Cole in My Stocking

by Jessi Gage

  Which meant I’d be around town for a while, definitely ’til after the New Year. I put in for two weeks’ vacation at the non-profit I worked for in Philly, but I could envision it turning into even more. However long it took, I’d whip that to-do list into submission and get home as soon as possible. Then I could forget the buzz of excitement that had taken me off guard upon seeing Cole again. I could forget Newburgh and all the insecurities that had come rushing back in the past hour.

  After some grunting and groaning, Cole got the old wheel off while the other officer looked on. Remembering I had the lug nuts in my coat pocket, I got out of the car as Cole slid the new tire into place. I held them out, the metal chilling on my palm.

  Cole took them one by one as he needed them. It made me happy he did it that way instead of grabbing them all at once, like he wanted to prolong our interaction or something. Delusional of me, I know. I was reading too much into it.

  Officer Busty looked on, leaning on the back of the beast. I felt her sneaking glances at me, but I had yet to catch her in the act. Did she know who I was? Did she know what I was, or rather what Newburgh claimed I was?

  She and Cole had been having a quiet conversation when I’d gotten out of the car, but with me standing nearby, they’d clammed up. All the lug nuts gone, I muttered a thank you to the rescue squad and returned to my seat warmer. The second my door closed, their conversation resumed.

  My cheeks got hot. I was suddenly in high school again, after the night Chief Tooley had picked me up for underage drinking. The arrest he’d threatened me with had never come to fruition, probably because my dad had talked him out of it—I’d never asked. Arrest or not, my reputation, which had already been on the sketchy end, took a hit anyway.

  My locker had occupied the coveted social real estate between Emily Knox’s and Freddie Calhoun’s lockers. Emily and Freddie were popular kids who ran in a better dressed, more law-abiding circle than I did, but they’d always been nice enough to me, and me to them. After that night, they’d started freezing me out. I would show up to change my books, and silence would descend on locker row. The second I’d slam the flimsy metal door and walk away, conversation would ramp up behind me. I’d catch whispered bits of condemnation as I hurried to class. “Drunk off her ass… You hear who she left with?... Three guys at once, older dudes… Lives with her alchie father next door to the dump…that’s where trash like her belongs.”

  It sucked being back home. I hadn’t even made it to the trailer yet, and I already felt about as welcome as a kid with lice at a sleepover.

  Officer Busty finally moved when Cole opened up the back of the beast to stow the jack and the flat. She got in her cruiser and took off with a perky honk and a wave he returned with a big old grin. Not that my eyes were glued to him in the rearview mirror or anything.

  I powered down my window when he came alongside my door. I meant to thank him again, but what came out instead was, “Friend of yours?”

  He lowered his eyebrows in question like he didn’t know who I was talking about.

  “Officer Busty,” I blurted. “She a friend of yours?”

  Cole’s eyes crinkled at the corners. His expression softened. It was as good as a confession of undying love. They were a thing. Officer Oakley and Officer Busty. Their children would be blessed with physical perfection and out-of-this-world coolness. They’d be riding their Fisher Price Harleys in an asphalt driveway with no weeds growing up through the cracks. White picket fence, the whole shebang.

  Envisioning their perfect life together shouldn’t have caused a sharp pain behind my breastbone, but it did. People felt irrational emotions when grieving. Dad’s death would likely skew my reactions to all kinds of things in the coming weeks. After six years of schooling resulting in a double master’s in public health and counseling psychology, I knew this. Unfortunately, knowing the pain was irrational didn’t make it any more bearable.

  “Her name’s Stacey,” Cole said. “She’s married to a professor at UNH.”

  I felt my nose wrinkle. “You’re having an affair with a married woman?” If we’d been parked beside a canyon, I’m pretty sure my screech would have echoed for many uncomfortable seconds.

  An honest to goodness chuckle huffed from between his lips. “We’re just friends.”

  “Oh.” Idiot. “Thanks for the tire change.” I started the window on its upward trajectory lest he see me turn as crimson as my turtleneck with embarrassment.

  At considerable risk to himself, he reached in, moved my finger from the button and lowered the window back down. “You staying at your dad’s place?” he asked, as if I hadn’t nearly guillotined his arm.

  “Um.” I stared at his long fingers. His forearm rested well inside the ledge of my window. He was in my space, elbow bent to let his hand dangle far enough down that he almost grazed the puffy down of my sleeve. I felt the almost-touch like tiny jolts to my skin.

  He moved his arm back to the window frame, taking his electric fingertips with him.

  When I tried to meet his eyes, they were in that blasted shadow again. “Sorry. What?” He’d asked me a question, hadn’t he?

  “You staying at your dad’s place?” he repeated.

  “Yeah.” I nodded too many times. “Dad’s place,” I echoed unnecessarily. Mentally giving myself a shake, I resolved to get the heck out of there before I made an even bigger dork out of myself.

  “Go on home. I’ll follow to make sure you get in okay.”

  “You don’t have to do that.” It occurred to me I didn’t know where Cole lived. He’d said he was headed home. Did that mean he lived in Newburgh? There wasn’t much reason to be on Newburgh Junction Road unless your destination lay in the dearth of main arteries the town represented. How far did he live from Dad’s place? Scratch that. None of my business.

  “I know I don’t have to,” he said. “I’m doing it anyway. Go on home, Mandy. I’ll take off when you’re safe inside.”

  The set of his jaw said he wasn’t going to budge. “It’s not my home,” I muttered before powering up the window.

  He let me this time and followed me through Newburgh’s blink-and-you-miss-it downtown and around the unmarked turn-off that led toward the dump…and Dad’s single-wide mobile home.

  A few minutes later, I waved from the bay window. Cole flashed his headlights in acknowledgment and backed down the driveway. A current of excitement warmed me from the inside out as I looked forward to seeing him at Dad’s funeral.

  And that, kids, is what we call messed up.

  * * * *

  Cole pulled into the rear parking lot of Troop A headquarters. Route 125 had been a ghost town tonight. He could have used the distraction of a speeder. Hell, he would have even taken a broken taillight. No such luck. After parking the cruiser and cutting the ignition, he thunked his head against the headrest. He was so screwed.

  He’d known when he’d watched his buddy, Craig “Gripper” Holcomb, slip away two nights ago that Mandy would be back for the funeral. He’d braced himself to see her again. He’d psyched himself up to tell her all the things Gripper had made him promise to say. He’d known it wasn’t going to be easy, not when six years hadn’t diminished his attraction to her one single iota. But he’d determined to grit his teeth and do what needed to be done. For Grip.

  He should have known no amount of preparation would help him. He was beyond help. He was toast. He was FUBAR.

  Mandy was even more beautiful than she’d been as a kid. Ever since he’d known her, she’d looked ten years older than she was. As a high-schooler, she’d been a knock-out brunette who would have been at home on the silver screen with her blown out waves and heavily-made-up almond-shaped eyes. It had always bothered Cole that he noticed her, but honestly, a man would have to be sans pulse not to notice a beauty like Mandy Holcomb. How Gripper could stand letting her out of the house dressed in those short skirts, he’d never know.

  But she hadn’t been dre
ssed like that tonight. She’d had on flattering, not-too-tight jeans, those flimsy Ugg boots all the women liked wearing nowadays, and a chunky down coat over a turtleneck sweater. Somehow she’d managed to look even more striking all covered up.

  Her skin was still flawless. She still wore her hair in long, shining layers the color of black coffee. Her eyes were still a green so vibrant he’d had a hard time looking away from them when she’d stood in the beam of his headlights to hand him lug nuts. Without the eye makeup, their almond shape was more obvious, more intriguing.

  She looked different, but she was still drop dead gorgeous. And now she was legal.

  Technically she’d been legal when she’d left town. She’d been eighteen. But she’d been a high-schooler. He never would have made a move on an eighteen-year-old, not when he’d been practically twice her age and friends with her father. But she wasn’t eighteen any longer. She was twenty-four now.

  If only he could still be thirty-four, the age he’d been when she’d left. If only he could have stopped aging and waited for her to catch up.

  Jesus. He was becoming delusional. Maybe he should lie down on a cot and catch a few Z’s. Yeah, and then Stace would bust his balls for wimping out on the night shift.

  Stace.

  He glanced around the lot. His friend’s cruiser was two spots over. Great. She’d be on him like white on rice the second he walked into the station. “She’s an adult now, Cole,” she’d told him yesterday when he’d filled her in about Gripper’s death-bed confession and how he was supposed to relay all that messed up shit to Mandy. “If you see her again and there’s still a spark, you shouldn’t let her leave town without telling her how you feel.”

  He’d convinced himself there wouldn’t be a spark. Scratch that, he’d tried to convince himself. Unfortunately, his pragmatic side had known better. He’d been sparking for Mandy for six pathetic years. Tonight, the second he’d seen her, the spark had shot up into the air like a frigging grand finale at a fireworks show.

  The December night chill seeped into the cruiser. He should go inside and face the music.

  Stace would razz him about changing Mandy’s flat. He’d known from the twinkle in her eye when she’d arrived with the WD-40 that she’d pegged him. He’d been patrolling Newburgh more heavily than usual tonight, hoping to glimpse Mandy coming back into town. Like a fool. Only he hadn’t felt foolish when he’d found her on the side of the road in actual need of assistance. He’d felt like her hero.

  He snorted. Like she needed or wanted a hero. That girl didn’t need anybody. She’d proven it when she’d left town and made her own way in the world without help from her father or anyone else. Look what she was doing with her life. Look what she’d overcome. Mandy Holcomb was one remarkable woman.

  And now she was back in Newburgh. Even though the timing sucked because her dad had just died, even though he was too old for her, he was already planning ways to entice her to stay.

  Chapter 2

  My heart sank as I turned on the lights and tried to figure out where in this disaster zone my dad had called home I was going to sleep tonight.

  The scent of dust hung thick in the air. Every flat surface that could be spotted through the clutter had a coat of grime deep enough to draw patterns in. I knew because I made a smiley face on the top of the microwave between a half-empty bag of popcorn and a stack of paper plates. Pill bottles, ash trays, bowls of spare change, remote controls, pantry items, empty beer cans, insect repellent, ammo boxes and other miscellany covered the eating nook in the kitchen. Stacks of newspapers, gun periodicals and junk mail made a maze of the living room floor. Instead of bringing old coats to the Goodwill to make room in the closet, Dad had added a coatrack to the living room’s mismatched furniture. It was top heavy with outerwear—a camouflage shell for hunting, flannel shirts with worn elbows for warmer weather, a bright orange parka for plowing, a slicker for when it rained. Some of my old coats peeked from underneath. Piled on top were hats of every sort, knitted, fur-lined, ear-flapped, even a hard-hat. A breeze from walking by too fast would topple the whole thing.

  I’d known my dad had some hoarder tendencies, but he’d gotten out of control since I’d been away. This made me both sad and resentful. Sad because clearly, Dad had relied on the cleaning and tidying I’d done when I’d lived here, and leaving him all those years ago had doomed him to this mess. Resentful because when I’d left, he’d been healthy and strong. He could have cleaned if he’d wanted to. But he hadn’t. And now this mess was mine to deal with.

  I’d barely recovered from an accelerated undergrad track followed by three intense years of graduate study. Now, instead of settling into the job I’d been so proud to land at Philly’s acclaimed Public Health Management Center and celebrating Christmas with my friends, I was here.

  Being a selfish jerk.

  Suck it up, buttercup.

  Maybe Dad and I hadn’t acted like family, especially the last few years, but we were family. Family mattered. Dad’s death mattered. I just wish I could feel the truth of that without having to constantly remind myself of it.

  Leaving my suitcase in the living room, I went down the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms and bathroom. Dad had added three rooms onto the trailer once upon a time, transforming the back half from single-wide to double-wide. What looked like a modest mobile home from the driveway was actually quite spacious and well-equipped inside.

  I peeked in the rooms as I went. There was the weight room, where I’d discovered my love for running thanks to a treadmill Dad had rescued from the dump. That room also contained two storage racks full of canned foodstuffs and bottled water, Dad’s insurance against government overthrow, zombie apocalypse, or the occasional week when he never got sober enough to go out for groceries. There was the office with its roll-top desk and six-foot-tall safe filled with collectable guns and important documents. I still remembered the combination, even though the last time I opened it had been to get out my birth certificate and Social Security card before moving out. Across from the laundry area was my old room. Beyond that, across from the bathroom was Dad’s room, the trailer’s one original bedroom.

  The door to my room was closed. When I pushed it open, I found everything just the way I’d left it. The dresser, beanbag chair and bedspread were gray with years of dust. Cobwebs softened the corners of the room and stretched between the floor lamp and the mirror, where I used to style my hair and do my makeup before heading out to school or parties or friends’ houses. I wouldn’t be able to sleep in here until I aired it out and gave it a good cleaning, which I was too exhausted to contemplate tonight.

  Closing the door behind me, I returned to the living room, where I waded through a pile of boots and scraped a few loads-worth of clean laundry off the couch. The old three-seater was nappy and saggy, but it would do for tonight. I fluffed a decorative pillow I’d made in Home Ec. and spread one of Grandma’s afghans out for a blanket.

  The phone rang.

  It was quarter to one in the morning. I went to the kitchen, where a corded phone hung on the wall next to the fridge. “Hello?” I answered.

  “Did you disarm the security system when you got in?”

  I recognized Cole’s voice, even though I’d never spoken to him on the phone before. It felt oddly intimate, especially given the hour. So intimate I stood stunned. My brain refused to process what he’d just said.

  “Mandy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah? You disarmed the alarm?”

  Focus, Mandy. I glanced at the ADT panel on the wall. “No. It wasn’t set.”

  “You have a look around? Everything in order?”

  I wouldn’t exactly say that, but the disorder wasn’t anything he’d be concerned about. He meant had anyone broken in. “The house is fine.” The deadbolt had been secure when I’d unlocked it.

  “You have a look up in the shop?”

  Dad’s gunsmith shop above the garage
was on the same security system as the trailer, operated from the panel inside the trailer’s front door. “No.” Cole’s implication that someone might have broken into Dad’s shop made my shoulders tighten. “Should I?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Just set the alarm for motion-off tonight. I’ll come check out the shop sometime tomorrow.” He meant I should arm the door and window alarms but not the motion detector. Dad and I had called it the “at-home” setting. That’s how he would arm the system when he’d come in from the shop for the night. No matter how drunk he was, he never forgot to arm the security system.

  It had been two days since he’d passed away, four since he’d been taken to the hospital after a hospice worker had found him unconscious in his bed. He would have been mortified to know the shop’s security had been reduced to deadbolted doors and top-rated window locks for a few days.

  “You remember the code?” he asked at my silence.

  I’d never forget it. I’d punched it in so many times after coming home from school. Dad would often still be in bed. He’d work on guns or visit with friends late into the nights and sleep away the days. “Yeah.” The phone cord reached to the door. I walked over and set the alarm. It made a series of beeps.

  “Good girl,” Cole said, his voice deep and close. My toes curled in my boots. “Don’t worry, okay? It’s just a precaution.” A precaution that had made him pick up the phone and call me at nearly one in the morning. “Sleep tight.” He hung up.

  “Goodnight,” I said to the dead connection.