by Mary Campisi
“Cynthia Carlisle. She was at Kit’s Primp and Polish getting her nails done when my mom was having her hair cut. Mom said Cynthia was going on and on about how you turned down her invitation to a party to make dinner for Gina Servetti.”
“Even if I didn’t have another commitment, I wouldn’t have gone across the street with that woman. I’ve known my share of Cynthia Carlisles and every one of them is spoiled and self-centered.”
Jeremy grinned. “Ah, so you prefer the viper types. Or is it the jalapeño pepper types?”
He’d called Gina both. “I prefer either to a woman like Cynthia Carlisle.”
“Okay, I’ll remind you of that when you get bit. Or get too close to the pepper and can’t breathe.” He laughed and pointed to the brown bag on Ben’s desk. “Now how about you take a look inside? I had a hard time deciding between the pastrami and the turkey breast, so I used both. And there’s provolone, cherry tomatoes, avocado spread, leaf lettuce, and a few basil leaves to make the blend pop.”
Ben lifted the sandwich from the bag, unwrapped it, and took a bite. “This is delicious.” He took another bite, chewed. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I grew the tomatoes, basil, and lettuce. I’ve got a big garden in my backyard. You should see the zucchini I picked last night.” He held out his large hands. “Six of them, long and tender. You don’t want the big, fat ones, because they’re too tough and loaded with seeds.”
“Yeah?” Ben continued to demolish his sandwich while Jeremy relayed information about when to harvest garlic, the best soil for spinach, how the absence of sun factored in zucchini production, and even what variety of green bean grows best in a cooler climate. “So, you’re into gardening?”
A strip of red slashed the boy’s neck, spread to his cheeks. “I’m into food, especially cooking it.”
“Really? Like what?” Ben liked to play around in the kitchen, concocting marinades and dressings, mixing herbs and vinegars, adding them to chicken, steak, or vegetables, but growing the ingredients? If he couldn’t find them in the produce section of the supermarket, then he chose a different menu.
“Name it, I’ll cook it.” Jeremy leaned forward, his gaze intense, his voice soft. “What I like to do best is take a familiar recipe, maybe one my mom cooked when I was growing up, and improve on it. Macaroni and cheese, lasagna, chili, chicken parmesan, beef burgundy, pancakes, stuffed pork chops.” He grinned. “Everything.”
Ben popped the last piece of sandwich in his mouth and when he finished chewing, he laced his hands behind his head and said, “Why am I just hearing about these culinary skills now?” He’d meant to humor the boy, maybe antagonize him for not offering a gourmet sandwich before now. But the look on Jeremy’s face made Ben hold back.
The boy looked away, cleared his throat, and shrugged. “Chief’s not big on it.”
“I see.” So, Rudy Dean wasn’t “big” on it. What exactly did that mean? Did the old man hide Jeremy’s mixing bowls? Threaten to dig up the garden? Or did he do something worse, more unforgivable? Did he demean Jeremy, tell him his interest in cooking was ridiculous? Possibly even forbid him to visit the kitchen? Did he try to take away something the boy loved? Ben could picture the guy doing any or all of those things. “Does anybody else know about your cooking skills?”
“Sure.” Jeremy nodded and his face lit up like Main Street after dark. “The whole town knows.” His voice slid several decibels and the light on his face fizzled. “All except for the chief.”
***
From the time Bree Kinkaid was a teenager, she’d believed in love at first sight, destiny, and Brody Kinkaid. She’d also believed in frosted-pink nail polish, Kegel exercises, and blue Jordan almonds, though not with the same conviction as the first three.
But the Bree Kinkaid curled up on the king-sized bed in the honeymoon suite of the Heart Sent didn’t look like a woman who believed in much of anything, certainly not love, destiny, or nail polish. When Gina got the phone call from Mimi a half hour ago, she’d been harvesting more zinnias and cosmos for pressing. She’d tossed the blooms in an old catalog, rushed to the car, and drove to the Heart Sent where she found Mimi trying to console an inconsolable Bree in the honeymoon suite. Gina had only seen the suite once, after Bree insisted: You won’t believe the magic of the place. It’s pure love, and so romantic. Just take a peek at all those rose petals, all that love.
“I found her here a little while ago,” Mimi whispered, glancing up at Gina. “Crying her heart out, like she was about to burst from the pain of it.”
“Help me.” Bree’s body trembled, her words spilled out with uneven breaths. “Help me.” Fresh tears, more trembling. “Please, help me.”
“We’re here, Bree,” Gina said. “Talk to us. Tell us how we can help you.” In Bree’s world, husbands and wives joined together in perfect union, had children, date nights, and honeymoons in the suite at the Heaven Sent. Husbands protected their wives and kept them safe, from money and other worries; they paid the bills, decided when the roof needed repair and which tire was best for the car. Wives tended the children, nurtured their brains and bodies, took them to the doctor’s, grew their own vegetables, and groomed the dog themselves. Bree and Brody had figured it all out before their first anniversary and the birth of their first child.
But after the loss of their baby four months ago, the rules changed. Or maybe Bree and Brody did. The absent touching, long looks, suggestive smiles—all of the intimate gestures that had always made Gina uncomfortable to witness—dwindled. At least on Bree’s part. Brody continued treating his “honeybee” as he always had, with kisses, bear hugs, and gusto. But it didn’t take a relationship expert to recognize withdrawal when she saw it. The more Brody tried to squeeze his honeybee and jabber on about babies, the quieter she became, until the quietness erupted and she ended up barefoot at Gina’s, then crying at Tess’s with the truth: she didn’t want more children.
And now, here she was one week later, curled up and crying again, on the very bed where she most likely conceived Ella Blue, her oldest daughter.
“What can we do for you, honey?” Mimi rubbed Bree’s back and spoke in a soothing tone.
“I’m so tired.” Bree sniffed, squeezed her eyes closed to keep the tears in. “I’m trying, but I can’t get through the day.” Her voice wobbled. “What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be like I was before? I’m not the only woman who has three children.” Her sigh pulled them in, told them she was indeed tired, but the tiredness came from living, not the children.
“Have you thought about seeing Doc Needstrom?” This from Mimi.
“Uh-uh. Mama said I should see him, but Daddy would have a fit and call me puny. I know Brody’s mother would cause a stink because she’d fret her friends at bingo might hear about it. And, well, you all know Brody. He would not take kindly to me seeing a doctor about our personal issues and, heavens, he’d never let me take any medications.”
Mimi’s voice shifted and filled with a pain Gina knew had to do with losing her son. “Not even if you needed them for a time?”
“I’d never be able to convince him I needed them.” She opened her eyes, tried to smile. “He says one of the things he loves most about me is how I just keep doing, no matter what.” Tears streaked her face as she whispered, “No matter what.”
“No matter what?”
Ben Reed stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. When he spotted Bree and her obvious distress, he moved toward her, knelt on the floor, and touched her arm. “Bree? What’s going on?”
“Oh, Ben.” Bree grabbed his arm, laid her head on it, and whimpered, “Oh, Ben.”
He glanced up at Mimi, then Gina, his jaw set, his gaze dark. “Can someone tell me what’s going on here?”
“Our girl’s having a tough time,” Mimi said.
“She needs help.” His words sliced the air, grew cold. “Professional help. And medication.”
“We were just talking about that,” Gina said, uncomfortable wi
th the way he stared at her, his expression a mix of anger and disbelief.
“Talking isn’t going to help her. You need to take action. Now.”
“That’s what we were trying to do, but it’s a little more complicated than that; there are things to consider, people to work around—”
“People to work around? Are you serious? The only things to consider are Bree and the kids. That’s it. Everybody else and their feelings are secondary.” He smoothed a hunk of hair from her face, tucked it behind her ear.
“Ben.” Mimi kept her voice low. “You don’t know Brody or his family. They can be downright intimidating.”
“Good,” he said, “Because I can be intimidating, too.” He turned to Gina, spat out, “You’re supposed to be her friend; you’re supposed to help her. She needs a doctor, and medication. And she needs to start talking to someone about whatever’s eating away at her. If she wants to talk to you and your friends, great, but she needs a professional to help sort this out, someone who isn’t going to sugarcoat her issues or make excuses for her.”
“We were getting to that.” What did he know about Bree’s problems? He wasn’t even from Magdalena, hadn’t been friends with her for years. He should mind his own business and let her friends help. But even as she thought this, the truth seeped through: he was right. They’d ignored too many warning signs—she needed help. Now.
Ben stroked Bree’s arm and spoke to her with a gentleness that made Gina wonder what it would feel like to have him talk to her that way. Thankfully, that thought only lasted a half second before she swept it away.
When Bree’s whimpering settled, Ben stood and faced them. “What the hell’s going on in this town? You’re all supposed to be close-knit, right? Looking out for each other, helping, sharing, like an extended family. Isn’t that what small towns are all about? Trust and community? But here’s what I see: people keeping secrets, people afraid to stand up for themselves or those they care about. People lying about what they want out of life. That’s big city stuff. We don’t buy into sharing or opening up, but we don’t pretend we’re going to either. This place is worse, because you act like you care and damn it, you don’t, not enough to take a risk and do something about it.”
He narrowed his gaze on Gina in a way that told her those words were meant for her, then turned and left. Mimi made a quick sign of the cross and tsk-tsked. “Those are some mighty powerful words.”
“That man is full of words. Ignore him.”
Mimi sighed. “I can’t. I fear he may be right. Do you remember when Paul died? There were so many people lined up for the viewing, they said there was a two-hour wait to get in the funeral home. And the food? Ham and roast beef, and breads and pastas and coffee…so much we could have eaten for three years. And the cards filled with the kindest words and prayers for strength; beautiful words from people I would never have guessed possessed such a talent for the written word.”
“Everyone liked Paul,” Gina said. Ben Reed hadn’t been here when they held a candlelight vigil for Mimi’s seventeen-year-old son in the park. If he’d seen the outpouring of support, he might have different thoughts on this town and their sense of community.
Mimi’s eyes grew bright. “Paul was so full of life you couldn’t help but want to be near him.” The pain in her words stretched, thinned, and burst. “But he was reckless, and everyone knew that, too. And yet, no one told us he’d been racing down Elderberry Road three days before the accident. We didn’t hear about that until months after he died. Some days I still wonder if the knowing would have made a difference. Would we have grounded him and taken the keys to the car, or would we have convinced ourselves his recklessness was a stage that he’d outgrow soon enough.” She cleared her throat and stared hard at the vase on the dresser. “That’s what I don’t know; that’s what my husband died not knowing, and that, Gina, is exactly what Ben is talking about.”
***
Ben tucked his T-shirt in his jeans and thought of ignoring the knock on his door. It was probably Mimi, come to give him her side of things and invite him to dinner. Well, he wasn’t hungry, but he was damn tired of the people in this town dancing around the truth, himself excluded. After all, he’d never claimed to be a do-gooder, help-my-brother kind of guy like these people. First, there was Jeremy and the culinary expertise he kept from his father. And Bree, hiding her issues from her husband. Weren’t husbands and wives supposed to share, as in tell all, support all, be all? Not Ben, of course, because he’d crashed and burned in that area…
And what about Gina? She had as many issues as he did, but she kept her feelings locked up so tight nobody would ever get to them, even somebody who might want to try. Her reticence annoyed him. A lot.
“Ben?”
Gina? What did she want now, an opportunity to defend her actions? She just hated to be on the short end of a losing conversation. Too bad, he wasn’t interested. “I’m kind of busy.” He sat on the bed and pulled on his shoes.
“I need to talk to you,” she said from the other side of the door. “It’ll only take a minute.”
He sighed. In the short time he’d known the woman, he’d learned that Gina Servetti did not go away without making her opinion known. “Okay, okay.” He eased off the bed, opened the door. “Yes?”
She glanced toward the bridal suite. “Can I come in?”
“Sure. Why not?” He stepped aside to let her enter. “What is it now, Gina?” She closed the door, turned to him, clasping her hands in front of her. Nervous? Gina Servetti? No way.
“Look, small towns can be just as intimidating and cold as cities. It still comes down to people.” She cleared her throat and settled her gaze on his chin. “Some are cruel, thoughtless, only concerned with their own interests. Others are weak and easily hurt. You learn early on who you can trust, or think you can trust, and when one of them betrays you, that’s devastating.”
He knew betrayal. He’d had a mother who didn’t love him enough to stay and a father he never knew about.
“Ben?” Her voice dipped with a softness that surprised him. “People get hurt no matter where they live.”
He dragged a hand over his face and sighed “Do you know what it’s like to not belong? I mean, really belong to the one thing you want more than anything?” The words spilled out before he had time to consider the consequences. Maybe Jeremy’s confession and Bree’s pain had jolted him to a new awareness, or maybe he was just too damned tired of hauling around the baggage of his youth. “And no matter what you do you’re shut out?” To his surprise, she nodded. “After a while, you pretend you don’t care, but you do. And it’s the damn inability to stop caring that pushes you to lash out and keep others away.”
“You can’t trust them,” she added, her eyes bright, a lock of hair falling over her left brow. “You can’t trust anybody because you’ve been raised to believe you aren’t quite good enough.”
He nodded. She got it; he could tell from the way her expression pinched when she spoke with words coated in pain. Who had done her wrong? A guy? A best friend? Was that why she remained aloof with a kick-ass attitude? Maybe that was her wall. “Was it a guy?” He shouldn’t ask, shouldn’t even care, but for some crazy reason, he did.
She shut down right in front of him; lips flattened, eyes narrowed, shoulders squared. Yup, she was good and done with sharing stories. “Problems in life don’t always start and end with a guy.”
“But yours did, right?”
She looked away, reached for the doorknob. “I just came to tell you thanks for sticking up for Bree. She needs all the help she can get right now.”
“Sure.” He caught her wrist, eased her hand from the doorknob, and turned her to face him. “Not every guy is a jerk.”
“I know that.”
But the tremble in her voice told him she wasn’t so sure. “Look at me.” He cupped her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Hey, don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.” Tears rimmed her eyes. “I never
cry.”
“I know. Nobody can make Gina Servetti cry.”
She blinked hard. Twice. “And don’t forget it.”
“Never,” he whispered, seconds before he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her mouth. She flinched but didn’t pull away. Her mouth tasted of honey and cherries, with a faint scent of mint. Tantalizing. Welcoming. Ben increased the pressure on her lips, slowly, gently.
It was the tiny moan that did him in, made him forget who he was kissing, why they should not be doing this, why they could never do more than this. Right now, it didn’t matter. Right now, all he could think of were those lips and getting behind that tiny moan. After, he couldn’t remember if he opened his mouth first or if it was Gina. And when the kiss deepened to include tongues, was it he or she who initiated it? Did he mold her body to his, or was it Gina who flung her arms around his neck, pressed herself against him?
His moans matched hers, soft at first and then louder, more needy. When his hand cupped her butt, she thrust her tongue into his mouth and slid both hands down his back, cupping his butt. Damn! Ben was hot, ready, and hell yes, in need. Deep need. Soulful need.
“Ben? Are you all right?”
Mimi’s voice on the other side of the door busted them apart, faster than a bullet. Ben cleared his throat and managed an “I’m fine.” He shot a look at Gina: the swollen lips, messed-up hair, glassy-eyed stare that refused to look at him. She was regretting this already and she hadn’t even left his room.
“Are you sure? You sound like you’re in pain.”
Oh, he was in pain all right. Physical pain, the kind that could do a man in. He stared at Gina and said, “Don’t worry about me, Mimi. Nothing a night in bed won’t cure.” Gina’s face turned to paste at the remark.
“You did look tired. I’m taking Bree home, but tomorrow, bright and early, we’re calling the doctor.” She paused. “I thought Gina might have a thing or two to say, but she up and disappeared. Do you know if she went home?”
