by Dee Willson
“I’ll be fine.” I pump my biceps.
Karen laughs. My arms are quite puny. And apparently useless, considering I was putty in Bryce’s hands only hours ago.
“You show’em, girl.” She points to the kitchen. “I gotta check on the servers. Mingle and let me know if anyone looks bored.”
I make my way over to Karen’s husband. Frank is perched on a stool in the far corner of the room, four feet of empty space around him.
“Hey, Frank. Thought I’d come say hello.”
Frank raises his glass and flashes a smirk that leaves his face faster than a mouse sprints from a snake. I don’t take it personally. “Sorry to hear about Meyer,” he mumbles. His glass turns in his hand, ice cubes spinning round and round, jingling as they go.
“Me too,” I say, opting for diplomacy.
Time ticks in slow motion. I stand in silence, picking invisible dust bunnies off my dress. The only thing Frank and I have in common is Karen, and history has proven Karen isn’t a topic Frank participates in. I scan the crowd and recognize Frank’s ex-wife, Felisha. I smile to myself. Karen likes Felisha, sometimes more than she likes Frank, and invites her to every social function just to piss him off.
“Why don’t I refill that drink?” I finally say to Frank, itching to abort.
Frank gives me his glass and what might be a genuine smile.
The bar is a wall-to-wall make-your-own, fully stocked, with most bottles sporting pewter pour spouts. Like a mad scientist, I measure and mix the ingredients for my infamous Chocolate Monkey Martini. I’m in need of a buzz sweet enough to gulp. I’m pouring gin into Frank’s glass when I sense someone hovering behind me, radiating tension.
“It’s a big house, Thomas. We’ll talk another time.”
“Thomas isn’t here. He doesn’t like—”
“Parties,” I say, spinning to face Bryce. “What’s wrong, why do you seem so . . . intense?”
“Do I?” He throws his shoulders back, lifts his chest.
“Puff up all you want, I can still read you like a book. Something is bothering you. It surrounds you like a black cloud. Are you worried about Thomas coming?”
“Thomas is a big boy. He can do as he pleases. I’m just a tad disturbed tonight. I don’t want to talk about it now though.” He grips the back of his neck. “You can really see that?” It’s more of a statement than a question, and it causes him to put great effort into changing his demeanor. His facial features soften and a smile makes an appearance. He leans into me and my heart skips a beat at the thought of his touch.
Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.
He halts mid-motion, thrusting his hands into his pockets.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says. “You remind me of Hekate, the queen of the night and goddess of witchcraft. Ancient myths tell of Hekate patrolling the frontier between life and death, her thigh-length hair flowing down an ebony gown made of coral.”
I never know what to say when he talks like this, so I curtsy, holding the hem of my fire engine-red dress.
“I wasn’t sure if sleepless nights and lack of iron go with retro chic.” The low, scooped front gathers around my neck with braided straps. Very sixties. The dress makes me look classy yet sexy, but the holiday from hell has done a number on my hair and skin, so the dress is working on its own tonight.
“I love you in red, and gold, and black.” His composure evaporates and his eyes drop to stare at my Jimmy Choos.
When has Bryce seen me in black? The red is this dress, and the gold was my costume for Halloween. I seldom wear black anymore, the widow thing and all.
“When have you seen me in black?”
“About the playdate earlier—”
“Abduction is more like it. ‘Playdate’ would suggest it was preapproved. And I’m still pissed at you.”
“I should’ve done things differently, and I regret causing you to worry about your daughter’s safety. Really.”
My anger has long since lost its fizzle. Blushing, I recall the intimacy of his apology and my response to it. Forgiveness was granted, I suppose.
“You and Abby gave me the scare of a lifetime, but I’m over it. Abby and I had a long talk, and she won’t be leaving my side anytime soon.”
Until she’s forty.
“I’ve learned my lesson as well. Felines come for their kittens nails out and teeth bared.”
“Ya, well, take my kid and you’ll feel the wrath of the hunter.” I squint in an attempt to appear menacing. “That isn’t why you’re agitated, is it?”
“No.” He moves closer, a rogue smile toys with his lips, his bravado having found its way home. “Hmm, I like it when you fret over me.” The sparkle, the dashing silver I’ve come to appreciate, slowly ignites his pupils.
“Why so stressed then?” I ignore the way my body responds to his mischief.
He waves, whisking the question away. “I’ve decided to focus on you this evening. To let trouble fade into the darkness for one night.”
Well, that’s good, because I’ve got questions.
“You’ll need a drink,” I say, showcasing the array of bottles. “What’s your vice? A Chocolate Monkey Martini might do the trick.”
“Four shots of liquor is three too many. I’m not much of a drinker.”
“How could you possibly know how many shots go into a—”
“Maybe I was watching you create your concoction.” He points to my martini glass and peeks over my shoulder. “Any red wine here?”
I eye him suspiciously, uncorking a bottle of wine. “Maybe, Mr. Waters, you can tell me how you know what you know while I pour your wine.” I expertly navigate the bottle from his grasp.
He smirks. “An artist who knows her way around a bar.”
“An education isn’t cheap. I worked nights at a club.”
I also lived there for a time. The club owner let me stash my stuff and study during the day while the club was closed and quiet.
“Ah. I was trying to find an artist. Had I known to look for a barmaid, I would have found you sooner.”
Although I’m sure Bryce’s lines are well rehearsed, I have to admit I like this side of him. I can see how a woman could fall for his charms. I, on the other hand, am privy to the wily ways of a man on the prowl.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” I say, raising the glass of gin and tonic. “An interrogation is forthcoming. First this barmaid needs to make a delivery.”
Bryce nods and smiles as I breeze past him in search Dr. Social.
A minute later there is a light tug on my elbow as I pass a group of people talking in a circle.
“Have you seen anyone not having a good time?” Karen asks.
“Does your husband count?” I tease.
“Is he still sulking?”
“Not for long.” I raise the G&T and Karen frowns.
“After you’ve sated Frank, make rounds, will you, Chickpea? I need help steering conversations toward topics less gruesome. Police have been scouring the area for days, and the residents have their knickers in knots.” She sips her martini. “Dreadful this girl was killed, but ruining a perfectly good New Year’s party isn’t going to bring her back.”
“You are obnoxious,” I say with a smile. Karen is as distressed by Sonia’s death as everyone else in this town. I know because we’ve talked about it. “Just give me a minute with Frank, then I’ll do my best.”
Karen blows me a kiss, waving me away.
When my second attempt at a conversation with Frank fails miserably, I down my martini and follow Karen’s instructions, socializing with the townspeople present. Bryce has disappeared and Karen is right, the mood is tense, most talking about Sonia’s murder.
My first steps into the kitchen reveal a tight-knit group of local landscapers, headed by Manny and Loraine Capore. Apparently Sonia’s body was found on their land and someone suggested a monument be raised on the site. I hover on the verge of the circle listening to varying arguments. Most think the idea has m
erit but aren’t willing to fork over the funds to create such a memorial.
The woman standing beside Mr. Jenkins is the cousin to the owner of Smith’s Funeral Home in the city. It’s suggested she solicit her cousin for a freebie. The woman fidgets, obviously uneasy with the suggestion, until the Capore’s lodge their complaint. They are sorry Sonia was killed but they don’t really want a monument on their land. Loraine steps into the circle, her face and neck several shades of flustered. She doesn’t want to be reminded of the dead body every time she steps out her front door. Who would? The entire group falls quiet, obviously ruffled.
This is my cue. I slide between Mr. Simpson and Mr. Capore, displaying a red satin stiletto in a way that hikes my hemline and calls attention to my long legs. It’s an attention-grabbing trick I’ve learned serving drinks to the intoxicated, and works every time.
“Hey, guys, gals, hope everyone is having a good time,” I say, smiling. “I’m thinking of taking my daughter to Disney World this week. It’ll be our first time there. Any recommendations?”
I’m grateful that this is all it takes. Instantly the group, obviously relieved to be presented with a topic change, begins reminiscing about family trips to Florida, comparing notes and making suggestions. The discussion quickly takes on a life of its own, venturing from Disney to fantastical holiday destinations, and before making a clean escape, I take one last look at my handiwork. The group is no longer gloomy but roused and enthusiastic. I smile and duck from the circle, in need of a bathroom break.
Only a few steps down the hall, I’m forced to stop in my tracks. The obstruction is solid man.
“Talk to me,” Thomas says.
I try to squeeze past him.
“I thought you hated parties.”
He blocks my way.
“I came to see you. To get you to talk to me.”
“This isn’t the time, Thomas.”
“When is? And why not now?” His voice is sad and pleading, but his stance is arrogant. “Were you gonna leave for Florida without talking to me?”
How the hell does he know I’m thinking about going to Florida?
“Were you listening in on my conversation? I can go anywhere I want without your approval, Thomas. Besides, I don’t recall participating in Belize plans, so who are you to talk?”
“I didn’t mean you need my permission, and I left to allow you time to grieve. I left for you, because I thought it was what you needed, not because I didn’t want to be here.” He folds his arms across his chest and leans against the wall, blocking my path. “Please talk to me. I’m going crazy without you.”
I feel sorry for him. For a moment. Until my hibernating anger bubbles to the surface.
“What do you want me to say, Thomas? Why don’t you talk to your brother? You know, the guy who lives a few blocks over? Sofia’s uncle?”
He rubs his eyes. “I want you to say you understand. I want you forgive me. I want you to say you miss me too.”
I search aimlessly for the words to describe how I feel. Do I understand? Sort of, I guess. Thomas’s reaction the night of the pageant, though possessive and aggressive and not a response I condone, was obviously a character flaw that Thomas has difficulty controlling. This doesn’t mean I like those qualities, just that I can see how they can exist. He is a liar, yes, but has part of me already forgiven him? I know I’m not willing to ruin Abby’s friendship with Sofia over this. But I can’t deny that the side of Thomas I saw that night changed my feelings toward him. Did I miss him? Hmm, I don’t think so. But I’ve been deep in holiday grief and shock over Sonia’s death to feel much else.
“I would do anything to bring us back to the way we were before that night,” he says, studying me. “Abby and Sofia are close, and we could have something . . .” His voice fades, resolving not to go there.
He’s still after his happily-ever-after.
I juggle conflicting responses. As much as I hate to admit it, my entire being yearns for a man to hold, a father for Abby, and more children. I want a baby kicking inside me, a child shared with someone I love. But is that someone Thomas? I look into his eyes, which are dark gray at the moment, trying to find my place in them.
The words tumble without a conscious decision to speak.
“I wouldn’t live walking distance from my own flesh and blood and not be on speaking terms. I wouldn’t deny my daughter a relationship with her uncle when it doesn’t suit my purpose. And I sure as hell wouldn’t use fists to vent my frustrations.” I don’t let his tortured demeanor stop me. “We make choices, Thomas. This life offers us one chance to make a difference and experience love and you’re throwing it away. Take it from me, someone who would give anything for a family, there isn’t a reason big enough.”
I step closer. “Still, I treasure you and want you in my life.” Thomas looks hopeful, and I cringe at the thought of my next words hitting him hard. “As a friend. I forgive the person you are because I care for you. And I acknowledge that, as a friend, your choices might not be the same as mine. But that’s where it ends.”
Surrender hits his eyes and his shoulders slump.
“Tess, I know we can—”
“I hope you find your happily-ever-after, Thomas. I really do. But I doubt you’ll find it in me.”
Thomas bolts upright, the movement so fast I barely see it. One minute he’s leaning on the wall and the next he’s looming over me.
“You can’t want him,” he says, seething.
“I can want anyone I choose, Thomas.”
“He’ll hurt you.”
“How is that, Thomas? Will he spew mythical rhetoric until I pass out? Flatter me to pieces?”
“Open your eyes, Tess. And close your legs.”
I gasp.
Son of a bitch!
Not about to be bullied, I scramble for a retort to hurl but don’t get the chance. One second Thomas is standing in front of me, the next he’s gone.
Lucky for him.
Insanity
The clock ticks while I make my way around the room, chatting with friends. Bryce is nowhere within sight and Thomas, I assume, has left. To dilute outrage over my confrontation with Thomas, I’ve downed another three martinis and am on the verge of making a beeline to the bar for another when a set of large hands casually rest on my hips.
“Hey you,” Bryce whispers.
His breath warms my ear.
“Hey you back.”
I lean into him, feeling his muscles through my dress. He smells amazing.
All my thoughts, all my worries, even the curiosities I’d been pondering evaporate to nothing of consequence. The air between us thins until all that is left is an energy snapping from his body to mine, releasing gravity’s hold.
Something has changed; something about Bryce is different. He always stays an appropriate, almost careful distance from me in public and his hands are usually behind his back or in his pockets. And what would have been a simple touch with little meaning had it come and gone in a fleeting moment, instead lingers until it feels like much more.
Still, I don’t move and neither does he. Lost in this connection I forget about time, place, about the circle of people around us.
A familiar voice pierces our bubble and we both jump.
“Most murders are committed by someone the victim knows, someone close,” says Thomas, glaring over my shoulder at Bryce. “I heard you were close with Sonia MacKinnen.”
Bryce clears his throat, removing his hands from my hips. “You are not helping your case, Thomas.”
“You attract trouble. Had you stayed away—from Sonia that is—trouble wouldn’t have come to this small town.”
The crowd’s gaze darts from Bryce to Thomas, surprised by the sudden friction. Some realize this isn’t heading anywhere good and slink away in search of a less hostile environment. Curiosity gets the better of the few remaining and they hover to watch the show.
“I met Sonia once,” says Bryce. “I was at the restaurant where s
he worked. I was—”
“Picking her up. Typical Bryce style, of course. You have a way with the ladies. She went home with you, right? And then what?”
What the hell?
“Suggesting Bryce was involved in Sonia’s murder is pretty dark, Thomas,” I say.
“You have no idea what my brother is capable of.”
Bryce turns me, gently, drawing my attention. “Tess, Thomas knows I had nothing to do with Sonia’s death. I was at the restaurant waiting for him. I asked him to meet so we could talk, work out our differences, but he never showed. Sonia was drunk and—”
“All over you, no doubt.”
“Thomas, you shouldn’t—”
“No, Tess, you shouldn’t. You need to know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Yes, she does,” says Bryce, calm and controlled. “I’ve been telling you that for—”
“That is not what I mean, Bryce. I don’t want that shit here.” He moves closer. “Keep your mouth shut.”
“Thomas—”
“She needs to be warned,” Thomas grumbles, a finger in Bryce’s face. “She needs to know you haven’t had a relationship outlast a season. And that you’ll crawl under another skirt the minute you’re bored.”
Bryce steps forward, guarded. “You are way over the line and you know it.”
“I’ll cross countless boundaries to keep her away from you.”
“You need to stop.”
Thomas sneers. “Worried she’ll realize you’re a player? That you wine, dine, and—”
“If you care about her at all you’ll stop right now,” says Bryce, suddenly cross.
“Man, you two really know how to clear a room,” says Karen from the doorway. She’s clearly displeased.
I sweep the perimeter. A few spectators loiter in corners, eagerly waiting fists to fly.
“I’m sorry, Karen.”
“I don’t blame you,” Karen says, placing a pity pat on my arm. “But you two . . .” Her irate eyes drill the men. “Get control over yourselves. You fight like toddlers but with much higher stakes. Now, I don’t know what this argument was about,” she pauses, looking at me, “but I’m sure it could’ve been conducted with more respect to the guests in this house.”
