“This is for you, Ginger,” he says softly. “Okay? Just come.”
I hesitate. Really, there is no earthly reason I shouldn’t do this. Greg is now firmly In The Past. Which doesn’t mean I’m up for anything, I don’t mean that, it’s just…
It’s just a cookout, for heaven’s sake. An invitation to watch the fireworks, which I really haven’t seen since Macy’s used to set them off at this end of the city when I was little. And I really do need to get outside of myself, even if just for one evening.
“O…kay.”
“Don’t knock me over with your enthusiasm, now.”
“No, I mean it. Okay. I’ll come.”
“You sure?”
“Not at all. But I’m coming, anyway. Just tell me which trains to take.”
“Forget it. I get off at four, I’ll swing by and pick you up—”
“You don’t have to—”
“Were you born this stubborn, or is this something you’ve fine-tuned over the years? I’m not gonna kidnap you, for crissake.”
“I know that. It’s just…”
“I took an oath to protect, Ginger,” he says softly. “An oath I take very seriously. I’m not gonna do anything to you, or with you, you don’t want me to. Unless you don’t stop being such a pain in the ass. Then all bets are off.”
I nod, then realize he can’t see me. “Sorry. I’m just…”
“I know,” he says. “I’ve been there. Hell, I am there. Now tell me where you live. And for God’s sake, keep me informed if you move again, okay?”
I smile, give him my mother’s address. After I hang up, I once again remind myself I have nothing to worry about. Nothing whatsoever.
If you don’t count the gut-deep premonition of doom, that is.
Eleven
I’m not going to burden you with all the details of the past five days, but suffice it to say not a whole lot has happened to improve my mood by the time Nick comes to pick me up. The cleaners could only save/restore about half of my clothes, and the management company for the building not only gave me grief about breaking the lease, but then had the nerve to try to keep the damage deposit, as if the fire were my fault! And I just used up what was left on my Visa to pay the salvage company to come cart away what was left in the apartment.
As for work…trust me. You don’t want to know.
I clumsily juggle me, my purse, and a pasta salad large enough to feed Bulgaria to get in Nick’s vintage Impala, after which I yank shut the door and ram the seat belt home. Nick frowns at me, but with amused overtones.
“Let me guess. Things aren’t looking up.”
“Good call.”
His gaze wanders over my left leg, bare from the thigh down. Which, if I’d managed to get in the car with any grace, wouldn’t be showing. But I’m wearing this long, red jersey sundress that buttons all the way down the front so one can leave it unbuttoned as far up one’s legs as one dares, which in this one’s case is mid-thigh. And the damn car seat is covered with this burgundy-colored plush…stuff that grabbed the fabric before I could sit down. Not to mention clashes horribly with the red.
“Nice…dress,” he says as we pull away from the curb.
The temperature rises a good eight, ten degrees inside the car. We’ve only gone two or three blocks. It’s still not too late to get out.
Okay, we’re only down to 110th Street, all I have to do is say I’ve changed my mind…
“You know,” Nick says, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were scared of me.”
I jump. “I’m not—”
He chuckles. I fidget in the seat, then sigh.
“Am I that transparent?”
“Like glass.”
I sneak my own peek. Nick’s ditched his suit jacket and tie, unbuttoned his white shirt at the collar, rolled up his sleeves. His scent fills the un-air-conditioned car, setting my frayed nerves to doing things I don’t want to think about too hard.
He glances over at my leg again.
“I really wish you wouldn’t do that,” I say.
He effortlessly merges into Broadway traffic. “You don’t want somebody looking at your legs, you should wear pants. Which would be a shame, because you’ve got really, really great legs. Not too skinny, not too muscular. Just right.”
For what? I immediately wonder, but manage to keep my mouth shut. I spare them a glance myself. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
My gaze drifts up to his face. His mouth is pulled up into something resembling a smile, but tension has etched lines around that mouth, corded the muscles in the forearm stretched to the wheel. There’s a faint scar along his temple I hadn’t noticed before.
“How’s the case going?” I ask.
One shoulder hitches. “Okay.”
“Uh-huh.”
He smirks, checks his rearview mirror, switches lanes. “Off the record? It blows.” His gaze darts to mine, back to the street. “Plenty of clues, none of them seem to fit together. I mean, I’m a patient man, but…” He shakes his head, then says to me, “But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about you. So. For the next two minutes, you can bitch about whatever’s going on in your life. Then you’re not allowed to do anything except enjoy yourself for the rest of the evening.”
“Gee. Two whole minutes?”
“Take it or leave it. And the clock’s ticking.”
I consider telling him about Greg, about work, about my mother. It’s not as if I don’t have plenty of topics from which to choose. Then I change my mind. “Much as I appreciate your generous offer, I’m going to turn it down. I’ve whined about stuff so much the past month, I can’t stand my own company anymore.”
I catch his shrug out of the corner of my eye. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind, I’m here for you.”
After a good three seconds, I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Uncle Nick!” Paula’s little girl hurtles her tiny body into Nick’s arms the minute the door swings open.
“Hey, baby!” He swings her up, grinning when she plants a noisy kiss on his cheek, then tickles her bare midriff. “You miss me?”
“Uh-huh—”
“Oh, my God, look at you!”
I tear my eyes away from the sight of this great big man cradling the munchkin in his arms to Paula. Who is pregnant again. Which I didn’t know.
A rugrat hanging on to one leg beneath the hem of her maternity shorts, she holds out skinny arms adorned with lots of jangly gold bracelets. From the neck up, it’s Prom Night 1985. From the neck down, it’s the softer side of Sears.
I set the covered salad bowl down on a table in the hall seconds before I’m engulfed. For a skinny woman, Paula’s got a hug like a brown bear.
“Jesus, you look great! Doesn’t she look great, Frank?”
She holds me at arm’s length, grinning, her dark brown hair fluffed and gelled within an inch of its life. Hovering and grinning just as widely behind her, Frank Wojowodski is a couple inches shorter than Nick, a little softer, a little balder. And completely at ease with grape jelly smeared all over his Knicks T-shirt. He waggles his eyebrows. “Yeah, she looks great.”
Paula smacks him without even looking.
“But not as great as you, babe.” He slips an arm around her waist, resting his palm on her belly as he nuzzles her neck. “The bigger you get, the more I want you.”
“Jesus, Frank, the kids!” Paula whispers through an immobile mouth, even as she leans, beaming, into her husband’s embrace. I notice her eyelashes are nearly as long as her bangs. Then she swats Frank’s hand. “Get outta here and go get them glasses of tea. And Nick, take the salad to the kitchen, put it on the counter. We’ll take it out back later.” Her eyes flash to mine. “Or would you rather have a wine cooler? Frank, did we get coolers the last time we went to the store?”
Already halfway down the hall, he says, “Yeah, I think so, baby, let me check—”
“No, no…tea’s fine,” I say, trying not to panic when
Nick, who’s set the little girl down, slips my purse from my shoulder and carts it off somewhere, effectively trapping me.
“You sure?” Paula says, genuine concern shining from her big brown eyes. “What is it, Tiffany?” she says to the blond twerp now tugging at the hem of her shorts. The kid says something unintelligible. “So, go, already. It’s not like you don’t know where it is. And take your brother with you—” she pries the dark-haired little boy from her thigh, places his hand in his sister’s “—it’s been three hours since he went. Yes, you have to go potty, Dominic, quit whining. Because, really,” she says, not missing a beat as the two little ones wander off, hand in hand, “it’s no trouble for Frank to check…”
“Paula, chill,” Nick says. Slipping an arm around my waist. “You’ll scare the poor woman off.”
Paula’s eyes zing to that hand-on-the-waist move, then to her brother-in-law’s face.
“For the love of God, Nick—whatshername’s been out of the picture, what? Like two minutes? Quit pawing the poor woman,” she says, then grabs my hand and pulls me away from her brother-in-law. I know I should be taking a more active part in this scene, but it’s like trying to hop a ride on a merry-go-round that’s already going.
She drags me into the shrine to Country Kitsch that is her living room, teeming with hearts and cutsie tole painting. I jump when Paula’s hand cups my jaw, then go very still so as to minimize the risk of permanent scarring from those long red nails.
“Nicky told us about…everything. God, it’s just been one thing after the other for you, hasn’t it? You okay?” She mercifully drops her hand to her hip. “Jesus, listen to me. Of course you’re not okay. Your life’s gone to hell in a handbasket, how could you be okay?”
Nick moves in behind me. Close. Doesn’t matter that he’s not actually touching me, I can tell by the way I’m starting to salivate that he wants to.
That I want him to.
Told you I shouldn’t have come.
“Hey, Paula,” he says, “don’t you have to go gestate or something?”
Her hands go up. “What? What’s wrong with asking the woman how she’s doin’? For your information, Mr. Nick, I think that’s called bein’ polite. You know, showin’ concern for my guest? Who just happens to be my cousin, even if I haven’t seen her in…what is it now? Five years? Six? Frank!” she yells back to the kitchen. “How long since Ginger and I have seen each other?”
Frank strolls back into the living room, a glass of tea in one hand, a wine cooler in the other. He hands me the cooler, Nick the tea.
“Beats me. When Justin was born, maybe?”
“Yeah, that’s right. And he’s gonna be seven come October. Jesus. So, sit,” she says to me. “We’re gonna have dinner out back, but until then, we’ll talk, I can show you pictures of the kids. Frank and Nick get to do all the cooking today. And take the kids with you!” she shouts as the men leave. Reluctantly. At least, I’m going to read Nick’s odd expression as reluctance.
From the glass-topped brass coffee table—an aberration from the country motif—Paula drags over a ten-pound photo album smothered in blue moire and white eyelet.
“I’m so glad Nick got you to come,” she says, then cackles with laughter. “Or maybe that part happens later, huh?”
My cheeks burn. Suddenly, feigning interest in nine years of baby pictures doesn’t sound so bad. “We’re just friends, Paula.”
“Whatever,” Paula says with a shrug, grunting a little when Tiffany crawls into her lap. A feeling almost like hunger claws at me as I watch her cuddle her little girl, automatically smooth down a strand of flyaway hair. “But I’m here to tell you, honey, if he’s anything like his brother—” one side of her mouth lifts “—you won’t know what hit you!”
“I know Paula’s your cousin and all,” Nick says, much later, his gaze directed at my cousin and her family buzzing around the picnic table at the far end of the tiny backyard, “but damn, she gets gabbier with each pregnancy.” He’s changed into jeans and a plain gray T-shirt, worn loose. A river-scented breeze ruffles his short hair as he stretches out on a wood-framed outdoor lounge chair taking up most of the decklet stretching across the back of the house. He takes a healthy swallow of tea. “If she has too many more kids, I may have to put her down.”
I sputter with laughter. Except I’ve never seen a man crazier about kids. At least, his brother’s kids. Little Tiffany, especially, to date Paula’s only girl. I’ve also noticed the wistfulness in his expression when he looks at them, when he thinks nobody’s watching.
“You’re going to make a great daddy someday,” I say.
Surprise flickers across his features. “Where’d that come from?”
I perch on a matching Adirondack chair a few feet away. “Watching you with the kids. Intuition.” Fingering the cooler bottle, I look away. “It must’ve killed you when Amy said she didn’t want children.”
After a long moment he says, “I’ll get over it.”
I rub my hand on my leg, then nod toward a half-finished wooden play fort wedged between the picnic table and the side fence. “That’s going to be nice.”
“If I ever get it finished.”
My gaze snaps to his. “You’re building it?”
“Slowly but surely. I’m aimin’ for Justin’s birthday. So. You get enough to eat?”
“God, yes. Did I really put away three hamburgers?”
“I wouldn’t’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Do you always eat like that?”
“Hey. Don’t knock my life’s work.”
He chuckles. “By the way, your salad was pretty good, too. Even if I didn’t recognize half the stuff that was in it.”
“Confession time.” I take a swig of my warm wine cooler. “My grandmother made it, not me.”
“You don’t cook?”
“Not enough to count. Left to my own devices, I would’ve brought deli macaroni salad or something.”
While he seems to be mulling that over, I nod toward his tea. “I wouldn’t’ve expected that. The tea, I mean.”
After a moment’s hesitation he says, “Five years ago, you would’ve been right.”
I lower the cooler bottle that’s just about to meet my lips. “Meaning?”
“I’m a recovering alcoholic.” He looks at me, challenge simmering in his eyes. “That bother you?”
“No. Why should it?”
He studies me for a long moment, then said, “Since I never, never drank on duty, I didn’t think it was out of control, y’know? Until I woke up once with my car on its side in a ditch. Scared the shit out of me.”
“Oh, God. Were you all right?”
“More or less. Car was totaled, though.”
“But Paula never said…”
“We don’t talk about it much. I mean, Frank and Paula are supportive and all. We just don’t make a big issue of it, you know what I mean?”
I nod, then say, “Was that…was that the real reason your wife left?”
He shakes his head. “No. If anything, I used her leaving as an excuse to drink more.” His arms crossed, his attention drifts to Frank, arbitrating some fracas or other between two of the kids. “My old man was a drunk. So was my grandfather. But I dunno, back then, nobody thought much about it, I guess. Not unless somebody was missin’ work or beatin’ up on his wife or something, you know? It certainly never occurred to anybody it was a disease.”
Nick pulls himself upright, straddling the lounge.
“It apparently skipped Frank, but hit me like a ton of bricks. Frank didn’t say much up until that night, but…” He sighs. “Pop died when Frank and me were still kids. I guess Frank wasn’t too hot on watching the same thing happen to me. So he threatened to tell my captain if I didn’t get help. The thought of maybe losing my spot on the force…that woke me up, boy.”
“But the accident…weren’t the police called?”
“That was part of the deal between Frank and me. He brought his wrecker,
pulled me out. It was 3:00 a.m., nobody around. I didn’t even bother with the insurance. I just wanted to pretend like it never happened. Which was okay with Frank, as long as I got help.”
I start to take another swig of the cooler, but stop. Nick notices my hesitation. “Hey, don’t worry. I decided five years ago that I was stronger than the booze. That it’s got no power to drag me down again.”
“And?”
He smiles. “And…it’s a constant struggle. But then I think what I might’ve lost if I hadn’t stopped drinking, and that pretty much ends the discussion.”
Dusk has taken the edge off the heat, some of the spunk out of the younger kids. There are four of them, the three boys all clones of Paula with their dark hair and eyes. I’ve been watching her all evening, the way she juggles her attention from one to the other and her husband and Nick and me with seemingly no effort. Her only career is being a mother to these children, a wife to the man she obviously adores. And she’s clearly content with that, as Shelby is with her decision to take time off from her career to raise her kids, as my mother is with all her causes. All these women who know who they are, what they want from life.
Up until a month ago I would have counted myself among them.
I look back at Nick, who I catch watching me intently, his expression serious. That he doesn’t avert his eyes unsettles me in ways I understand all too well. So I’m the one who turns away. “Did you always know you wanted to be a cop?”
His brows hitch, but he says, “Yeah, pretty much. At least I did by the time I hit high school.”
“And you’ve never had any doubts? I mean, not even when cases don’t go the way you want them to?”
That gets a laugh. “Hell, yeah, I have doubts. On a regular basis. But then I think, So what’s the alternative? Selling insurance?” He shudders, making me smile. “I do what I do because it fits who I am, I guess. Which is about as philosophical as I get, so don’t push it.”
I laugh along with him, but way deep inside, that strange emptiness begins to spread through me again, that something’s missing, something’s off-kilter. I feel as though I’ve lost my footing somewhere along the way, that I’m about to fall, need to grab onto something, anything, to regain my balance…
Loose Screws Page 18
