by Jacquie Gee
All this garbage about him building her living quarters upstairs—is that just a cover? I bite my lip. Do they share the apartment together? I yelp. Is he taking advantage of an old, possibly going-senile woman? What kind of a predator is he?
He’d sleep with an old woman just to take over her bridge? I mean, try to steal her land and business.
My mind spins around faster than I can process my thoughts.
A May-December relationship—that’s what she thinks this is. Just like the ones in the old black and white movies she loves so much. Oh, no. I pick up the pace. No, no, no, no, no. I claw my head. My palms are sweating. I stare back at my old Victorian’s porch. This can’t be happening. I tilt my chin and pray to the sky. Please, God, no.
My heart beats like a shaking fist. I don’t know who to hate the most. My eyes swing in the direction of the road. My horrible, cheating, conniving, former fiancé—I direct my loathing at old Victorian’s porch—or the new, self-serving, low-lying, yellow-bellied snake that slithers beyond that—
Oh crap, here he comes…
I jerk around.
“Hey!” he shouts.
I have to do something. I have to split them up. Mission one. And then I’ll deal with Jebson. “Hey!” I holler back.
He trips up onto the bridge out of the darkness, all cheesy smile and rippling muscles. It doesn’t help that he looks so good. Seriously though, this is just what I need, to deal with my mother’s potential sickoid lover, after a less than favorable encounter with my own. Like tonight isn’t crappy enough.
The visual alone of the two of them is killing me.
The screen door of the house clacks shut in the distance, and I suddenly think—how long has he been standing there? How much has he seen? How did he even know I was here?
I can’t bear the thought of him seeing that kiss.
I run a quick sleeve over my face, collecting any leftover tears before he enters the small cone of light, cast by the single-bulbed, bridge lamp, creaking overhead. I’d die if he caught me in a weak spot. Wouldn’t do much for arguing my case against him.
Moonlight hangs low over the water as I turn to face him. It illuminates his broad shoulders in a hazy, Hollywood-style light. I quickly avert my gaze to concentrate on the rippling waters below us, trying hard not to look in Grub-Guy’s cougar-womanizing face.
“I saw you out here and thought you might need a jacket—” he produces one “—and a beer?” His voice arcs playfully upwards. He pulls the beer from the interior of his coat, and wags the bottle in the air, as he strolls up bridge planks, joining me— the two of us hovering dangerously close to the sacred ninth plank. “Still pretty cold out here these nights.” He grins dropping his jacket over my shoulders. “You don’t mind, do you?” he adds when I don’t respond.
“No, of course, not.” I clutch the sides of it. “Thanks.”
“Here’s your beer.” He smiles, offering it to me again. “Unless, of course, you’re not a drinker, in which case”—he juggles the beer under one arm and pulls a travel mug out from under the other— “I brought hot chocolate.” He sticks it out to me.
I stare at him, blinking. Can he be any more charming? What am I supposed to do with this?
I don’t like this man. I can’t like this man. He could be sleeping with my mother—for goodness sakes. Erase that. At the very least he could be sleeping with my mother to be scheming with Jebson to take her property away.
But why?
He adjusts his glasses and twists his head back toward the road. “I—ah…” He turns back, eyes gleaming in the glow of the moon. “I just saw who left.” He smiles.
Oh, gosh, no. He did see it. He’s laughing inside at that lamzoid kiss. “So what’d you do, come here to gloat?” I snap.
“No-oo,” He looks bamboozled. He dips his chin, and his darned eyes catch in the moonlight again, shining like two, warm, bowls of creamy chocolate behind those lenses of his, which I swear, make him even better looking. I’ve never seen a guy look more adorable in glasses. Erase that, too. What on earth’s the matter with me? “I just thought, all things considered, you might want a drink. I’ve had dealings with the man before.”
“Have you?” lash out like a cobra.
He scratches his ball-capped head. “Look, if I’ve offended you in some way—”
He winces, almost like I’ve pained him.
I stare at him a long, hard moment, then turn away, embarrassment threading through my limbs. “How much did you see, anyway?” My mind lopes back over that stupid kiss.
Please tell me he didn’t see that stupid kiss.
“Enough to know he served you with papers.” He rests the hot chocolate on the rail and leans on his elbows next to me. He pops the cap on a beer and takes a swig.
“You could hear that from the porch?” I jerk around.
“It’s a small town.” He pops the cap on the second beer, hands it to me. “You hear everything” He turns and points. “No, actually, I was out on the porch.”
“For all of it?” My heart spikes to my throat.
“Just the part about the envelope.”
My heart settles back down.
“You gonna drink that thing or just let it get warm.” He nods toward my beer. “No, wait!” He swings around and back. “I almost forgot. You have a choice. Will it be Organic Green Grub’s famous Dark Velvet Cocoa with cinnamon whipped swirls… or… the beer from the local brewery, down in Coldwater?” He shifts between the two choices, sticking one out and then the other in a playful way.
“The cocoa,” I say reaching for it.
“Seriously?” His face quirks. “Meeting must not have been as bad as I thought.”
“And the beer.” I snag it from him.
“Now we’re talking.” He tips his bottle up adorably on his lip and breaks into an adorably deep-dimpled smile. Did I just think ‘adorably’ twice?
I down the cocoa. The temperature’s perfect.
“What do you think? Not bad, eh?”
“I think you can’t use eh. You’re not even Canadian.” I grin.
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
He flips around so that our fronts are facing, resting back on one elbow on the rail. His muscled chest form-fits his shirt, and I can see all its definition through it. “I’ll have you know, I’m officially a citizen,” he says, tossing up his chin.
“Are you?” I play along.
“Yep. As of Thursday, last.” He drinks. “Took me oath and signed me papers.”
“So, now you’re going to have to work on dropping the ‘me'.” I place the empty cocoa cup down on the rail and start on the beer. “Thanks,” I say, tipping it up and taking a swallow, then make a small wince face. It’s been years since I had a beer. No time for booze in New York City. “To citizenship,” I say.
I hold out my bottle clinking the side of his, then down half of it.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, mate, you’re movin’ a bit fast there, don’t’ you think?” He stares at my half-drunk bottle. “Lucky for you, I brought you a second.” He produces another beer.
“What, have you got a fridge in your jacket pocket?” I reach for it, and flap it open. He smiles, and I smile, and then I realize I’m fraternizing with the enemy. I take my hand from his chest, straighten my back and turn away. Focus, Becca. Focus.
Eyes on the water, elbows on the rails, where it’s safe, and there are no adorable eyes to gaze into.
“You like the beer, do you?”
“Who doesn’t?” I say.
“Well, that’s good.” He slurps his. “Not sure we could be friends if you didn’t.”
“Friends?” I whirl around. “Who said we’re friends?” I can’t have this happening. I can’t be friends with a man who sleeps with my Mom.
“Oh, I dunno…” he stammers. “I just thought maybe—”
“Well, you thought wrong.” I turn and stare off over the water. “I have enough friends. I don’t need anymore.”
“Oh.”
“Are you sleeping with my mother?” I blurt.
“Am I what?” Trent’s entire face erupts into terror.
“Are. You. Sleeping. With. My. Mother?” I enunciate every word.
“Are. You. Out. Of. Your. Mind?” His eyes flash.
“It’s an honest question.”
“All right then”— he turns his eyes to the river and sips his beer — “below her, yes.”
“But never on top of her?”
“No. Never.” He whips around. He’s serious now. I think I’ve offended him. Weirdly, a small part of me feels bad about that— despite the fact that he’s the enemy.
He looks aghast, his dimples faded, moonlight glinting off his glasses.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Positive,” he snaps. Crickets fill the dead air between us. “Got any more insinuating questions, you’d like to ask?”
“Not right now, thanks.” I gulp my beer.
For a long while, we just hang there, balancing elbows on the rail, staring off over the water, our shoulders brushing. I think to move away, but then I figure I might offend him if I do, so I don’t. Besides, I still need to ask him one more important question.
“Come to think of it,” he starts up, “there was that one time…”
“What?” I whirl around.
He’s scratching his chin and smirking at me. It’s all been a game.
“You!” I swat him, grazing his pecs, and he falls back laughing, both hands raised in surrender.
“Where’d you ever get a crazy notion like that anyway?” He stares into my eyes.
“From the jerk who just left.”
“What?”
“He called you her man-toy.” I toss him a smirky side glance.
“A what?” Trent chokes on his beer.
“I believe it means, her plaything.”
“Really.” He flicks up his brows, backhanding beer froth from his chin. “Well, I suppose I’ve been called worse over the years.” He laughs.
“Yeah, like what?” I turn, facing him, and then realize we’re a little too close. My breasts have just grazed his pecs, and everything’s responding. I hunch my back trying to minimize the effect, but God love ’em, my breasts are just too big for that. Trent glances down, and I feel my cheeks reddening as I catch him noticing.
“I’m not sure I know you well enough yet to share that kind of top secret information,” he stammers the sentence out, his eyes traipsing up from my boobs.
“Oh, really,” I say, running my tongue along the lip of my beer bottle. Then I realize just how provocative that was and my cheeks flush. What am I doing, and why can’t I stop it?
Come, on, Becca. Focus.
“Do you know anything about the papers he served me? I purse my lips and stare at him hard, testing to see if there’s any truth in what Jebson told me about his defending my mother by way of incompetency.
“Papers?” Trent rocks back on his heels trying to look uninvolved, but he’s acting too nervous for that to be true. “I know one thing, whatever’s in them is likely bogus.” He shifts his gaze away.
“And why do you say that?”
“Because that’s what me gut tells me. And my gut’s seldom wrong.”
“No other reason? Just your gut?”
He glances back at me. “Why, should there be more?”
“I dunno.” I look away. “Just wondering.”
His muscular chest peeks out of the buttons he hasn’t bothered to fasten at the top of his shirt. "Look, I did what I did because your mom was in trouble, okay?”
“So, you were involved.”
“To a minor degree, yes.”
“I see.”
He looks miffed. “You know what? I think this is something you should take up with your mother.”
Why does everyone keep saying that?
“Why? Why can’t you just tell me?”
“Because I’d be breaking someone’s trust.” He turns his eyes to the river. “And I don’t break people’s trust.”
“But you can convince them to claim incompetency.” I drink my beer.
“Okay, here it is.” Trent whirls around. “Your mother wasn’t thinking straight. Someone had to step in, and there was no one else around to—” he stops himself. His expression softens.
“Help her.” I finish his sentence. A mix of anger and shame brews inside my gut.
“Look, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s okay,” I raise a hand. “You’re right. I wasn’t here.” I down the beer. “You know anything about her refusing to take a deal?”
“Deal?” His expression sours. “That was no deal, that was—” the heat in his words simmer. “You know what, this is not for me to say.”
“According to Jebson, you’ve had enough to say already.” I stare in his direction. “Something about you pleading incompetency for her?”
His eyes snap saucer-wide. His previously dimpled cheeks turn red. “He had no right to badger her. She wasn’t thinking straight. I didn’t know what else to do. Who takes advantage of an old woman who isn’t thinking straight?”
“So you thought having her claim incompetency would be better?”
He stares at me. “I should go,” he says and breaks away, grabbing up the empty bottles and snatching the travel mug from off the rail. He turns his back and strides away.
“Wait! I didn’t mean to—” I call after him.
He shuts the door in my face.
Well, that didn’t go very well, did it? I turn and gaze at the river. At least he’s not sleeping with Mom.
Chapter 17
I leave the bridge and creep up the back stairs of my mom’s upstairs apartment, trying my best not to wake her. I’m assuming she’ll be asleep, or at the very least, resting in her room in her jammies. It’s already after eleven, unbelievably enough.
I must say, this sneaking in thing is incredibly easy now that the man-toy has fixed everything. Not a squeak left in the stairs. I test them. Wow. Where was this guy when I was in high school?
Man-toy. I laugh in my head at the idea, still climbing. Like Trent would qualify as man-toy material. He’s nothing but a grease-stained, backwards-cap-wearing, five-o’clock-shadow sporting, short-order cook. Though I must say, he is awfully charming, and he has a magical smile. He’s got that whole deeply-dimpled, eyes-squish-when-he-smiles thing going on that for some reason I’m finding irresistible.
The deep-dimpled smile of a traitor who stole my mother’s house, acting like he’d done her a favor, with a body that won’t quit. It just goes on and on, so toned and wickedly tight in all the right places. And then there’s that Aussie accent of his. The way his ‘C's crackle off his tongue are enough to make me want to unbutton my shirt.
How did I get onto this subject?
It’s the darnedest thing; I can’t stop thinking about him.
I glance away dreamily and stub my toe on the top stair. Dabbit!
Okay. Seriously. This is ridiculous, Becca. I hop around, rubbing my wounded toes. The man’s barely a citizen for goodness sake. Besides, whatever way you slice it, he’s taken over your family home—not to mention, he is possibly being part of some scheme with Jebson to take over the rest of your mother’s property. He encouraged her to plea incompetency before the courts. Gosh only knows what other damage he’s done.
I lean against the sidewall of the staircase and pull the subpoena from my pocket. I haven’t had the chance to read it yet. I slowly go over the highlights.
Question of incompetency. Tests ordered. Request for stay of proceedings until then. He was buying her time.
I look up.
How dare he. Tests. What kind of tests?
Matter: Tax evasion. Property: Heartbeat Bridge. How could property taxes be owing on a bridge that spans over water? Like it or not, I need to talk to him, in the morning.
I stuff the papers back in my pocket and push through Mom’s door.
&nbs
p; The door opens into the dim light of Mom’s new living room. She's left just one light on near the window. I creep over to it, close it off, and then head down the hall toward the bedrooms, gingerly opening the door to the guest one, where I fall back on the bed. I stare up at the ceiling, still thinking about the incompetency plea.
What kind of guy takes advantage of an old woman like that? Steers her in that direction. Why would anybody do such a thing? ‘He was only trying to help’ my butt! I roll over.
I hug the pillow. Why didn’t someone try to call me first?
I bring an arm to rest on my throbbing forehead, feeling the after-effects of the beer. I haven’t drunk in so long, it’s gone straight to my head. My eyes well up for the second time this evening. First for me, and now for my mother. What’s happened to my poor, warrior mom?
The light in the hallway flickers on abruptly, blinding me. Slippered-feet clatter past my door.
“Mom?” I sit up, turning the lamp on next to the bed. “Mom? Is that you?”
More scurrying feet.
I hear a closet door fling open, slamming against the wall outside my room.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
I lunge from my bed and race into the hall. Mom’s eyes meet mine, big as baseballs. Her hair is a mess, standing on end all over her head. She looks like some sort of cartoon witch. Her hands tremble, her fingers wrapped tight around the handle of an umbrella. “Get back!” she shouts and swings. “Get back, you hear! Get away from me!”
“Mom—”
“Don’t ‘mom’ me, you thief!”
I gulp.
“Get back, or I swear, I’ll call the police!”
“Mom, it’s me, Becca. Mom?”
“How did you get in here?” She snaps like an angry, cornered animal.
“Mom, it’s me. Your daughter.” I press a finger to my chest.
“Daughter?” She makes a vile face and pinches the neck of her housecoat closed at the throat. “I don’t have a daughter!”
I fall back, punched in the gut. “Mom,” I try again, and she clips me with the umbrella. “Mom!” I shriek. “Please!”
Her lips wobble as she stares at me in long silence, my heart strumming in my ears. “You lie, she spits. “I haven’t any daughter.” Her words completely throw me. She looks at me through bewildered eyes, and I fall back as if struck by a cannonball. She what? My Gawd—she doesn’t even remember having me. How is that possible? She knew me this afternoon. We had a conversation and drank tea.
