The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 4

by Nora Roberts

  Crap wood, he thought as he always did. Next thing to plastic. Inside were open boxes of Life, Frosted Mini Wheats, Froot Loops and Cheerios. A bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, four boxes of macaroni and cheese, Ring-Dings, assorted cans of soup and a box of raspberry and cheese coffee cake.

  And there, there between Life and Cheerios, was the Advil. Thank you, Jesus.

  Since he’d already tossed the cap after his last hangover, all he had to do was dump three little pills in his clammy hand. He shoved them in his mouth, turned on the faucet and, since there was no room for his head among the dishes, scooped running water into his palm and sucked it in to down the pills.

  He choked when one stuck in his throat, stumbled to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of Gatorade. He drank, leaning weakly against the counter.

  He wove his way through the pile of clothes, the shoes, his stupid keys and whatever else had hit the floor, into the bathroom.

  Bracing his hands on the sink, he gathered his courage. And lifted his head to look at himself in the mirror.

  His hair looked like the dead rat in his kitchen had danced through it overnight. His face was pasty. His eyes were so full of blood he wondered if there was any left in the rest of him.

  “Okay, Goodnight, you stupid son of a bitch, this is it. Your ass is going to straighten up.”

  He turned on the shower, stepped under the stingy piss trickle. And casting his eyes to the ceiling, dragged off his boxers and the single sock he still wore. He leaned forward so the water that dribbled out of the showerhead dribbled on his hair.

  He was getting out of this dump, first chance. Meanwhile he was going to clean it up. It was one thing to save money living in a piece of shit apartment, and another to let it become a freaking cesspool because he didn’t bother to take care of it.

  It was no way to live, and he was tired of himself for settling. Tired of busting his hump all week, then blowing off the steam with too much beer so he suffered on Sunday mornings.

  It was time to make a move.

  It took him an hour to shower, brush the taste of over-partying out of his mouth, then force something into his stomach he hoped would stay there. He pulled on ripped sweats and started shoveling out his living room.

  He made piles of laundry. Who knew he had so many clothes? He stripped the revolting sheets off the bed and considered just burning them. But in the end, his frugal nature had him using them as a sack for the rest of the clothes and towels. From the looks of it, he decided he’d be spending a good chunk of his Sunday in the Laundromat.

  But for now, he pulled out the rattiest of his towels, ripped it into pieces and used one to clear the dust off the crate table. He’d made the piece, damn good work, and look how he was treating it.

  He dug out his spare sheets and one whiff had them going in the laundry pile.

  He hit the kitchen, discovered he actually did have dish detergent and an unopened bottle of Mr. Clean. He loaded bags with trash, found it wasn’t a dead rat stinking up the place but some really ancient sweet-and-sour pork. He dumped detergent in the sink. Dumped more. The dishes looked pretty grungy.

  He stood, legs spread like a gunslinger’s, and washed dishes in an ocean of suds.

  By the time he’d scrubbed counters off so he had a place to pile the dishes once they were clean, he was feeling almost normal.

  Since he was in the groove, he emptied out his refrigerator, scrubbed it down. He opened the stove, found a pizza box containing what might have been, at one time in the dim past, the remains of a Hawaiian pizza.

  “God, you’re a pig.”

  He wondered where he could rent a Hazmat suit before tackling the bathroom.

  Nearly four hours after he’d crawled out of bed, he had two bundles of laundry stuffed in the plastic hamper he’d been using as a catch-all, three Hefty bags of trash and garbage that defied description and a clean apartment.

  It was a righteous man who hauled the trash out to the dumpster.

  Upstairs, he stripped off the sweats, added them to the laundry, then pulled on his cleanest jeans and least offensive T-shirt.

  He gathered the change he’d found in the bed, under the bed, in his single chair and out of various pockets. He put on the sunglasses he thought he’d lost weeks before, grabbed his keys.

  Someone knocked just as he was about to haul up the laundry basket.

  Brad walked in when he opened the door.

  “Hey. I tried to call . . .” He trailed off, gaped. “What the hell! Did I walk into an alternate universe?”

  “Did some housekeeping.”

  “Some? Dude, a human could actually live here. You have a chair.”

  “I’ve always had a chair. It was just buried. I’m heading to the Laundromat if you want to hang out. Sometimes hot chicks do laundry.”

  “Maybe. Listen, I tried to call you a couple hours ago, kept getting a busy signal.”

  “I must’ve knocked the phone off the hook last night. What’s up?”

  “Heavy shit.” Brad walked into the kitchen, stood dazed a moment, then got a Coke out of the fridge. “There was a fire at Mandy’s place last night.”

  “Fire? Jesus, what kind of fire? She okay?”

  “She’s okay. Really shaken up. She came over to Cammie’s. I just left there. I figured she needed to chill, you know? It’s been on the news.”

  “Haven’t turned the TV on. I cleaned to Black Sabbath. It kept me focused. How bad was the fire?”

  “Major bad.” Brad dropped down in the chair. “Started in an apartment upstairs. They’re saying it looks like smoking in bed.” He ran a hand over his face, sliding his fingers under his glasses to press them against his eyes.

  “Jesus, Bo, a guy died. I mean he burned up, along with most of his place. Lost a lot of the second floor, part of the third. Mandy got out, and they let her in to get some of her stuff, but she’s a wreck. It was the guy in the tie. Ah, Josh. Remember, the guy from upstairs?”

  “God, he’s dead?” Bo sank down on the sofa.

  “It was bad. Mandy could hardly talk about it. The guy died, and there are a couple others in the hospital with burns or smoke inhalation. She said it must’ve started right after you dropped her off. She was still up, watching some tube when she heard people screaming, and smoke alarms going off.”

  “He was going to a wedding,” Bo murmured. “And he couldn’t get his tie right.”

  “Now he’s dead.” Brad took a long drink from the can of Coke. “Makes you think, makes you realize how short the trip can be.”

  “Yeah.” Bo got a picture of the dead guy in his head, standing in his suit with a sheepish smile on his face. “Yeah, it makes you think.”

  Business tended to be slow on Sunday afternoons. There were some who traditionally came in after Mass for a meal, but most went home to make their own Sunday dinners. Reena and Xander took the after-Mass shift with Pete’s young cousin Mia waiting tables and Nick Casto on delivery and dish duty.

  They had Tony Bennett on the little stereo because the Sunday regulars liked it, but Xander made the pizzas and calzones at the big worktable with Pearl Jam playing low in his headset.

  It was a treat for Reena to man the kitchen when the demand was light, and to wander into the dining area from time to time to work the tables as her father did.

  Fran would carry this on—that was understood—but Reena would always put time in here. If they weren’t having company for dinner, she and Xander might wander down after their shift and watch the latest boccie tournament, or hook up with some of their friends for a pickup game of ball.

  But since they were having company—and that company happened to be her boyfriend—she’d go home and give her mother a hand with dinner.

  In just a couple of hours, she’d walk home and set the table with the company dishes and linens. Her mother was making her special rosemary chicken with prosciutto, and there’d be tiramisu for dessert.

  There were flowers from Bella’s wedding.
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  He’d be shy, she thought as she arranged risotto on a plate. But her family would bring him around. She’d coach Fran, have her ask Josh about his writing.

  Fran was great at bringing people out of themselves.

  Humming along with Tony, Reena carried the plates out to serve them herself.

  “So, your sister’s a married woman.”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Giambrisco.”

  The woman nodded, sent a look toward her husband, who was already digging into his risotto. “Caught a rich one, I hear. As easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one.”

  “It might be.” Personally, Reena wondered what it felt like to fall in love with any kind of man. Maybe she was falling in love with Josh and didn’t know it.

  “Just you remember.” Mrs. Giambrisco wagged her fork. “Maybe the boys, they do their sniffing around your sisters, but your day will come. This husband of your sister’s, he’s got a brother?”

  “Yes. A married one, with a child and another on the way.”

  “Maybe a cousin then.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Giambrisco.” Xander called out from his work counter. “Catarina’s got a boyfriend.” He kissed his fingers in her direction. “He’s coming to dinner tonight so Dad can give him a good grilling.”

  “As it should be. An Italian boy?”

  “No. And he’s coming to dinner to eat chicken,” she called back to Xander. “Not to be grilled. Enjoy your meal.”

  She shot Xander a dark look on her way back to the kitchen, but she was secretly pleased she was in a position to be teased about her boyfriend.

  She watched the clock, baked penne and was serving spaghetti puttanesca when Gina rushed in.

  “Reena.”

  “You need anything else?” She grabbed a water pitcher, refilled glasses. “We’ve got some of Mama’s zabaglione today, so save room.”

  “Catarina.” Gina grabbed her arm, pulled her away from the table.

  “Jeez, what’s the problem? I’m off in a half hour.”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?” The intensity of Gina’s grip, the teary eyes got through. “What happened? What’s wrong? Is it your grandmother?”

  “No. Oh God, no. It’s Josh. Oh, Reena, it’s Josh.”

  “What happened?” Her fingers went numb on the handle of the pitcher. “Did something happen?”

  “There was a fire, at his apartment. In his apartment. Reena . . . Let’s go in the back.”

  “Tell me.” She jerked away from Gina’s hold, and water slopped over the rim of the pitcher and splashed cold on her hand. “Is he hurt? Is he in the hospital?”

  “He . . . Oh, Blessed Mary. Reena, they didn’t get there in time, didn’t get to him in time. He’s dead.”

  “No, he’s not.” The room swam in front of her eyes. A slow, sick circle of Tuscan yellow walls, colorful sketches, red-and-white-checked cloths. Dean Martin was singing “Volare” in his creamy baritone.

  “No, he’s not. What’s wrong with you, saying that?”

  “It was an accident, some kind of horrible accident.” Tears rolled fat down Gina’s cheeks. “Reena. Oh, Reena.”

  “You’re wrong. There’s a mistake. I’ll call him and you’ll see. I’ll call him right now.”

  But when she turned, Xander was there, smelling of flour, like her father. His arms came hard around her. “Come on, come into the back with me. Mia, call Pete, tell him we need him in here.”

  “No, let go. I have to call.”

  “You come and sit.” He snatched the water pitcher before she dropped it, shoved it at Mia.

  “He’s coming to dinner. He might even have left already. Traffic—” She began to shake as Xander pulled her into the prep room.

  “Sit down. Do what I tell you. Gina, are you sure? There’s no mistake?”

  “I heard from Jen. A friend of hers lives in the same building. She—her friend lives right down the hall from Josh. They took her to the hospital.” Gina wiped at tears with the back of her hand. “She’s going to be all right, but she had to go to the hospital. Josh . . . It started in his apartment, that’s what they said. They couldn’t get to him before . . . It was on the news, too. My mother heard it on the news.”

  She sat down at Reena’s feet, laid her head in Reena’s lap. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

  “When?” Reena stared straight ahead, saw nothing now. Nothing but gray, like smoke. “When did it happen?”

  “I’m not sure. Last night.”

  “I need to go home.”

  “I’m going to take you in a minute. Here.” Xander handed her a glass of water. “Drink this.”

  She took the glass, stared at it. “How? Did they say how it started?”

  “They think he must’ve been smoking in bed, fell asleep.”

  “That’s not right. He doesn’t smoke. That’s not right.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Gina, call my mother, and can you wait here until Pete gets down? We’re going home, Reena. We’ll go out the back.”

  “He doesn’t smoke. Maybe it wasn’t him. They made a mistake.”

  “We’ll find out. We’ll call John. When we get home,” Xander said as he drew her to her feet. “We’re going to go home now.”

  The sunlight and June heat struck her. Somehow she was walking, putting one foot in front of the other, but she couldn’t feel her legs.

  She heard children playing as she turned the corner, calling out to one another the way children do. And car radios, turned up loud, to stream music out as cars drove by. And her brother’s voice murmuring to her.

  She’d always remember Xander taking her home, both of them still wearing their aprons. Xander smelling of flour. The sun was bright and hurt her eyes, and his arm stayed strong and firm around her waist. There were some little girls playing jacks on the sidewalk, and another sitting on the white marble steps holding an intense conversation with her Barbie doll.

  Opera—Aida—poured out of an open window and sounded like tears. She didn’t cry. Gina’s tears had been so big, so fast, but her own eyes felt painfully dry.

  Then there was Mama, rushing out of their house, leaving the door open wide behind her. Mama, running down the sidewalk to her, as she had once when she fell off her bike and sprained her wrist.

  And when her mother’s arms came around her, tight, tight, tight, it all became real. Standing on the sidewalk, held by her mother and brother, Reena drowned in tears.

  She was put to bed, and her mother stayed with her through the next storm of tears. And was there when she awoke from a thin and headachy sleep.

  “Did John call? Did he come?”

  “Not yet.” Bianca stroked Reena’s hair. “He said it would take some time.”

  “I want to go see. I want to go see for myself.”

  “And what did he say about that?” Bianca asked gently.

  “That I shouldn’t.” Her own voice sounded thin to her ears, as if she’d been sick a very long time. “That they wouldn’t let me go inside. But—”

  “Be patient, cara. I know it’s hard. Try to sleep a little more. I’ll stay with you.”

  “I don’t want to sleep. It could be a mistake.”

  “We’ll wait. It’s all we can do. Fran went to church to light a candle and pray so I could stay with you.”

  “I can’t pray. I can’t think of words.”

  “It’s not the words, you know that.”

  Reena angled her head, saw the rosary her mother held. “You always have the words.”

  “If you need words, you can say them with me. We’ll start a rosary.” She put the dangling crucifix in Reena’s hand. Taking a breath, Reena crossed herself with it, then moved up to the first tiny bead.

  “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth.”

  They prayed the rosary, her mother’s quiet voice blending with hers. But she couldn’t pray for Josh’s soul, or the grace to accept God’s will. She praye
d it was a mistake. She prayed she’d somehow wake up and find it all a horrible dream.

  When Gib came to the bedroom door, he saw his daughter lying with her head in his wife’s lap. Bianca still held the rosary, but she was singing softly now—one of the cradle songs she’d sung to all the children when they were fretful at night.

  Her eyes met his, and he knew she saw what was in his because grief passed over her face.

  “John’s here.” He waited, felt the pang when Reena turned her head, looked at him with such naked hope. “Do you want him to come up, baby?”

  Reena’s lips trembled. “It’s true?”

  He said nothing, just crossed to her, laid his lips on her head.

  “I’ll come down. I’ll come down now.”

  He was waiting in the living room with Xander and Fran. If she’d read sorrow on her father’s face, it was grim sympathy she saw in John’s. She would stand it, somehow she would stand it, because there was nothing else to be done.

  “How?” It came out in a croak, and she shook her head before he could speak. “Thank you. Thank you for doing this, for coming to talk to me. I—”

  “Ssh.” He stepped forward to take her hands. “Let’s all sit down.”

  “I made coffee.” Fran busied herself pouring. “Reena, I got you a Pepsi. I know you don’t like coffee, so . . .” She stopped, lifted her hands helplessly. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

  “You did just fine.” Bianca led Reena to a chair. “Please, sit, John. Reena needs to know whatever you can tell her.”

  He pulled his thumb and finger down his nose, sat. “I spoke with the company officer, and the investigator called in, and some of the firefighters, and the police. The fire’s being considered accidental, caused by a cigarette.”

  “But he didn’t smoke. Did you tell them I said he didn’t smoke?”

  “I went over that with them, Reena. People who don’t smoke habitually might have a cigarette from time to time. Maybe someone left a pack at his place.”