by Mary Campisi
Her full lips pulled into a tight smile. “Let’s just say they always come back.”
“Ah.” That meant she was a rebounder and had probably been passed around a time or twenty. “But don’t you want your own man? Wouldn’t it be more satisfying than stealing someone else’s?”
She tossed a hunk of hair behind her shoulder and stared him down. “I have a voracious appetite. One man would be boring.”
He actually laughed at that one. “That’s code for ‘I’m petrified of commitment and showing my true self to another person.’ I know because that used to be me, until I met my wife.” Harry rubbed his jaw, confident in his words and his commitment to the woman who owned his heart. “My wife and kids are my world, and while it might be exciting for a span of three seconds to consider, other, ah, diversions with a younger, uninhibited partner, it would only be about the sex. And honey, the sex isn’t going to carry you very far. Once the excitement dies down, the sameness settles in, and guess what? You actually have to have a conversation with the other person. Not body language but real words, real thoughts.” He paused, added, “Real feelings. That’s when you know what you’ve got. If you can’t string three sentences together without struggling, then you’ve got a problem.”
“Maybe. Or maybe not.”
She toyed with the pendant tucked in her cleavage again, plumping up her breasts, but this time the head between Harry’s shoulders spotted the action for the game it was and ignored the ploy. He shrugged and said, “Let’s just agree to disagree, okay? One day, you might change your mind like I did. You’ll find that special someone, and then you won’t need to sample every dessert within a ten-mile radius. You’ll have your own special dessert tray, party of two.” He kind of liked that analogy, wondered if Greta might like it—when she was actually talking to him again.
“I did find my special someone.” Her voice thinned. “You even know him. It’s Nate. Nate Desantro.”
Chapter 8
Bree almost didn’t make it to her own intervention. Of course, Gina didn’t come straight out and tell Bree that’s what it was; instead, she said Christine was on her way to Tess’s with a batch of still-warm, double fudge brownies, the ones Bree loved, and wanted them to meet her there. Gina pretended it was a last-minute decision, influenced by Nate’s double fudge brownies, when in truth, the get-together had been well planned. When Gina told her friends about Bree’s near meltdown and how Ben Reed calmed her, they knew it was time to have an honest conversation with their friend. So, Christine asked Nate to make Bree’s favorite dessert, Tess offered her home as the meeting spot, and Gina planned to swing by and pick up Bree. It should have been easy; Brody never worked Wednesday nights, and tonight was Wednesday, except on this particular night, he decided to head to Willowick to look at a new truck with his buddy, which meant no babysitter and no intervention.
And that’s where Tess got very creative and asked her mother and Will Carrick if they could babysit for an hour or two. Olivia and Will Carrick married three months ago, and if ever there was a testimony to twilight love after loss, theirs was one. They’d just returned from a trip to the Grand Canyon and next February they were headed on a cruise. Olivia smiled more and Will seemed content to do anything he could to keep those smiles coming. All they wanted now were grandchildren, but both knew that might not happen. Unless you considered Henry, the rescue Lab mix who thought he was a child but didn’t quite fill in for the two-legged variety. When Tess asked if they’d babysit Bree’s children, they agreed, packed up the truck, and headed into town before the offer disappeared.
“This is the most divine brownie I have ever tasted,” Bree said, scooping up a hunk of double fudge brownie and ice cream. “D-i-v-i-n-e.” For just a second, she sounded more like the old Bree, looked more like her, too: eyes bright, face flushed, smile wide. And then the voice and the look slipped away, disintegrating with the next bite.
“We thought you’d like it,” Gina said, nibbling on a graham cracker. Of course, she’d rather eat a scoop of vanilla ice cream smothered with double fudge chocolate brownie, but the calorie difference was too big to ignore. Besides, she’d never be able to stop at one serving. She’d eye that dessert and dig through it until she’d finished off a good half of the brownies, and maybe an equal amount of ice cream, too. It was all about self-control; isn’t that what her mother told her the first time she discovered Gina in a closet eating peanut butter out of the jar? And hadn’t those comments continued, grown harsher as Gina’s middle expanded? There’d been no forgiveness for larger pants sizes or shirts that could have fit her mother and her cousin Natalie. Years of careful restraint, exercise, and planning each bite had rewarded her with an almost average figure and a number on the scale she could almost accept.
“Nate said he’ll share the recipe if you like, but I told him you prefer them this way.” Christine lifted a forkful of brownie. “Baked and delivered.”
Bree offered a half smile and shrugged. “That is so very true.”
Gina couldn’t wait any longer. “Ben Reed said you visited my house the other day.”
Bree’s head shot up, her eyes wide. “Yes, I did visit.” Her voice softened, “He’s such a gentleman. Did he tell you he took care of me? Washed my feet, cleaned up my scrapes—”
“What?” The man had mentioned nothing about feet or scrapes. Had he cleaned Bree’s feet using Gina’s pasta pot? And the dish towels? Had he dried her feet with them? “He didn’t say anything about it. Why don’t you tell us?”
Bree pushed her plate aside and looked at her friends. “I think he’s very handsome, don’t you? I mean, I know we thought he was a bit of a bully when he came to town last year with—oops—” she darted a gaze at Tess “—I’m so sorry to bring that up. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just that he did seem different from the first time we met him, and even at the wedding.”
“What about washing your feet?” Gina asked, trying to picture him performing the task, with the help of her pasta pot and dish towels.
“Oh, well, when I started walking, I didn’t know where I’d end up. Brody’s Mom had the kids and I thought I’d take a stroll around the neighborhood, so why wear shoes, right? Before I knew it, I was at Gina’s.”
That could not have been exactly accurate, seeing as Bree and Gina lived on opposite sides of town. But if Bree wanted to remember it that way, they’d let it go. For now. “And your feet got scraped and dirty and then what?”
A tiny smile slipped over Bree’s tired face. “He talked to me, all nice and soft, made me kind of sleepy.” She eyed Gina. “Don’t you think he has the kind of voice that makes you want to tell him anything?”
“No.” Why was Bree looking at her that way?
“Listen next time; he definitely does.” She sighed, toyed with a strand of strawberry-blond hair. “You are one lucky woman.”
“What? Why would you say that?” They were supposed to be talking about Bree and whatever was going on in her head, not Gina and Ben Reed’s “I can get you to tell me anything” voice. She glanced at Christine and Tess, hoping for help, but their curious expressions told her they were as interested in her answers as Bree was. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, will you stop? We’re all worried about you and all you can do is go on and on about some man who washed your feet and has a soft voice?” Speaking of the man, she couldn’t wait to ask him if he’d ever heard of washing a person’s feet in the bathtub, or even a bucket, like the one in the garage.
Bree paled, picked at a fingernail. “Why are you worried about me? I’m fine.”
“Right. Nobody who walks across town in her bare feet and doesn’t even know she’s doing it is fine. What’s Brody done this time? Is he still on the I-want-another-baby routine?”
Bree’s lips quivered and she looked away.
“Oh, Bree.” Christine touched her arm. “Will you let us talk to him? Please? You need time to grieve the loss of your baby. It’s only been a few months.”
“I kn
ow, but Brody says the shelf life of my eggs is dwindling, seeing as I’m over thirty and all.”
Damn that man and his insensitivity. Gina clenched her jaw and said, “Shelf life has nothing to do with it when you aren’t mentally ready or recovered.”
“These things take time.” Tess weighed in, her voice soft, sorrowful. She might not even have a shelf life to dwindle. Their friend had one ovary and a questionable reproductive system that might not give her a baby. And yet, she and Cash were dealing with this sadness, accepting it as best they could, planning for contingencies like adoption and fostering if they couldn’t have children of their own.
Bree’s eyes glistened with tears. “What happens if I can’t have any more children? How will Brody ever handle that?”
She meant because the brute didn’t have a boy. Gina snatched a hunk of brownie, stuffed it in her mouth, and chewed. Why did Bree insist on selling out her own sex? Women were strong, powerful, capable. They were not inferior or weaklings. Why couldn’t Bree understand that? Gina grabbed another hunk of brownie, lifted it to her mouth…and caught her friends staring at her. She set the brownie on the napkin beside her and shrugged. “Emotional trigger, I guess.”
“I’m sorry, Gina.” Bree reached over and patted her hand. “Please do not let my turmoil send you over the edge and back to the way you used to be.” She sniffed. “I couldn’t stand to think I was the cause of that. I truly couldn’t.”
“I know. I’m fine.” Despite her pain and sorrow, Bree remained the eternal drama queen.
“Are you worried Brody won’t love you as much if you can’t have more children?” Tess asked.
“Sort of.” Bree sniffed again. “We had a deal. I owe him babies, at least three more.” She paused, swiped at her eyes. “And a boy.”
“Bree, are you for real?” Gina tried to keep her voice even, but the irritation spilled over into her words.
“What’s wrong with a plan?”
“Nothing’s wrong with a plan,” Tess said, quietly. “But you can’t always control the plan. Sometimes things happen, bad things, and you have to make the decision to adjust and adapt, or give up and wither inside.”
“Tess is right,” Christine said. “We all have choices, not someone else’s, but ours. Do you agree, Bree?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Okay.” Christine gentled her voice. “I have a question for you. Do you want more children? I don’t want to know if Brody does, because the whole town knows that answer. What I want to know is if you, Bree Kinkaid, want more children.”
The truth filtered through the room long before Bree spoke, seeping from the slump of her shoulders, to the tears rimming her eyes, to the tremble of her lips, and finally, to the catch in her breath. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t want more children.”
***
When Ben arrived at work the next morning, the police chief handed him a stack of fliers and said, “School starts next week and every year we send reminders out about crosswalks and pedestrian and vehicle rules. I want you to head downtown and hand these out to the storeowners. Ask them to post them in their windows and at the register.” He made a sound with his tongue that sounded like a cluck and said, “New-guy duties.” Then he walked away, whistling, leaving Ben with the fliers and an attitude.
Hand out fliers? The chief had been delegating crap jobs to him all week. Visit Lottie Germaine, a senior with a bad hip, and check the contents of her fridge. Make sure she has eggs, milk, cheese, one head of broccoli, and bananas. Play parking meter cop and hand out tickets to offenders whose meter time had expired. Check park benches for vagrants. What vagrants? In a town like this, someone would open their door and give the person a meal and a bed before letting them get picked up on a hacked-up charge like that. Ben wouldn’t be surprised if he got toilet-paper pickup duty when the next third Monday rolled around. These were definitely not sergeant duties, but according to Rudy Dean, a sergeant’s duties were what the police chief said they were. Jerk.
Jeremy didn’t like his father’s antics and neither did the rest of the staff, if the scowls and comments they made behind the police chief’s back were an indication. Still, no one dared confront the man. He sat behind his big desk and barked out assignments and criticism without regard to personal situations, abilities, or effort. Jeremy said his father was in the army back in the day, had wanted Jeremy to enlist, too, but the boy’s mother pitched a fit, said her son didn’t possess the constitution to battle a fly, and the old man backed down. How the boy became a police officer was an interesting question and one Ben intended to ask. Maybe the parents reached a compromise: swap out the service for a police job with the father as watchdog.
Didn’t either one of them know the boy didn’t belong anywhere near a gun or a potentially dangerous situation? Apparently not.
Ben tossed the fliers onto the front seat of the cruiser and made his way downtown. It was still T-shirt and shorts weather and the street was cluttered with women and children doing last-minute “before school” shopping. He’d been hearing about it from Mimi these past few days as she told him of the sidewalk sales merchants had on Main Street, and the discounts on shoes, hair cutting, school supplies, and just about anything else you needed to get ready for that first day of school.
Great. Now the whole town could watch him look like an idiot as he passed out fliers for crosswalk etiquette. He’d called Cash and casually asked why his buddy had neglected to mention the police chief’s pain-in-the-ass disposition. There’d been a long pause and then the truth. Magdalena needed a human being in the police chief role, not a bully with a crew cut, and Cash hoped Ben would fit that role. In time.
What could he say to that? I won’t be around long enough to even think about it? No, of course not, so he clamped his mouth shut and said nothing.
“Wow. I think you’ve found your calling.”
Only one person possessed that special blend of sarcasm and dry humor. He turned and there she was, Gina Servetti staring up at him dressed in navy scrubs and navy clogs. “Hey. Impressive, huh?”
“Oh, yes. Magdalena’s finest fighting crime and criminals—” she glanced at the front of a flier “—one crosswalk at a time.”
The humor snuffed out the sarcasm, and her dark eyes lit up. She was very pretty when she smiled and the tension eased from her face. Very pretty. And that thought had absolutely nothing to do with fliers. He cleared his throat and said, “I can’t say I’ve ever been so entrenched in the educational process of the community.”
Her lips twitched. “I’ll bet.”
He grinned. “You could have warned me about Police Chief Rudy Dean.”
“I could have, but it’s a lot more fun to watch you squirming with those fliers, not your usual tough-guy assignment.”
Damn, but this woman had a mouth. He certainly couldn’t accuse her of trying to sweet-talk him. Most women buried the sarcasm when he was around, keeping it hidden until they thought they’d snared him with their bodies, as in sex. He’d bet Gina would keep that mouth going even in bed. No doubt about that. He blinked. Where the hell had that come from and how did he stop it from showing up again? Ben reached for the first thing that sifted through his brain and said, “Nice outfit.”
She glanced at the navy scrubs and scowled. “Not every woman is obsessed with looking like she’s just stepped out of a fashion magazine.” The scowl deepened. “Some women even opt for comfort.”
He laughed. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you.”
Ben was planning his next response when a woman rushed up to him, placed a hand on his arm, and said in a sultry voice, “Are you the new police sergeant?” The woman squeezed his arm, her small, designer-clad frame inching closer, her large breasts a step away from his forearm. “I am absolutely delighted to meet you. I’m Cynthia Carlisle.” She paused, added, “My father owns the car dealership in this town and four others.” When she tilted her head, waves of black curls brushed her shoulders, slithered along her back, and swirled her pe
rfume up Ben’s nose in a mix of vanilla and musk. “Everyone’s been talking about you, but nobody’s really seen you, though one of my friends spotted you running the other day.” Her voice dipped, purred. “Honest sweat and a shirtless man get me every time.”
“Really.” This from Gina. “No thoughts of handing over a bar of soap?”
The woman turned to Gina, her red-lipped smile slipping for a half second, before she recovered, pasted it back in place, and said, “Hello, Gina. My father’s walking without a cane. Nice job.” She turned back to Ben, her hand still clutching his arm. “Anyway, I’m having a get-together at the house tonight. Just a few friends.” She eyed him with a look he recognized as “hunting mode” and added, “And a few people we’d like to consider friends.” Long pause, too much eyelash batting. “Like you.”
“Well, thank you. It’s nice to know this town is interested in making friends with strangers.” He spotted Gina’s narrowed gaze and pinched lips. Any second now, she’d strike. Maybe Jeremy had been right; Gina was a viper. That thought made him smile.
“Let me give you the address and my phone number.” She released his arm and stepped back to open the flap on her purse. “Any time after 8:00 p.m. is fine. What do you like to drink?”
Wow, this woman could give him “pick up” lessons. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I’ve already got plans.”
Cynthia Carlisle’s head shot up, her green eyes a mix of confusion and disbelief. “Can’t you change them?”
Ben shook his head and slid a glance at Gina. “Sorry, can’t do that. Gina’s not big on change and I promised her dinner tonight.”
Gina waited until Cynthia Carlisle stomped away on her three-inch heels before she turned to him and hissed, “What are you doing? Do you know she’s the biggest gossip in town? She’ll tell everybody what you said.”
“So?” Why did she care what some high-society type said about her? He could tell the woman had an agenda and a daddy who never told her no.
