by Gina Ardito
Chapter 5
Terri
My first reaction was despair. I sank into the nearest chair—a cushy loveseat—with my back to the storefront window and sobbed. All too soon, self-pity heated to rage. Judgmental, nosy, closed-minded idiots. This town was full of ‘em. I never should have come back to Snug Harbor. Just because seven or eight caring, generous friends forgave me and offered me a second chance didn’t mean the rest of the residents here would.
I looked at the flyer again, my blood close to boiling. Great. If everyone on Main Street got one of these, if they were plastered on every streetlight pole between here and Coffield’s Wharf, if even the tourists saw this ugly photo, how could I possibly hope to have this business succeed long-term? And this time, when I failed, I’d bring down my aunt and uncle, Gary Sullivan, and his son. My vivid imagination pictured that little boy huddled in a cardboard box on wintry Main Street with people passing him by as he held out a hand for spare change. Yeah, I’m a detailed gal. Except, the boy’s features were grainy because I couldn’t remember what he looked like. Let’s face it, I don’t have a single maternal cell in my genetic makeup. Still, I could almost feel the poor kid’s shivers.
That powerful thirst returned, and I wondered if Gary had some brandy in the pantry. Hell, a quart of vanilla extract would do. I didn’t care about the taste—all that mattered was the alcohol content. In rehab, I heard about one woman who, after her family had removed all the booze from the house, had chugged down a bottle of Chanel No. 5. We addicts didn’t care where the buzz came from. When the need hit, it could drive a person to her knees. I was nearly there now, willing to crawl across a field of dead bodies for a drink. Desperate and wavering, I clutched my medallion, the totem that normally carried me through these battles.
Just one sip, some inner demon coaxed. You’ll feel so much better after a sip. You always think best with a little inspiration. You can handle one sip. You’ve been so good. One sip won’t hurt you.
That demon sure sounded convincing. I’d need reinforcements. Still holding onto the insidious flyer, I strode toward the kitchen doors and pushed through, my palm slapping painfully against the wood. Good. I needed to feel right now. The stainless steel gleamed, hurting my eyes, and I cursed under my breath as I struggled to avert my gaze from the shiny pantry, beckoning to me. I bet there’s a coupla different ingredients in there that’d give you a jolt. No one would ever know.
The office, I told myself. What I needed was in my office. A little just-in-case scenario I’d stashed in my purse…
Off the kitchen sat the small room that served as coat-closet-slash-business-office. I headed straight for the antique desk, the only leftover from Aunt Andrea’s shop, and pulled my purse out of the lowest drawer. Digging inside, I found the pamphlet I’d carried out of rehab last Friday afternoon.
I scanned the list, glanced at the clock, and sighed my relief. If I hustled, I could catch a meeting at the library, starting in twenty minutes. Mentally giving my demon the finger, I shoved the pamphlet and flyer into my purse, grabbed my keys, and scrambled to lock up for the day. With everything secure, I shoved my arms into my coat, picked up my purse, and raced out of the shop as if the devil chased me. Because, in essence, he did.
I climbed into my car and took off at speeds that could earn me a ticket if Sam or any of his cohorts were around.
At the library, I pulled into the closest open space, ran up the ramp, and inside. I was a blur past the front desk, down the stairs to the meeting rooms. I only stopped when the nutty aroma of fresh coffee hit my nostrils. Coffee and sweets were replacement drugs for recovering alcoholics. Following the odiferous trail, I wound up in Meeting Room One with about ten other people, a bunch of folding chairs, and a banquet table that held the promised urn, a basket of sweetener packets, half a gallon of milk, and a tray of Oreos. Ahh. Nirvana.
I grabbed a disposable cup, filled it with my black elixir, added a packet of artificial sweetener (because I was still kidding myself about those pesky extra pounds) and filched two cookies from the tray. With my bounty in my hands, I found a seat in the back of the room and dropped my purse on the empty chair beside me. At last, I found time to steady my breathing and even out the emotions that had gone into overdrive when I found the flyer. The demon still sat on my shoulder, whispering temptations in my head, but his influence became muted with the waves of support reverberating in the room. These were my people: addicts like myself who came together to fight back against the devil on their shoulders. Closing my eyes, I sipped the coffee, swallowed and leaned back, tilting my head up toward the ceiling.
“Excuse me. Is this seat taken?”
At the sultry male voice, my eyes snapped open and my head came up to face Max Trayham. Yes, that Max Trayham, star of “Lost in Urbanland” and thousands of women’s fantasies. I tried not to gape, honest, reminding myself this was an anonymous organization for a reason. But, seriously. This was Max Trayham, the hottest male star in Hollywood and a shoo-in for People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive next year. What was he doing in dinky Snug Harbor’s library at an AA meeting? Okay, the AA meeting part, I got. I’d read about his most recent escapade in that hotel in Beverly Hills, as well as the half-dozen prior incidents over the last few years. But, what was he doing here?
He was still staring at me, and I realized I hadn’t answered his question.
“Oh! Sorry.” I moved my purse off the chair and set it on the floor. “No. No one’s sitting here.”
“Great.” He sat in the chair right frickin’ next to me, which totally freaked me out because there were dozens of empty seats still available in the room where he could’ve sat alone. “I’m Max, by the way.”
“Yeah, I know,” I replied then winced. Oops. Anonymous, stupid. “Sorry,” I said again. “I’m Terri.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” I desperately tried to pull off aloof on the outside, while my inner fangirl screamed at the unfairness of life. I was sitting next to the hottest television star and couldn’t tell anyone. Ever. I had to give him the privacy all AA participants deserved.
He leaned closer to me, so close my hair flicked across his cheek, and his minty breath wisped my nose. “You counting in days, months, or years?” Apparently, he didn’t care about my privacy.
Oh, I knew what he meant—how much time I’d been sober, but I wriggled in my chair to put some distance between us and used my coffee cup as an additional barrier by raising it to my lips. Not that I took a sip. I could barely breathe here. Tremors rippled through me. In last week’s episode Max, as bad boy Apollo Rousseau, stripped down to his boxer briefs, revealing golden washboard abs and glistening pecs. I glanced at the thermostat on the wall. Jeez, someone should turn down the heat in here.
The host took the podium, bringing the meeting to order. For the next hour, I struggled to focus my attention on the speakers and their stories, clapping for those who celebrated months and years of sobriety, sobbing at what they’d lost before regaining control of their lives. Through it all, I was fully aware of the man beside me. How could I not be? This was Max frickin’ Trayham.
Only the last speaker managed to reach past my star struck bubble.
“…Holidays are the toughest,” he said. “My family wants nothing to do with me—I can’t blame them. I used up too many last chances. This coming Thanksgiving scares the sh-crap out of me. Where’m I gonna go this year? Most restaurants are closed for the holiday and those that are open have assigned seating with all those other families dining and laughing together. I’ll probably wind up here. Do the two o’clock meeting, then stick around for the dinner the church will put together for the homeless and destitute afterwards. Maybe volunteer to help serve. It’ll be a stark reminder that I’m kinda lucky I still have a home, even if it’s empty. But being destitute—yeah, that’s me when it comes to love: empty, barren, black. There’s no one left in my life who still loves me.”
I gotta say, the man managed to
pack a solid punch to my gut with those words. If not for my aunt and uncle, where would I be spending Thanksgiving? Who among those I’d burned with my blackout rages and drunken antics could truly forgive me and still love me? How many of the people in this town felt about me the way the flyer-poster obviously felt? A chill spread through me, encasing me in an icicle of self-pity.
After the Serenity Prayer concluded, and the speaker invited people to stay for coffee and conversation, I picked up my empty cup and my purse, ready to make a beeline for the exit, when that hot, hot voice stopped me cold.
“Where you going, Terri? Would you like a little company?”
I turned, stunned. “Huh?”
He strode toward me, all charm and cool confidence. When he was close enough to breathe the same air I did, he murmured, “I’m not good with these things yet. The ‘after’ part makes me uncomfortable.”
Yeah, I imagined it would. “I can understand that,” I said, though, honestly, what would I possibly know about being a mega-celebrity?
“Maybe you and I can go someplace quiet, private. Maybe grab a quick bite and something besides coffee to drink? Non-alcoholic, of course.”
“I own a tea shop,” I heard myself say. “It’s closed to the public right now, but I’ve got the keys.”
“That’d be perfect.” His smile, blinding white in that gorgeous face, knocked my heart to its knees. “Would you mind very much?”
“Not at all.”
♥♥♥♥
Jayne
I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the news van parked outside my house the next morning. Oddly, though, I was surprised. I barely stepped onto the porch in the early morning light before a well-dressed, well-coiffed woman with a microphone in her fist and a less put-together man in a hoodie and jeans, holding a television camera on one shoulder, blocked my path. They must’ve hidden in the hedgerow near my side yard, waiting for my appearance. Awesome.
“Dr. Herrera,” the woman said, “do you have anything to say regarding Mr. Pittman’s death?”
I didn’t answer, forging forward with my head down, like a football player determined to reach the goal line while the opposing team tried to stop him.
“Any comment regarding his final allegations against you?”
More allegations? What lies were left for him to spew about me? It didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to entertain whatever fantasy he’d dreamed up this time around. I head-faked left, then dodged right to bypass the news couple. “No comment.”
I raced down the steps and to my noble steed, a tan, non-descript Jeep Grand Cherokee, which waited patiently in the driveway. The cameraman and dogged reporter remained on my heels until I climbed inside, started the engine and rode out of the driveway. From my rearview mirror, I watched them change direction, cutting across my lawn to reach their van. I knew, within minutes, they’d be on my tail. I took the left on Schooner Drive, leaving my neighborhood behind. All the while I drove, my heart pounded and, even with the window open to welcome the brisk November breeze, sweat trickled down my back. When a red light stopped me on Main Street, I grabbed my cell out of my purse and, with shaky hands, hit the office number. This morning, Becky answered.
“Tell Dr. Bautista the storm’s on its way,” I said and disconnected as the light turned green. He’d know what I meant. We’d made contingency plans when I first arrived.
While I took the long way to work to give him extra time, he’d gather the staff together and explain the situation. I’d granted him leeway to tell them the whole truth, if he thought they needed to hear it. I dreaded having to rehash the entire tragedy, but with luck, Dom’s explanation would suffice.
I checked my rearview mirror, saw the news van a few car lengths back. Okay, kids, let’s have some fun. I would’ve loved to run some dull errands while I drove around—pick up the dry cleaning, return my overdue library books—but I didn’t dare get out of the car until I got to work. Not without backup, and certainly not in a public place. Bad enough the next few weeks would cast a pall over Dom’s business, even if he had insisted he could weather the storm. I certainly hoped so. For my new news crew friends, I opted to become a local tour guide. I drove around the parking lot near the lake where, according to a historical tablet on the spot, George Washington once assembled troops to fight the British. From there, I headed to the Oliver Homestead, the oldest building in Snug Harbor, erected almost a hundred years before the American Revolution. For a five dollar admission fee, visitors could tour the old farmhouse if they liked. Or, for a measly ten dollars, they could sign up for the nightly ghost walk. A highly entertaining attraction, I’d heard. I’d never gone myself. Too many ghosts haunted me as it was.
I drove all the way to Coffield’s Wharf, cruised along the north shore road, where fishermen lined the rocky beach, intent on finding blackfish, bluefish, and the stray almost-out-of-season green bonito. I circled back to Main Street before finally pulling into the animal hospital’s parking lot. Because I stared at the ignition while turning off the engine, I missed the new participant in my game. When I looked up and through the windshield, there he stood. Iggy Zemski.
For God’s sake, how could I get him to understand I wasn’t the dating type. Maybe, once he saw the flock of hornets following me, and got wind of why I was suddenly a celebrity, he’d lose interest. Nothing cooled a man’s interest in a woman faster that a murder allegation.
He strode to the driver’s side of my Jeep and waited for me to climb out. I stared at him, this fierce protector who focused on his prize, totally oblivious to the blustery wind or the reporters clambering out of their news van behind me.
Didn’t the man ever wear a jacket? The temps had dipped last night, and the morning’s misty start had left me frigid. But not G.I. Joe—or in this case, G.I. Iggy. His biceps bulged in his olive-covered tee, which was stuffed into khaki pants, creating the ultimate off-duty uniform of a hero. He stood there patiently, never giving the slightest indication I was holding him up or dawdling on purpose—which I was. Once I’d grabbed my purse, he opened my door, took my hand to help me out onto the gravel, and then wrapped me inside his bulky body, covering me from the camera’s unwavering gaze.
“Iggy? What are you doing?” I murmured against his chest.
“I’m part of the contingency plan,” he replied as he hustled me toward the back entrance.
“Oh.” Speech abandoned me, as did my brain’s ability to form a coherent thought. I’m wearing an Iggy cloak. My senses swam in this man. His scent, his warmth, the beat of his heart all surrounded me like a comforting security blanket. No wonder he didn’t bother to put on anything heavier than a t-shirt. Iggy Zemski gave off more heat than a furnace.
“Dr. Herrera.” This time, I recognized her voice. She was the same reporter from yesterday’s phone call. Tanya Carter. “Jayne, just a few words. Please? We’ve come all this way to talk to you.” When I didn’t say anything, not even my standard “No comment,” the woman added, “We won’t be the only ones to come here, Jayne. We’re just the first. Why not share your story with us and get it over with, once and for all? Unless you have something to hide…”
I stiffened at the innuendo. Iggy pulled me tighter to him, burying my face in his chiseled pecs. The man was a series of contradictions: gruff but protective, rock-hard but soft-hearted.
“Jayne?” the reporter called again. “Five minutes. That’s all we need. Then it’ll be all over for you.”
“Don’t answer them,” Iggy grumbled.
As if I would. No matter how much time I gave them, they’d demand more until they found something they could use to convict me in court. I’d already been convicted in the court of public opinion. I wasn’t stupid enough to lower my shields and risk prison time.
We scaled the few steps, and the back door swung open with a screech of rusty hinges—a common problem in a seaside community—and, on a burst of warm air, I was rushed into the kitchen area. Once the door closed and locked behind us, I
ggy let me go and stood alone in the corner, arms folded over his chest, his eyes glinting with steel as he stared at me. I missed his protection the second I lost it. But I supposed I should get used to it.
Without his bulk as a buffer, I stood tall and faced half a dozen accusatory faces on my own. A few of my coworkers sat around the oblong table, their expressions ranging from shell-shocked to confused. Miranda and Becky had positioned themselves on either side of the doorway leading toward the front of the business, their hands planted on their hips, their mouths set in grim lines. Angry bookends. Dom, his back tilted toward the refrigerator door next to the taped sign that proclaimed the appliance was for food and not biologic specimens, offered a tepid smile.
“Is it true?” Miranda asked, her tone flat.
“Is what true?” I wouldn’t answer the question until I knew exactly what she wanted to know. Never assume. A lesson I learned a few years back, thanks to my attorney.
“You were accused of killing your husband,” Becky chimed in.
Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. They apparently didn’t want the sugar-coated version. I would appease. “No. I wasn’t. My husband was found shot to death in his car in a dicey neighborhood he had no business being in. When Mr. Pittman was arrested on suspicion of the murder, he implicated me. The defense ran with that tale, claiming David planned his own death with my help, and that I hoped to capitalize on his life insurance payout. In the end, the ploy didn’t work, and Mr. Pittman went to prison where he was serving a sentence of ten to fifteen years until he was murdered by another inmate this past week. There was never any proof I was involved in the crime, and no charges were ever filed against me.”
“That doesn’t mean you didn’t have something to do with it.”
“Miranda!” Dom shot her a how-dare-you-look.
I knew how she dared, the same way all my old friends and neighbors—the same way my parents—dared. In these circumstances, morbid curiosity trumped manners. I faced Dom and held up a hand. “It’s okay. They’re entitled to ask.”
