Another early arrival pulled in behind him, and the two people in the white sedan eyed him with curiosity. He raised a hand in greeting, and the driver lifted a finger from the steering wheel in response.
When it became glaringly obvious that he wasn’t going anywhere, Amy finally opened her door and climbed out of the car. Mikey straightened and stepped away from the truck. Their eyes met and lingered, somber expression meeting somber expression. She waited by her rear bumper, in the dappled shade of an overhanging maple tree. A breeze fluttered the hem of her dress. In the pink floral outfit he always referred to as her “Sunday-go-to-meeting” dress, she looked sweet, demure, sexy in spite of her attempt to be the opposite. The Amy Tardiff he knew, the warrior woman who took no prisoners, bore little resemblance to this pious woman carrying a hymnal in her hand.
She’d been crying. Although she’d tried to hide it with make-up, he could tell. Her face was set in hard, unyielding lines. “What do you want?” she said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“It’s Sunday morning. I have a choir to direct.”
“This won’t take long.”
“You might as well not bother. I already know what you’re about to say, so I’ll go ahead and say it for you. This isn’t working out. We don’t want the same things from life. There’s no trust between us. How am I doing so far?”
“I don’t want to fight.”
“Neither do I. But it looks as though it’s come to that.”
His hand, buried deep in the pocket of his jeans, curled into a tight fist. “You’re a good person, Amy. You deserve better than this. You deserve somebody who loves you.”
“And that’s not you.”
It was a statement, not a question, so he didn’t respond. But it lay there between them, the naked truth. He didn’t love her. If she was being honest with herself, she didn’t love him, either. Someday, she would find somebody else, somebody who was right for her, and the difference would astound her. He knew, because he’d been there. Maybe, when that day came, she’d even thank him.
But that day wouldn’t be today.
A single tear spilled from the corner of her eye. “You know what?” she said. “I was about to dump you, anyway. You were a lousy boyfriend.”
There was enough truth in her words to sting. It was only fair. He was hurting her. She had a right to retaliate. Eye for an eye, and all that jazz. Fitting, considering their location.
Silent and stoic, he stood his ground.
“I need to go,” she said. “Church starts in fifteen minutes.” The parking lot was filling rapidly, members of the congregation staring at them with curious eyes. “While I’m here, I want you to go to my house and get your things. Leave the key on the kitchen table, and lock up behind you.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. I’m already over it. If I’d been paying attention, I would have seen that this had disaster written all over it from the beginning. If anybody asks, I broke up with you.”
“You tell people whatever you need to. I’ll back you up.”
“Honestly? I don’t give a damn what you do. I’ll mail you the bracelet tomorrow.”
He hadn’t intended to let her get under his skin, but she managed anyway. “Keep the goddamn bracelet, Amy. It was a gift. I don’t want it back.”
“Whatever. Have a nice life. Don’t forget to leave the key.” Hymnal tucked in the curve of her elbow, she strode toward the rear door of the church. Amy walked with long, ground-eating strides, always in a hurry to get to wherever she was going. How she managed in heels, he’d never been able to understand. He’d once thought it was attractive, that walk. The walk of a woman who knew what she wanted and where she was going, who wasn’t wasting any time getting there. Now, it just seemed angry and bitter. A woman who was in one hell of a hurry to get away from him.
He was still watching when the church door slammed behind her with shocking finality.
* * *
IT DIDN’T TAKE long to gather what was his. He didn’t keep much at her house anyway. A pair of jeans and a tee shirt, a change of underwear, a spare razor and toothbrush. Moving automatically, like a robot, Mikey collected the detritus of a failed relationship and gracelessly crammed the items into a paper bag he found in the kitchen. Bag in hand, he laid her house key on the kitchen table, took a last look around, and silently let himself out of the house.
He stowed the bag behind his driver’s seat. Then sat, hands on the steering wheel, trembling like an orchid in a tropical storm, while an assortment of emotions ping-ponged around inside him. Amy had been his hub, his anchor. Like an iron band wrapped around him, she’d held him together. Without her to anchor him in place, he was terrified that he’d erupt like Kilauea, his volcanic center sending jagged pieces of him hurtling off into space.
Alone isn’t the worst thing in the world. You’ve done it before. You can do it again.
The truth is, you’ve been alone ever since Rachel died. How’s that for honesty?
That glaring truth didn’t offer much comfort.
This wouldn’t go over well with the family. Collectively, they thought that Amy Tardiff had hung the moon. The fallout was likely to be astronomical. He might have to relocate. Maybe even go into the Witness Protection Program. Otherwise, they were likely to gang up on him and insist that he crawl back to her on his hands and knees and make things right.
You’re a U.S. Marine, for Chrissake. Man up, Lindstrom! Stop being a pussy.
He took a hard breath, muttered, “Semper fucking fi,” crammed the shifter into gear and drove off to an uncertain future.
PAIGE
SHE WAS AT the IGA, picking up a few items for Casey, when she heard the news. Two middle-aged women ahead of her in line at the check-out were gossiping. “I knew he’d never marry her,” the sour-faced blonde said, lifting canned vegetables from her shopping cart and stacking them on the conveyer belt. “He grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. Thinks he’s too good for the likes of a schoolteacher.”
Winding her purse strap around her finger, the second woman said, “But that doesn’t really make sense, does it? His father’s the high school principal.”
The blonde’s mouth thinned. “Among other things.” She hefted a large bag of dog food onto the belt. “I hear that’s nothing more than a hobby for him. The man has more money than Midas. All from writing those filthy books loaded with sex and gore and a dozen other varieties of godlessness.”
The hand that wasn’t clutching the purse strap tightened on the handle of the brunette’s shopping cart. “Have you ever read one of them?”
“I don’t read that kind of garbage. I only read Danielle Steel. At least her books are decent.”
“All I’m saying is that—” The woman tilted her head, perhaps to assess her companion’s frame of mind. “—it doesn’t seem likely to me that Mikey would look down on her because she’s a teacher.”
“You’re welcome to believe whatever you want to believe.”
“And Amy is such a peach. She taught my daughter last year, and Becky just loved her. Are you really sure he broke up with her?”
“I saw it with my own eyes, at church on Sunday. They were arguing in the parking lot, and when she came in, she was crying. It’s all over town. Everybody’s talking about it. He told her he needed his freedom, and then he dumped her, just like that. In the church parking lot, of all places, a half-hour before the Sunday morning service!”
“Doesn’t sound like Mikey. I always thought he was a good guy.”
“Maybe he was, once upon a time, but not any more. My daughter went to high school with him, and she says that since he came back from Iraq, he’s turned into a real jerk. Surly and snotty and unfriendly. She works at the diner, and she says that some days, he’ll barely give her the time of day.”
“Well, he did lose a leg in Iraq. That’s enough to change anyone, wouldn’t you say? But it’s a real shame they broke up. I was so sure they’d
end up married.”
“So was everybody. But if he’s that much of an ass, she’s better off without him.” The blonde pulled out her checkbook, opened it, and began writing a check. “Steffie says he thinks he can throw his weight around now because he’s wearing that police uniform.” She tore off the check and thrust it at the cashier. “Mark my word, he’ll be angling for the chief’s position any day now. And he’ll probably get it, because money talks, and his father’s loaded.”
“But he puts that money to good use. Geneva Lathrop told me that Jesse was one of the donors who financed the construction of the Public Safety Building.”
“Whatever.” The blonde sniffed, as though she’d smelled something foul. “I also just heard that Mikey’s ex is in town. That singer, Paige What’s-Her-Face. No wonder he dumped Amy. How does a normal woman compete with that? The girl is rich and famous, attractive enough, if a man goes for that skinny, leggy look, and you know how those Hollywood people are. No ethics, no morals. They’re all alley cats. I’m sure she wouldn’t think twice about stealing another woman’s man.”
“I don’t know, Lin. Her parents are decent people. Her father coached my daughter’s basketball team. The girls all loved him. He’s a sweetheart.”
“Well, I’ve never met him, so I can’t say for sure. But his wife is something else. Casey Bradley always thought she was better than everyone, walking around with her nose in the air.”
“Really? I don’t remember her that way at all. Are you sure don’t have her mixed up with her sister? Mikey’s mother? Now, that one was a piece of work. She’s settled down now, and turned into a regular human being. But back in the day, she was pretty wild. Booze, drugs, boys. You name it, Colleen Bradley tried it. We were cheerleaders together in high school, and she always thought she was a little bit better than the rest of us. Until she got knocked up, anyway. She wasn’t quite so uppity after that.”
“Does it really make a difference? They both came from the same litter of pups. Spent their early years running around in cow manure, and still thought they were better than you and me.”
Paige bit down hard on her tongue to keep from saying something. These women were trashing more than one person she cared about—not to mention questioning her own moral code—but it was pointless to speak up. Things were the same no matter where you went. If people had nothing good to say, it was a certainty that they’d say it. No matter whether it was rural Maine or bustling Los Angeles, the local grocery or a tabloid magazine, the sharks all swam the same. The only difference was the size of the pool they swam in.
The second woman paid for her purchases, the two women departed, and Paige piled her groceries on the belt. The cashier, who’d been in her algebra class in high school, rolled her eyes and said, “Bitches.”
“But so entertaining,” Paige said dryly.
“Don’t let them get to you. They’re just a couple of old windbags with no lives, so they have to stick their noses into other people’s business.”
“So is it true? Mikey and Amy really did break up?”
“Apparently. Tongues are wagging all over town.”
“The news hasn’t filtered to our house yet. Or if it has, nobody’s said a thing to me. My little sister will be crushed. She adores Amy.”
“I figure that whatever happened, it’s their business. They’re both good people. Those meddlesome old biddies should leave them alone.”
As she carried her groceries out to the car, Paige pondered what might have happened. She knew they had issues. Mikey had admitted it. The night she’d met Amy, the woman had made it clear that Mikey was her property, that if Paige knew what was good for her, she’d keep her distance. Not a good foundation for a relationship. And a bit presumptuous on Amy’s part. As if Paige was angling for a man, and had some intention of reeling Mikey in. If—and it was a very big if—she ever did get around to angling again, Mikey would be the last guy she’d angle for. Been there, done that, bought the tour shirt.
But it was still a shame. Mikey’d been in a relationship with the woman for a year. Even if, as the gossips said, he’d been the one to initiate the break-up, it still had to hurt. To paraphrase Neil Sedaka, breaking up was hard on both parties. And Mikey already had a lot on his plate. He didn’t need this. No matter whose idea the break-up had been, Paige felt sorry for him. But there wasn’t a thing she could do. Send him a pizza, or a condolence card? Did they even make break-up greeting cards? Sorry your relationship didn’t work out, but this large pepperoni should make it all better.
Best to keep her mouth shut and stay out of it. Casey was right. Time was the best healer. Not tea and sympathy from an ex-girlfriend, no matter how well intentioned. If Mikey wanted to talk about it, he’d let her know. In the meantime, she would mind her own business.
Even if it killed her.
MIKEY
HE’D DEVELOPED A precise method for taking a shower. Everything in its place, every step pre-planned, so there’d be no surprises. Bath towel hanging in the same location every time. Soap and shampoo in a wire rack suspended from the shower head. Non-skid bath mat laid flat, abutting the tub. His aluminum crutch propped against the wall next to the toilet, where he could easily reach it when he was ready to step out. And the prosthesis left on the bed, where there was no risk of water damage.
This was one of the first things he’d learned in OT, because surprises were the last thing any amputee needed. It was crucial to set up your home in an organized, methodical manner, so you wouldn’t trip over the work boots you’d accidentally left in the middle of the floor, or carve up your hand on the filleting knife you’d left hanging over the edge of the kitchen counter. Since obsessive neatness had been bred in him, this kind of organization was an ideal fit. Trina, his occupational therapist, had called him her star pupil. Then again, Trina had a massive crush on him, so he had to take everything that came out of her mouth with a grain of salt.
Mikey worked up a good, soapy lather. Bracing himself with the grab bar he’d installed, he reached for the shampoo bottle. It opened a little hard, so he released the bar, leaning one hip against the molded plastic wall so he could use both hands on the stubborn cap. Pouring shampoo into his hand, he thumbed the cap closed and reached up again to return the bottle to its assigned spot.
It happened so quickly, he had no time to react. A soapy wall, a wrong move, and he lost his balance. Mikey grabbed for the bar, but his hand, sticky with shampoo, couldn’t find a grip. His foot skidded on the soapy surface of the tub and he flailed his arms in a wild dance. In a final desperate attempt to stay upright, he latched onto the shower curtain. But it was cheap, and too flimsy to support a man his size. It let go with a massive tear, plastic curtain hooks snapping and shooting across the room. Taking the ruined curtain with him, he went ass over teakettle over the side of the tub. His head slammed against the porcelain toilet and he landed, hard, on his shoulder, balancing there for an instant before he flipped onto his back so hard it knocked the breath out of him.
Pain. Shock. He lay gasping, stunned, unable to draw in a breath. Panic slammed into him. Helpless as a turtle turned on its shell, he huffed, lungs screaming for oxygen.
Years passed. Several of them, in a row. Then, as suddenly as it had stopped working, his diaphragm swung back into action. He drew in a gulp of air. With his second gulp, the panic receded. Mikey touched his head, winced, stared at the blood on his fingers. Great. This was how they’d find him, dead as a doornail, wet and soapy and bare-ass naked, wrapped in a moldy shower curtain, his skull cracked open and spilling brains all over the goddamn bathroom floor.
Anger was a healthy thing. Wasn’t that what they said? The force of it told him he probably wouldn’t be croaking today. He could keep his humiliation private.
Which left the pain. Slowly, methodically, he took a mental inventory. He didn’t think anything was broken, except his head, and that was bleeding like a son of a bitch. He’d wrenched hell out of the shoulder. If he’d torn anything
, he’d be in for another long round of physical therapy. Idiot. He could have broken a leg, a hip, even his back. This was his own fault. Pride goeth before a fall. In his case, literally. How many times had Trina bugged him about buying a shower chair? And how many times had he refused?
His dad’s Aunt Janet had owned one of those chairs when he was five years old. Every time Mikey used her bathroom, there it sat, aged and yellowed and foreign, mocking him. Aunt Janet had been in her eighties, and her entire house had been bathed in an odor that was one part talcum powder, one part stale piss, and one part old age. He’d hated going there, and that chair had been a part of it. Twenty-five years later, he could still see that cracked chair, could still smell the cloying odor of Aunt Janet’s house.
He was thirty years old. Not ready for Geritol or adult diapers. Or for a shower chair like the one sitting in Aunt Janet’s bathtub.
Know your limitations. Another thing Trina had told him. “It’s healthy to stretch yourself,” she’d said. “But know your limitations. Don’t overreach. Listen to your body. It’ll tell you how far you can safely push yourself.”
As usual, he was wrong and Trina was right. Being the arrogant SOB that he was, he’d been so damn sure he could do anything, like balancing on one leg in a soapy shower without support. Look, Ma, no hands! Next time, he might not be so lucky. Just how lucky he was, he wouldn’t know until he stood back up. And he was still covered in soap. Which meant that if he could manage to stanch the blood pouring from his skull, he was going to have to get back in the damn shower to rinse off. On one leg. With no shower curtain.
That should be fun.
Muscles screaming, Mikey slowly sat up. He balled up the ruined shower curtain and tossed it aside. Managed, somehow, to get himself up on his one knee. Then, using his crutch the way Trina had taught him, he worked himself back upright. He would have to send the woman a box of chocolates. Right now, she was at the top of his list of favorite people.
Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1 Page 15
