry stepped out of his Jaguar and headed toward Lina’s Café. One day soon, he expected Greta might gently “suggest” a more kid-friendly vehicle, one that didn’t require special maintenance, with a sound system that cost more than her old car. And maybe he’d cave and buy something more practical. Hell, he’d done a lot of caving these past several months, starting with the move to Magdalena, though he’d already been half in before she began hard-selling him on the idea. He missed Chrissie and liked the idea of seeing her more than once every four months. A place like this was good for kids, too, and now that they’d factored into his life, he had to consider more than just what he wanted. Gone were the days of glass and chrome and uniformed doormen. They’d been replaced by hardwood, extra bedrooms, and land. He sucked in a fresh breath of mountain air and let it fill his lungs. Magdalena wasn’t Chicago, but it was growing on him. And the people? Well, they belonged in a family drama, categorized under Interesting Characters.
He opened the door to Lina’s and fell back twenty years. The Formica tabletops, the red vinyl booths, the pastries in a glass case, even Phyllis, the head waitress with her up-do and gum snapping. Harry grinned at her and said, “Did you save any of that peach pie for me?”
She pointed to a dish covered in tin foil behind the counter. “All ready for you, Harry. Just needs a few secs in the microwave and a dollop or two of ice cream.”
