Out of Eden

by Beth Ciotta

  Jack tugged at the brim of his EPD ball cap, shielded his eyes from the bright morning sun. Mild temperature. Clear skies. A perfect fall day except for the crap he was learning about his brother-in-law—not that he was surprised. He focused on Kylie, a ray of sunshine in a shit-storm. “I notice you’re not naming names.”

  “You mean of the women Frank seduced?” She shrugged. “If you really need to know, ask Deputy Ziffel or Boone. Like I said, I don’t like to spread gossip.”

  Jack smiled in spite of his dark mood. “You’re a good soul, Tiger.”

  She frowned at that, then narrowed her eyes. “Why aren’t you more upset?”

  “I’m upset.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “Trust me.” Jack set aside his coffee. “Anything else?”

  Kylie cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up her nose. “It’s twisted if you ask me, but everyone in Jessica Lynn’s social circle? They don’t want anything to do with her. I don’t know if they’re scandalized or just uncomfortable, but…it’s like she’s paying for Frank’s sins. And everyone else in town? Can’t say they have much sympathy.” Kylie blushed. “Forgive me for saying so, but Jessica Lynn has always been uppity. She’s snubbed a lot of folks—”

  “Including you.”

  “Including me. I always thought your sister was self-involved and I never much cared for her, but I wouldn’t wish this scandal and heartache on anyone.”

  Jack felt a pull in his chest. He ached for his sister, but he ached for Kylie, too. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to soak in her goodness. A selfish desire that shamed him. He felt like a fucking vampire, starving to feed off of someone else to fill a need. “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  More than enough. But it didn’t explain Jessie showing up at his house in the middle of the night. There had to be something more. Something that had pushed her over the edge. Something he’d have to investigate. He reached over and squeezed Kylie’s hand. “Thanks for being open with me.”

  She squeezed back, smiled.

  Heat burned a path up his arm and wrapped around his heart. He didn’t want to let go and was surprised when Kylie didn’t pull away. He registered a connection, more powerful than a physical attraction, although that was damned strong, too. He wanted to lean in and kiss her, a deep, scorching kiss. He wanted to make her feel, burn. He looked into her big brown eyes and noted empathy, desire and, oh, hell, alarm. Talk about mixed signals.

  “I should go,” she said, looking flustered. “I have obligations and appointments and…stuff.” She broke contact, ruffled Shy’s head and swiped up her backpack.

  Jack stood. “I’ll walk you back.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “It is if I want to get my wheels,” he teased. “I’m parked across the street from McGraw’s.”

  “Oh. Right. I forgot.” She didn’t say anything more, just hurried ahead.

  Jack kept pace with Shy tagging behind. “How are the renovations going?” he asked, hoping to break the sudden tension.

  “The interior, great. The exterior…I have a meeting with the HPS later today.”

  “Good luck.”

  She grunted. “Like you mean that.”

  He held her elbow as they crossed the street. “I do mean it. If you get the permit, you’ll be within your legal rights to alter the storefront however you want.”

  She glanced over at him with a smart-ass grin. “Afraid I’ll alter the storefront no matter what?”

  “A little, yeah.”

  “Would a sweet girl break the law?”

  “A sweet girl with spunk might.”

  “You think I’ve got spunk?”

  “I think you’ve got something.”

  Kylie slowed as they neared his SUV. She didn’t meet his gaze. “Thanks for walking me back. And thanks for breakfast. If I can help with Jessica Lynn, well…just give a shout.” She tweaked Shy’s ear, then saluted Jack. “See ya.”

  He nabbed her wrist, felt her racing pulse. Why so skittish, Tiger? He glanced at the store, wary of the man inside. “Kylie.”

  “What?”

  “My intuition?”

  “What about it?”

  “Nine out of ten times it’s dead-on. There’s something suspicious about Travis Martin.”

  She screwed up her pretty face and lowered her voice. “That’s insane, Jack. He’s—”

  “Just…be careful.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  KYLIE’S HEART POUNDED as she blew into McGraw’s Shoe Store. So much for not crushing on Jack. And, although he hadn’t blatantly flirted, she’d sensed a blip of romantic interest on his part. It was actually a little scary. Theirs had always been a one-sided love affair. What now?

  Kylie fell back against the door, caught her breath, then duly lost it again. “Oh, my God.”

  “You hate it.”

  “No. I’m just…amazed.” Kylie pushed off the door and stepped deeper into McGraw’s. Thoughts of Jack took a temporary backseat to the radical changes of the store. She was bowled over by how much Travis had accomplished since yesterday evening. The walls and ceiling were painted. He’d revarnished the old cashier counter purchased by her great-grandfather in the late 1800s. Presently, Travis-the miracle-worker was perched on a ladder, attaching funky new lighting tracks to the chic new ceiling. “Did you work straight through the night?”

  “Knocked off before midnight.”

  Holy cow. “And you’ve been back at it since…”

  “Early this morning. I’m motivated.”

  “I’ll say.” Kylie dropped her backpack at her feet, spun around and soaked in the changes. Instead of four stark white walls, McGraw’s now boasted walls of contrasting but coordinated colors. Two were painted a cross between cranberry and mahogany—Caliente, Travis called it. The third wall was a rich, creamy yellow—Starburst. The fourth—antique white. The ceiling—black. It all blended beautifully with the walnut hardwood floors. But when she envisioned the Andy Warhol prints hanging on the vibrant walls, her hand-painted chairs, the abstract shoe displays, the eclectic throw rugs and her not-so-practical incoming stock, she imagined various patrons rolling their eyes and taking their business elsewhere.

  “Are you disappointed we went with bold instead of bright?” Travis asked.

  “Absolutely not. You were right. If I’d gone with hot-pink and banana-yellow, I could’ve kissed all of our male customers goodbye. Now I’ll only drive away maybe eighty percent of our clientele.”

  She was only half joking.

  Imagining the drastic renovations and seeing them for real were two different beasts. Faye was right. Spenser was going to freak. Her mom and grandma were going to faint. Or maybe one would faint and the other would applaud. It’s not like they ever agreed. One thing was sure. This wasn’t her great-grandpa’s store. Or her grandpa’s. Or her dad’s.

  What have I done?

  She didn’t know whether to celebrate or puke.

  “Most of the guys around here shop for shoes at Sears or Kmart,” Travis said not unkindly. “Including, usually, me.”

  He was right. Even though McGraw’s offered a fair selection of casual shoes and work boots, they couldn’t compete with department store prices. Not without forfeiting quality. One thing her dad and grandpa had always insisted on, aside from practicality, was quality. Kylie agreed wholeheartedly on that score.

  “If I recall, aside from the customized sneakers you bought to cater to the Apple Festival tourists, the majority of the new stock you ordered is targeted at trend-conscious women.”

  “It’s not like they don’t exist in Eden,” Kylie said as she wandered the store, envisioning fashionable displays. “Take Jessica Lynn Cortez and the snooty women of the Garden Club. They travel all the way to Indianapolis or Chicago to buy their shoes. I figure if they want to blow good money on pretentious designer shoes, they might as well blow it here. At the same time, I want to offer a trendy sele
ction for those on a stricter budget as well as the younger set. Faye’s daughter, Spice, always complains about how they can’t get any cool shoes around here. This town may be stuck in the past, but kids are still influenced by what they see on TV. They want to dress like Hannah Montana and Paris Hilton. The Gossip Girls. I’m pretty sure those celebrities don’t wear Hush Puppies.”

  “Sounds like you’re attuned to a new wave of potential consumers.”

  She moved to the base of the ladder. “Meaning I should stop second-guessing my decision to renovate?”

  “Meaning you should trust your instincts.”

  It had been easier when she’d been fueled by cosmopolitans. “What if I run the business into the ground?”

  “Is that you talking? Or your dad?”

  What was he, psychic? “Why would you say something like that? You didn’t know my dad. You barely know me.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve lived here awhile. People talk.”

  Her cheeks burned. A) Because she’d just talked to Jack about his sister and her cheating husband. B) Because at some point people had talked about her dysfunctional relationship with her dad.

  Intensely private, Kylie strived to keep her personal life, well, personal. She’d never complained about the way her dad patronized her. Never whined about the fact that he’d left the business to Spenser, even though she was the sibling who’d inherited the sales savvy and the passion for shoes. She never vented. Never bared her soul. (Except that night at Boone’s.) Yet people talked about her pitiful attempts to impress her dad?

  Kylie curled her fingers into her palms. Breathe.

  At some point,” Travis said, concentrating on the lighting fixture, “a person has to stop living for others and start living for themselves. Usually that involves risk.”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” One of Spenser’s favorite clichés. He always said it with a twinkle in his eye. Just before he did something risky. He rarely failed, and when he did he shrugged it off. If he’d had the inclination, he would’ve painted McGraw’s hot-pink and banana-yellow without flinching.

  I can be bold. I can take risks.

  Travis slipped his tools in his utility belt and climbed down. He opened a minicooler, nabbed two Cokes and handed one to Kylie. “I know about trying to live up to family expectations. I know about not being appreciated for who you are.”

  Even though he was concentrating on his pop-top, she felt as though he was looking into her soul. It was both weird and wonderful.

  “I spent my whole life trying to impress my dad,” she said, popping open her own can. “Don’t get me wrong. He loved me. But he worshiped Spenser.”

  It was hard to blame him. After all, she worshiped Spenser, too. He was carefree and kind. Honorable and courageous. Smart and motivated. Fun.

  “Sometimes it’s hard to shine in a big brother’s shadow.”

  Kylie sipped her soda. “You speaking from experience, Travis?”

  Another shrug.

  She angled her head and studied him hard. Something was different about him today. Not in his appearance, but in his manner. He’d always been so reserved. Today he was downright talkative. She’d never known he was so smart. So well spoken. His word choice and views suggested he was highly educated. Yet, he mixed paint in a hardware store.

  There’s something suspicious about Travis Martin.

  Kylie shook off Jack’s warning. Truth was, before yesterday, she’d never had a meaty conversation with Travis. Just short exchanges about shoes—shoes he’d never been thrilled with. Maybe he’d always been this worldly. Suddenly she was curious as heck about the man.

  “So who did you disappoint?” she asked.

  “Who didn’t I disappoint?”

  She noted his skilled work, thought about his creative advice. “You should be an interior designer.”

  “In a perfect world, yes.”

  “In a not-so-perfect world?”

  “I’m grateful for the chance to renovate McGraw’s.” Travis drank his Coke, stared up at the exposed wiring. “Trust your instincts, Kylie.”

  She glanced around the store, considered all the time she’d spent here as a kid and a young adult. All she’d learned from her grandpa and dad. There had to be more to her life than McGraw’s Shoe Store, but at the same time, she took great pride in the family business. If Spenser trusted her to run things, then he should trust her judgment. It’s not like he had his finger on the pulse of footwear or Eden. She was sick of playing it safe. Sick of just getting by. Department stores and the Internet were killing small businesses like McGraw’s. Shaking things up wasn’t a purely selfish act, she told herself. Shaking things up was a matter of survival. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “What can I do to help?”

  “Don’t take this as an insult, but just now, nothing.”

  “Don’t take this as a cop-out, but good. I have an appointment.” She hadn’t expected to lose the morning to Jack. Hairdoodles was at the other end of town, and Petunia, who’d squeezed her in, had impressed the importance of being on time.

  “No problem,” said Travis

  “I’ll be gone for two hours. Three, tops.”

  “I’ll tackle lighting and trim.”

  “The new shelves and mirrors, the stock—they’ll be arriving between today and tomorrow. I paid extra for express shipping,” Kylie said. “If I’m not here, would you sign for them?”

  “Sure.”

  Travis’s pep talk rivaled a double cosmo, stoking Kylie’s anxious spirit. She felt giddy and light-headed. Drunk on the potential power of change. “I’m getting a makeover today,” she blurted.

  “Why?”

  “Because this store isn’t the only thing that needs beautifying.”

  His puppy dog eyes flicked over her denim-clad body. “You don’t need beautifying.”

  Embarrassed, she glanced away and shoved her fingers in her back pockets. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like I think I’m ugly. I’m okay-looking. But I’m a product of my family’s mind-set. Sensible. Practical.”

  “Subtle.”

  “I don’t want to be subtle. I want to pop. I want to wow.”

  “Ah.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean, ‘ah’?”

  “You want to catch a man’s eye.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Chief Reynolds?”

  “No.”

  Travis’s fleshy lips twitched as he snagged another lighting fixture from a cardboard box.

  Kylie flushed. “Am I that obvious?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “I’m lying.”

  “Dang.”

  He smiled and climbed the ladder.

  She snagged her backpack and headed out.

  “Kylie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Don’t let Petunia give you a perm and don’t let her cut your hair above your shoulders. You need length to offset your round face. And if you’re going to change your color, go with subtle highlights. Auburn would make those whiskey-brown eyes of yours really pop.”

  Dazed, she hovered on the threshold. In addition to a fancy vocabulary, Travis-the-hardware guy had an impressive flair for interior and hair design. Who knew? Certainly not anyone in Eden or she would have caught wind. That was gossip fodder for sure. “You used to be in another profession, didn’t you?”

  He concentrated on the wiring. She noticed he didn’t look quite as confident with the electrical aspects of the renovation. She also noticed his clenched-jawed silence.

  It only fanned her curiosity. Surely he’d been an artist of some kind. Or at least a wanna-be artist. Had he lost his business? His passion? Had there been some sort of scandal? Was he worried he’d be laughed out of town if people knew he’d been a craft artisan or a window trimmer? “Were you an interior designer?”

  “No.

  “A fashion consultant?”

  “He
ll, no.”

  “What did you do?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  CARMINE “CHICKIE” Mancini sank into the leather armchair across from Dr. Bennett. It was his second visit. The second time he’d ignored her offer to recline on the tapestry-covered couch. He wasn’t crazy, he was dying. He was sure of it. The dizzy spells. The heart palpitations. The dreams.

  His family doctor, Salvatore Aversi, M.D., had assured him he wasn’t suffering from a fatal disease. However, he was flirting with a heart attack. Tests had verified high blood pressure and high cholesterol. In addition, he was overweight and over fifty. Aversi had prescribed medicine, a healthier diet and exercise. He’d also targeted stress as a contributing risk factor. Obsessing on his eminent death was only hurrying it along.

  Obsessing, my fucking ass.

  Carmine didn’t believe he could cheat fate by altering his lifestyle. Besides, who wanted to live without living to the fullest? No red meat? No salt? Cut down on tiramisu and sign up at a gym? Fuck that. But that stress thing…That he could not ignore. He’d had an episode during a business meeting last week, although he’d stepped outside before the boys had witnessed the worst of it. His consigliere, Jimmy “Buddah” Cerone, had driven him to the emergency room. From the way Carmine was sweating, gasping for air and gripping his chest, Buddah had assumed a heart attack. Carmine, too. He’d almost pulverized the attending physician who’d diagnosed his condition as an anxiety attack. Mafia bosses did not suffer anxiety attacks. Even after Aversi returned his call and concurred, Carmine didn’t believe it.

  He’d sworn Buddah to secrecy. He didn’t want to worry his wife or his girlfriend. He didn’t want his nephew, Mario “Turk” Gallo, the acting underboss of the Mancini Family, to sense weakness. He didn’t want word to leak to the commission that he was knocking on death’s door or, worse, falling apart. He didn’t want anyone moving in on him before he’d made things right. In the recent string of prophetic dreams, his mama kept saying, “You gotta make things right.” He knew what she meant or at least he thought he did, but he didn’t know how he was supposed to mend that bridge. And what if he was wrong? What if she was referring to some other wrong? “Do it, Carmine,” she warned. “Before it’s too late.”