by Jane Graves
“What are you looking at?” Marc growled.
The kid stopped. Swallowed hard. “Uh…nothing, sir.”
“That’s right. You’re looking at nothing. And nothing is over there. My daughter is over here, and she’s not nothing. So if you’re looking at nothing, you’re not looking at her. Are we clear on that?”
The kid’s eyes were big as searchlights. “Yes, sir.”
“Now, beat it,” Marc snapped.
As the kid hurried off with his buddies, Angela spun on Marc, looking horrified. “Dad! Why did you do that?”
“Nothing’s changed just because you’re here and I’m in Rainbow Valley,” he said, striding onto the elevator. “No dumb jock just looking to get laid is going to mess with you.”
“So what are you going to do?” Angela said, following him onto the elevator. “Drive an hour so you can kick his ass?”
“Don’t think I won’t.”
She stabbed the button for the first floor. “I can’t believe you don’t trust me.”
“I trust you. It’s guys like him I don’t trust.”
“Could you embarrass me any more, Dad?” she said, throwing her arms into the air. “Huh? Is it even possible?”
Didn’t she get it by now? He just wanted her to be safe. But in this place…good God. He saw danger around every corner. Why didn’t she?
Right about then, their tiny little town seemed like a 1950s sitcom set in comparison. Everybody knew everybody else in Rainbow Valley, so kids knew if they got out of line, word would eventually get back to somebody who would shove them back in. Marc had always been able to intimidate Angela’s boyfriends with a frown, a gruff voice, and a few subtle words of warning. In fact, there had been times when he swore he was smiling but Angela told him he still looked pissed. That was fine with him if it meant boys kept their distance. But what was he supposed to do now? Could he make sure they didn’t mess with his daughter when he was an hour away in Rainbow Valley?
The problem was that he knew what teenage boys were like because he’d been one. Things could happen that you never expected and certainly weren’t ready to deal with. It was funny how after all these years he could barely remember what Nicole looked like, only that he’d been crazy in love with her and teenage sex had seemed like a wondrous gift from God.
Then came Angela.
Three months after that, Nicole was gone. Couldn’t handle being a mother. As if Marc had been any more prepared to be a father.
In the years that followed, he’d felt as if he didn’t have a clue what he was doing. Angela’s childhood seemed like nothing but a blur in his mind right now. Then came the god-awful early teenage years, with hormones running rampant and all that shouting and door slamming, making him feel as if he was doing everything wrong and she’d be rolling her eyes at him for the rest of their lives.
But the older she got, the more things leveled out, until it looked as if the sleepless nights and the constant worry and the occasional heartache were giving way to the kind of warm, comfortable relationship he’d always wanted them to have. And as he looked at his daughter now, skimpy shirt and all, he thought maybe he’d done a pretty damned good job of raising her.
“You’re right,” Marc said as the elevator doors opened on the first floor. “I shouldn’t have embarrassed you. You’re not a kid anymore. I know you can take care of yourself.”
Those words came harder to him than anything else, because he wasn’t sure he believed them. He knew he’d better believe them, though, if he expected to get any sleep for the next four years.
Angela gave him a little shrug. “It’s okay. That guy looked like a jerk, anyway.”
That was Angela. So forgiving. Sometimes a little too forgiving. He wanted to shout at her: Don’t excuse bad behavior from any guy! But if she hadn’t learned that lesson already, was repeating it now going to make any difference?
As they walked to his car, Marc dreaded every step he took more than the one before it. He clicked open his door with the remote, then turned back to Angela.
“Do you want me to stay for a while? Maybe take you and your new roommate to get a bite to eat?”
Angela looked back over her shoulder. “Uh…”
Marc held up his hand. “Never mind. You already have plans.”
“It’s just that Kim and I thought we’d go over to the Texas Union and check things out a little. Just to see what’s going on. You know.”
Silence.
“I don’t like missing harvest this year,” Angela said.
“You hate harvest.”
“Yeah, I know,” she said with a little shrug, folding her arms and staring down at her blue-frosted toenails. “But it’s all hands on deck, you know?”
Marc felt a stab of remembrance. That was what he’d told her from the time she was old enough to pull grapes off of vines. At this vineyard, everybody pulls his weight. And that goes double if your name is Cordero.
“Uncle Daniel is coming back,” Marc said. “He’s going to help. We’ll get it done.”
She nodded, then smiled briefly. “Do you remember the time when I was seven and I ate ninety-two Tempranillo grapes?”
That felt like a hundred years ago. Had it really been only ten? “I was thrilled you could count that high.”
“Purple puke isn’t pretty, is it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Why didn’t you stop me?”
“Because experience is the best teacher.”
Angela looked over her shoulder at the sea of students, then back at Marc. “Then maybe I’d better go experience some stuff, huh?”
This is it. It’s time for you to go, old man. So go.
“Call me if you need anything,” he told Angela.
“I will.”
“Or even if you don’t.”
She nodded. For a few seconds, neither one of them spoke. Then Angela’s face crumpled. She took a step forward and wound her arms around his neck in a desperate hug. Suddenly she was six years old again, with her little hands holding on tightly because of a bad dream or a scraped knee, or sometimes just because he’d been twice as important to her because he was Dad and Mom all rolled into one. As he held her tightly, she whispered, “I love you, Dad,” into his ear, and he whispered that he loved her, too.
Finally she pulled away, sniffing a little. He opened the car door and got inside. She took a few steps back from the curb and wiped tears from her eyes. As Marc started the car, he was pretty sure he was going to cry, too, and he hadn’t done that since he was seven years old.
No. Get yourself together. This is a good thing. For the first time in eighteen years, your life is your own.
He put the car in gear. Angela waved good-bye, and he waved back. As he drove away, he glanced in his rearview mirror to see her turn around and walk away from him and into her new life.
It was time for him to do the same.
By the time he was heading back toward Rainbow Valley, he was ticking off all the reasons why this new chapter in his life was going to be a good thing. But before he could change his life completely, he had to get through harvest. Daniel would be there in a week or so to help out. That had been their agreement. As soon as Angela was in college, Daniel would come back to Cordero Vineyards, assume responsibility for the family business, and carry on the tradition Marc had guarded all these years. Once his brother took over, Marc intended to hop on the Harley he’d spent the past several months restoring and hit the open road. Where he’d go, he didn’t know. That was the most amazing feeling of all. He didn’t know. To have his whole life ahead of him virtually unscripted was something he couldn’t have imagined when he’d changed his first diaper eighteen years ago.
To kick things off, at eight o’clock tonight he intended to jump headfirst into the life of bachelorhood that being a father at seventeen had never allowed him to live. He was going to sit in his brand new La-Z-Boy recliner in front of the 60-inch LED TV he’d bought last weekend and watch a presea
son football game. But first he was going to stop at the Pic ’N Go and buy as much junk food as he could get his hands on, crap he rarely kept in the house because parents who put sugar and trans fats in front of their kids these days were evidently going to hell. But if he chose to get a little diabetes and heart disease himself, that was his business. And, by God, he was buying a six-pack of beer. Heresy for a winemaker, but sometimes a man just had to have a cold one.
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t watched a ball game in the past eighteen years, but tonight was different. He didn’t have to worry that Angela was out with friends and she hadn’t come home yet, or that he’d turn around to see an army of teenagers traipsing through his house, or that he needed to put a decent dinner on the table for his kid so the Food Police didn’t come after him. Tonight it was just him alone in the house with no responsibility for anyone but himself, with nothing to do except cheer on the Cowboys and clog his arteries. And he was going to make the most of it.
Then he thought about Angela and felt a flicker of worry, along with an empty spot inside him that came from missing her already. He thought about calling her, then thought again. You taught her right. Now let her live her own life, and you live yours.
It was still a few hours until kickoff. He looked at the horizon, where dark clouds churned against a gray sky. Even though a heavy rainstorm was predicted, he’d be home before it hit. In his recliner. In front of his television. Living it up. Rain or no rain, nothing was going to screw up his good mood tonight.
Absolutely nothing.
He was only thirty-six years old. He’d paid his dues. Now it was his turn. As of tonight, he was starting a whole new life.
Marc checked his watch. It was almost eight. He took the jar of gooey fake cheese crap he’d microwaved and poured it over the tortilla chips, then threw a handful of jalapeño slices on top. Ah. Food of the gods.
He stuck a package of Double Stuf Oreos under one arm, then picked up the nachos and a beer and headed into the living room. He put the food on the end table and collapsed in his recliner, tipping it back to maximum comfort level with his feet up and his head on the pillowy back rest. Then he reached for the remote and turned on the game.
Outside the rain came down in buckets. Thunder boomed. Lightning crashed. And Marc couldn’t have cared less, because he was inside this house where it was warm and dry, and tonight, right there in his living room, the Cowboys were going to beat the daylights out of the Steelers.
To complete the picture of total decadence, Brandy lay on the rug at his feet. He’d given her way too many of her favorite dog treats, and now she was lying upside down, asleep and snoring, her bushy golden retriever tail flicking back and forth as she dreamed of chasing rabbits through the vineyard. Marc took a long drink of beer and let out a satisfied sigh. Life didn’t get any better than this.
The Cowboys won the toss and lined up to receive the kickoff. The Steelers kicker took off toward the ball.
And there was a knock at his door.
Marc whipped around. Somebody at his door? In this storm?
Brandy leaped up and started barking. Marc grabbed the remote. With his old TV, he could find the Pause button in his sleep. But as he rose from his recliner, he was still fumbling around for it. Where the hell…?
There.
He hit the button on his way out of the room, tossed the remote down, and went to the entry hall. He opened the door. He blinked. Blinked again. And he still couldn’t believe what he saw.
A woman stood on his porch. Her hair was hanging in a dripping wad on one side of her head, and rain dripped off her nose. Raindrops clung to her eyelashes, shimmering in the dim porch light. Considering the storm, all that made sense. But what the hell was that monstrosity she was wearing? She looked like Glinda the Good Witch after a bout of mud wrestling.
But as he looked her up and down, light slowly dawned, and he had the feeling the first day of his new life had just gone straight to hell.
She was dripping wet. She was dirty from head to toe. She looked lost and lonely and helpless.
And she was wearing a wedding dress.
THE DISH
Where Authors Give You the Inside Scoop
From the desk of Debra Webb
Dear Reader,
It’s very exciting to be back again this month with RAGE, the fourth installment of the Faces of Evil series.
Writing a series can be a challenge. There are many threads related to the plots and the characters that have to be kept in line and moving forward (sometimes the characters like to go off on paths of their own!). Former Special Agent Jess Harris and Birmingham Chief of Police Dan Burnett have their hands full as usual. Murder hits close to home in this story and takes us to the next level of evil: rage. We’ve explored obsession, impulse, and power already and there are many more to come. The face of evil is rarely easy to spot. But Jess and Dan won’t rest until they solve the case and ensure the folks of Birmingham are safe.
While I was writing this story, a new character joined the cast. I wasn’t expecting a new character to appear on the page and demand some special attention, but Dr. Sylvia Baron, Jefferson County associate coroner, has a mind of her own. She stepped onto the page in her designer stilettos and her elegant business attire and told me exactly what she wanted to do. From hello Jess and Sylvia butt heads. The two keep Dan on his toes!
I hope you’ll stop by www.thefacesofevil.com and visit with me. There’s a weekly briefing each Friday where I talk about what’s going on in my world and with the characters as I write the next story. You can sign up as a person of interest and you might just end up a suspect!
Enjoy the story and be sure to look for Revenge coming in July and Ruthless in August!
Happy reading!
From the desk of Roxanne St. Claire
I packed a lot of emotional themes and intense subjects into my writer’s beach bag when I penned BAREFOOT IN THE SUN, from faith and trust to life-threatening illness and life-altering secrets. The Happily Ever After is hard-won and bittersweet, but that seems to come with the Barefoot Bay territory. The heroine, Zoe Tamarin, has to overcome a tendency to run away when life goes south, and the hero, Oliver Bradbury, must learn that, despite his talents as a doctor, he can’t fix everything. During their reunion romance, Zoe and Oliver grow to understand the power of a promise, the joy of a second chance, and the awesome truths told by Mother Nature.
But this is Barefoot Bay, so it can’t be all heartache and healing!
In lighter moments, Oliver and Zoe play. They kiss (a lot), they laugh (this is Zoe!), they swim (some might call it skinny dipping), and occasionally Zoe whips out her deck of cards for a rockin’ round of Egyptian Rat Screws (ERS).
I’ve mentioned Zoe’s penchant for ERS in other books, and readers have written to ask about the card game. Many want to know the origin of the name, which, I have to admit, is a complete mystery to me, as the game has nothing to do with Egypt, rodents, or hardware of any kind. The secret of the name is one of many aspects of the game that reminds me of Zoe… a character who reveals in the opening scene of BAREFOOT IN THE SUN that she’s not the person everyone believes she is.
Like the woman who loves to play it, Egyptian Rat Screws is fast-paced, intense, and not for the faint of heart, but I promise a good time. So grab a deck, a partner, and your most colorful curses, and I’ll teach you the two-person version. ERS can also be played with more people, but I find one-on-one is the most intense… like any good romance, right?
The object of the game is simple: The winner ends up holding the whole deck. Of course, play can easily be transformed into something even wilder, such as Strip Rat Screws (Oliver’s favorite) or Drinking Rat Screws, a game our four best friends, Tessa, Lacey, Jocelyn, and Zoe, played a few times in college.
Before playing, the players face each other across a table and choose who goes first. Player One is selected arbitrarily—closest birthday, rock-paper-scissors, or the ever popular “least hormonal.”
Leading off is no advantage, so save your voice for more important arguments, because there will be many. Each player gets twenty-six well-shuffled cards and may not look at them.
To begin, Player One flips the first card face-up on the table. If this card is a 2 through 10, Player Two puts her first card on top of the card on the table. Again, if that card is a number card, Player Two goes again.
The action begins when either player puts down a Jack, Queen, King, or Ace. When a face card is revealed, the other player must try to “beat” it by placing another face card of equal or higher value on top of it. Depending on the face card Player One has put down, Player Two has only a certain number of tries to beat it: one for a Jack, two for a Queen, three for a King, and four for an Ace.
If Player Two can’t beat the face card in her allotted number of tries, Player One gets all the cards on the table. (“Strip” ERS losers would shed one article of clothing; drinkers, take a gulp.)
If Player Two lays down another face card in her allotted tries, then Player One has the same number of tries to beat that card. (If more than two players are in the game, just keep moving around the table.) It’s not uncommon for the pile to grow to five or even ten cards, which results in a constant shift of power as each play becomes more and more valuable.
That’s it. Oh, except for the slap rule. And I don’t mean each other. When two of the same card is laid on the pile consecutively, the first player to notice can “slap” the pile and gets to keep all the cards in it. This is why it is very important that a player lays down his or her card without looking at it.
In the case of a simultaneous slap, whoever is on the bottom gets the pile. (Hint: Remove rings and clip nails; there can be blood!)
When I step back and look at the many aspects of Zoe’s character, it’s no surprise ERS is her favorite card game. In many ways, this riotous game is much like Zoe herself: hilarious, unpredictable, fast, wild, addictive, and irresistible fun. Enjoy!
