by Nancy Warren
“Hi,” he said, as though he weren’t in a designer suit, “What can I get you?”
“Where’s Fanny?” asked the customer, a small frown pulling down the corners of his mouth.
“She’s in the kitchen. She’ll be out in a minute.”
“Who are you?”
Caroline’s lips twitched as Jon tried to work out how to answer that one. He shot her a half-amused, half-frustrated glance and went with the simplest of truths. “I’m her son. I’m helping out.”
“Okay. Give me two Miller drafts.” The burly customer narrowed his eyes and glanced from Jonathon’s stylishly cropped hair to his designer suit, and Caro had the feeling he was tempted to lean right over the polished mahogany bar to check out her ex-husband’s shiny shoes. She could have told him they were handmade in Switzerland. Jonathon had a thing about quality. “You know how to pull a draft?” the customer asked doubtfully.
“Sure thing.” He’d worked summers in the bar from the time he was old enough to drink to the time he finished college. He looked unlike any bartender she’d ever seen, but she had to admit, he pulled a great draft. She had a feeling he put a little extra flourish into the procedure simply to impress the big guy.
He took a crumpled bill, made change, and didn’t so much as turn a hair on his millionaire head when his customer handed him a couple of coins by way of a tip. Even though Jon was beneath contempt as a human being, she had to give him credit as he dropped the coins into a communal tip jar.
“While I’m here, can I get you something?” he asked Caro.
She was about to refuse, but stopped herself, feeling witchy. “Yes, thanks. A Singapore sling.” It was the most complicated drink she could think of and she settled back, not because she was remotely thirsty or wanted to drink alcohol in the middle of the afternoon, but because she wanted to watch Jonathon bungle.
Of course, he didn’t.
Her irritation rose as he built her a Singapore sling as smoothly and competently as he did everything, until, in record time, she had a perfectly layered drink. She watched his long-fingered hands hesitate, then choose a purple plastic sword. “To match your dress,” he said.
She wanted to hit him. What was he doing noticing her lavender linen sheath? He stabbed a maraschino cherry with the sword and she fancied he’d done something very similar to her heart.
He placed the drink, each perfect layer shimmering, in front of her, and grabbed a draft for himself.
As Jonathon knew perfectly well, she didn’t drink much, and when she did she preferred a glass of dry white wine.
“How is it?” he asked her politely as he came back around to reclaim his seat beside her. A quick glance showed a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
She sipped her drink. Having only the foggiest recollection what a Singapore sling was supposed to taste like, this one seemed to fit the bill. “It’s very nice, thank you.”
While she’d watched Jonathon prepare the drinks, she’d had leisure to think more about Fanny’s birthday celebration and the more she thought about it the more certain she was that her ex-mother-in-law wanted to be right here for the big day.
“Can I make a suggestion?” she asked him.
“You know how to make a better Singapore sling?”
She shook her head. “I was thinking about Fanny’s party. Why not have it here?”
He blinked at her, drank beer, and blinked at her again. “Have her eightieth birthday party in the bar where she works every night of her life?”
“I think this is where she wants to be. If she won’t go out to the party, bring the party to her.”
“But, I can’t ask people…like Rose and Walt Elliot, the mayor and councilors to a bar.”
“Then they’re not your mother’s friends,” she said a touch acidly. “Any friend of your mother would be happy to come to this place. If they’re too snobby to be seen here, then they’re too snobby for your mom.”
It was so simple, she couldn’t believe he was having trouble grasping the concept, but he still stared at her as though she’d lost her mind. She leaned closer, which was a mistake because she caught a whiff of his aftershave, the same brand he’d worn ever since she first met him. Drinking it in made her dizzy.
Her reaction annoyed her enough to make her blunt. “You are the snob. Not your mom.”
His jaw clenched and his eyes grew a shade colder. “I’m not a snob.”
“You’re the worst kind. A snob who doesn’t realize he is one.”
He practically spluttered, “I went behind the bar and served drinks, didn’t I? Would a snob do that?”
“Yes.” She could see he was not taking her opinion all that well. Tough. The truth hurt sometimes.
“A snob would stop his mother working at a roadhouse when everyone knows he could afford to fund a very comfortable retirement.”
She laughed out loud. The first time she’d done so in his company in months. “It would take more than you to stop your mom from doing whatever she pleases.”
“Would a—”
“Look,” she interrupted. “You asked me for my advice and I’m giving it. Host the party here.”
“And make my mother pour the drinks for the whole town? That sounds like a big treat for the old girl.”
If he didn’t know how much of a treat that would be for his mother to sling beer for the bigwigs of Pasqualie, he was further out of touch than she’d realized.
“She doesn’t have to do the serving. You could hire bartenders and waitstaff to serve food, but this is her place—I’m certain she wouldn’t want to leave it. Do this for her.” She touched his sleeve impulsively, then wished she’d cut off her arm before doing anything so foolish.
Under his sleeve was one of the arms that had hugged her so often, beaten her at umpteen games of tennis. Attached to his arm was his hand, the hand that had held hers through movies, walks, and touched her in so many ways.
She pulled back as though she’d been burned, wrapped her fingers around the cool glass and took a sip of her drink, tasting of fruit juice and rum. She swallowed, but it didn’t sit well and that must have shown on her face.
“Why don’t I get you a glass of wine?” he said softly beside her.
“No. This is fine.”
He blew out a breath. “I’ve booked everything. Already sent out the invitations. It won’t be easy.”
“I gave you my opinion. What you do with it is your business.”
“Oh, don’t get salsa on your tail feathers, I know you’re right.”
She laughed a second time in surprise. “Don’t what?”
He seemed startled at her reaction until he realized what he’d said, then he grinned ruefully. “One of Mom’s. I can’t believe I said that.”
He was so nice when he was human, and actually admitted he’d screwed up, that she couldn’t help but warm to him. With a gasp, she realized how stupid she was being and then made a show of glancing at her watch. She gasped again, this time because of the time.
“I have to go,” she said, jumping up. “I’m late for my next appointment.” She scrambled for her purse, gesturing to her barely touched drink. “I’ll leave some money for that.”
He waved her away. “I’ve got it.”
She wanted to argue, but being in his own mother’s bar she’d end up losing and looking foolish, so she forced a pleasant smile to her face, hating to be indebted to him even for a drink she didn’t want. “Thank you.”
Amusement lit his eyes once again. He knew her too well. “You stopped me making a big mistake for Mom’s birthday. Consider one barely sipped cocktail a thank-you.”
She inclined her head and reached for her pen and notepad.
“What are you? A roving stenographer?” he asked as she snatched up her things.
“No,” she said, feeling a delicious thrill. She couldn’t believe with all the friends they had in common that no one had blabbed. And that Jon didn’t bother to read the competition. Mentally, she kissed e
very one of their friends for their discretion so she could watch his face when she told him the news herself. “I’m a reporter.”
His head jerked back and his eyes blinked open in surprise. “A reporter? I don’t recall seeing any of your stuff in the Standard.”
Oh, she was enjoying this. She was really enjoying it. Maybe it didn’t revenge her for finding a next-to-naked woman in bed with her husband, but it was a start. “I don’t write for the Standard,” she informed him with relish.
“But what—”
“I write for the Pasqualie Star.”
“What?”
She ignored the wrathful shout, turned to hide her grin of triumph and scooted out the door.
She really did have to hurry or she’d be late for her next appointment. She was writing ad copy for Pasqualie Taxidermy. The owner already had a slogan in mind—you snuff ’em, we stuff ’em.
3
JONATHON TOOK two furious steps after his wife.
“You can’t stop her, Jon. You’ll only look like a fool.” His mother’s voice stopped him cold. She was right, and, when he took a second to think about it, storming after Caro to throw a big-boy temper tantrum would accomplish nothing.
There could be one reason and one reason only why she’d take a job with that tabloid and that was to get back at him.
When he had time to cool off, he’d appreciate her tactics, as a fencing opponent might appreciate a good hit. And he’d have leisure to indulge the probability that if she was full of negative emotions toward him, at least she wasn’t indifferent.
So he turned slowly on his heel, ignored the burly workmen who’d both half risen—drawn in by Caro’s helpless look as so many men were—and stomped back to the bar.
He pulled out his wallet. “I owe you for a draft and one Singapore sling.”
“Who had the sling?” Fanny asked as she waved at him to put his money away.
“Caro.” Even through his fog of fury that she was working for the Star, he had to chuckle. “I guess she didn’t believe I could make one.”
“You’re rusty,” said his mother sternly, eyeballing the drink as a jeweler might study a diamond. “Too much grenadine.”
He leaned forward and ruffled her absurd hair. It was as soft as a baby’s and as red as ketchup. Why couldn’t he ever love an ordinary woman? “How would you like to spend your birthday here?”
She glanced at him, an expression of smug delight crossing her face. “I don’t know how you manage without Caro in your life.”
Frankly he didn’t know how he managed life without Caro either. But he was going to have to figure it out soon. Or get her back.
He preferred the second option.
He ought to return to the office, but, while his mother had been spying on them from the kitchen, she’d also put together his favorite Reuben sandwich, so he settled back to finish his beer and to eat while visiting with his mom. Maybe not a lot of mothers were interrupted by strange characters who came to get change for the pool tables, or to fetch a beer, but she was who she was.
He left feeling better. Still not happy his ex was at the Star of all places, but not seething with frustration. However, once he’d put out a couple of fires back at the Standard, he picked up the phone.
“Mike Grundel,” came the voice of his oldest friend.
Mike was the news editor of the Star and he’d raised muckraking to an art. He’d recently exposed a nasty secret development deal that had caused a local developer to move most of his business out of town. Of course, Mike had worked with Tess Elliot, who’d turned out to be one of the Standard’s best reporters, so it wasn’t all his doing.
But his old buddy was going to pay for keeping the fact that Caro worked for the Star from his childhood friend. “Can you manage a squash game tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
Jon had considered getting all the info about Caro and the Star from Mike tonight, preferably by force, but Mike spent most evenings with his fiancée, Tess.
He and Mike had fallen into the habit of early squash games at his club, alternating with boxing bouts in the mildew pit Mike insisted on frequenting. Since they’d never grown out of the kill-or-be-killed mentality they’d developed as kids, conversation during play was not an option.
“Can you swing breakfast afterward?”
“No problem.”
“I’ll book a court for six-thirty. And I’m warning you, I plan to take your face off.”
There was a short pause. “Any particular reason?”
“I saw Caro today. On assignment.”
“She finally told you. Good.”
“Yeah.” He could blast Mike about how he should have told him first, but that might sound like sniveling. Taking Mike’s face off was better.
“IT’S A GREAT HONOR to be chosen Miss Pasqualie Motors,” Caro whined the words out loud in a valley-girl voice as she typed them into her computer amid the noisy chaos of the Star newsroom.
“Congratulations, I didn’t know you were a competitor,” said Mike Grundel on his way past her desk.
She shot him a dirty look. “Very funny. I’m trying to sound like an eighteen-year-old airhead,” she said, frowning at paragraph one of her story. She’d been on paragraph one for half an hour, unable to concentrate after her recent visit with her ex.
“You’re making up quotes?” Mike’s easy humor vanished. The Star might not care about serious journalism, but Mike sure did. As news editor he was a stickler for getting the facts right and his no-holds-barred style of reporting was famous. In his book, making up quotes would be right up there with robbing a bank, perjury or assault—worse, probably.
While Mike would break a lot of rules to get a story, he was scrupulous about reporting it.
She held up a hand to stop the lecture she could see building. “Talk to Mel. She told me to do it.”
Mel was the managing editor and, ever since Mike had been promoted to news editor a month ago, the two of them had been indulging in loud and colorful disagreements several times a day. It kept the troops entertained and seemed to afford the combatants untold delight since they went after each other so often.
Mike stood by her desk a bit longer. He picked up a pen, clicked the top a couple of times and replaced it. She wondered what was coming next.
“I’m playing squash with Jon in the morning.”
She dropped her gaze to where her fingertips rested on the keyboard. “You don’t sound too happy about it.”
“He told me he was going to take my face off for not telling him you were working here.” In spite of the fact that he and Jon habitually lobbed insults, she could tell he felt guilty.
She sighed. “I never asked you not to tell him, but I’m glad you didn’t. It was great being the one to drop the news.”
“Tess and I promised each other we wouldn’t get in between you two or the next thing you know we’d be having a rumble. Boys against girls.”
It wasn’t tough to imagine Mike in a rumble, but the image of the rest of them going at it was silly enough to make her smile. “Please don’t let our mess cause trouble for you, too. You’ve got a wedding to plan.”
“Yeah. I still feel bad about not telling Jon.”
“You could always let him win tomorrow,” she suggested.
He snorted. “I feel bad, but not that bad.”
She laughed, then said, “I’m sorry you’ve ended up in the middle of this. Really sorry.”
“I hate it. You know that, don’t you? I…” He screwed his eyes shut as though in pain. “I care about you two.”
In spite of her heavy heart and a pricking behind her eyes, Caro smiled up at him. “Tess is good for you. You just expressed a feeling.”
STREAMING WITH SWEAT and feeling as if he’d bashed out not one iota of his frustration, Jon stepped into the shower thankfully and let the water pound his stretched and tired muscles.
He reminded himself it wasn’t Mike’s fault Caro worked at the Star, nor wa
s it his responsibility to tell her almost ex-husband about her movements. Still, a man had loyalties to a childhood friend, didn’t he?
He tried to tamp down his justifiable resentment as he strode into the club restaurant.
The waitress had barely filled Jon’s cup and placed the stainless-steel carafe on the table when Mike arrived, his shoulder-length hair still damp. He wore his most disreputable sweats. Jon knew it was his way of giving the finger to “the establishment.” They’d been friends too long for such behavior to surprise him or the staff and members at Pasqualie Lawn and Tennis Club. Mike kept it up anyway, more from habit than anything, Jon suspected. Or maybe to emphasize to the world that he might be marrying into one of the town’s wealthiest and most established families, but it wasn’t going to change him.
Mike must have been thinking something along the same lines as he sank into the seat opposite Jon’s and poured himself coffee. “Next time we’ll go to my club.” He shot a glance of pure devilment at Jon.
“For a free dose of athlete’s foot,” he said, recalling with loathing the smell of mold in the change room of Mike’s boxing club. The place ought to be condemned, but guys like Mike loved it. “If I want to see that many tattoos in one place I’ll hang out at a biker bar.”
“Same difference. You’ll still end up beaten to a pulp,” Mike told him cheerfully. “At least at the club you get a helmet and mouth guard.”
“Couldn’t you at least find somewhere clean?”
Wet hair flicked his shoulders as Mike shook his head. “Your trouble is you’re a snob.”
“That’s what Caro said,” he told his old “buddy,” glaring at him as he did so. “Right before she dropped the surprising news that she’s working for my competition—your paper.”
Mike picked up a menu and opened it and Jon fought the impulse to pull it from his hands and whack him over the head with it. The hunter-green leather folder wouldn’t do Mike’s thick head any harm, but the gesture would make Jon feel better. “I had nothing to do with hiring her, you know. That was Mel.”
“I can’t believe she’d stoop to that…that…tabloid.”
