Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3)

by Gina Ardito

  “And when that little girl had to testify against her kidnapper,” Irenka said, “he told her he’d be in the courtroom so she didn’t have to tell her story to a bunch of strangers. She only had to look at him, tell him. And she did. I hear the guy got twenty years to life.”

  So did Pittman. His turned out to be a life sentence in the end. I washed away the memory with a gulp of cold water. Pittman was dead. He couldn’t hurt me anymore. “An associate of mine,” I said, “Cara Laskin? She said Iggy’s the town hero.”

  “Yeah, I know Cara. She grooms my Maltipoo. She knows a lot about dogs, but not so much about men. And even less about Iggy. His reputation didn’t come about because of what he did for that little girl. Only a few people know he was even there. He insisted they keep his name out of all the reports. You look it up, you’ll see she was found by ‘one of the volunteers.’ That’s as close as he gets to any name recognition. He likes it that way. He always said her survival wasn’t about him. He wouldn’t take one iota of credit for what she suffered and endured for the week she was missing.”

  “A week?” My vivid imagination filled in the blanks as to what that poor child must have survived for a week in an underground bunker, and I shivered.

  Irenka’s expression grew grim. “Yeah. And Iggy? He just went right back to his university like nothing ever happened. Never told a soul where he’d been or what he’d done. He didn’t complain when four different professors failed him for missing too many classes, either. He’d been gone too long to make up the work he’d missed by then. So, he just sucked it up and took those classes again.” She shrugged. “That’s my brother. He probably could have had his degree years ago, if he’d stick to his classes and forget all the do-gooding. But not Iggy. Iggy’s always putting the needs of others above his own. He’s committed to what he stood for in the Corps: honor, code, protect.”

  Ah. And apparently, Irenka assumed the situation would repeat itself with me now. I took a swig of water. “You don’t have to worry. I can tell him I don’t need his help anymore. He won’t fail a class on my account.”

  She laughed. “No, you misunderstand me. Don’t get me wrong. That’s a sweet offer, but not necessary. Whatever Iggy went through in the war, he’s determined to make up for it by being everyone’s protector now. I don’t know what happened, and I know it would break my heart if he told me. I’m just happy to see him…happy for a change.”

  Happy? Wanna bet? I thought about the nightmare he experienced at my house. Did his sister have any idea how he suffered? About how he spent the anniversary of Granger’s death every year?

  “You helped him find his smile again—the real one, not the one he puts on for strangers. That tells me there’s more to his spending time with you than a bunch of reporters chasing down an old news story. I think he’s finally met his match. And you’re it.”

  Now, I laughed. “Oh, come on! We’ve only known each other a few weeks.”

  “It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known each other. My husband proposed to me on our third date. I made him wait a full year before I said yes because I thought, like you, a few weeks wasn’t long enough to know what I felt. We’ll be married ten years in February. And my one regret is that I didn’t marry him sooner.”

  “I’ve already been married,” I reminded her with a frown. “It didn’t work out well.”

  “And you knew your husband a long time, right? Before you married him, I mean?” She didn’t give me a chance to reply. And besides, what could I say if she did? She was right. “Love isn’t always about being friends first and then slowly simmering toward that moment when you wake up and realize you’re in love with someone. Cupid shot arrows. You know why? Because the ancient Romans believed love happened fast—in an instant. Not this ‘take our time and get to know each other’ routine we subscribe to these days.”

  The last thing I wanted right now was a love interest, and I refused to be pushed into feeling something more than gratitude I’d have to shoot down the “love theory” fast—and with finality.

  “Nice try, but your mother would probably disapprove of your matchmaking between Iggy and me. Sorry to say I’m not Polish. Not one drop.”

  Irenka’s laughter grew louder, drawing attention from the other diners at nearby tables, and I shrank in my seat. “Maybe I should’ve told you my full name. Irenka Oliwia Zemski Martinez. As in, Mrs. Sergio Martinez. That whole ‘the Zemski kids can only fall in love with a Polish boy or girl’ story is one big urban legend. You would think most people around here would’ve caught on when Serge and I got married. But, no. Now, they think it just applies to Iggy. Like his Polish genes are superior to mine or something.” She blew air through her lips, the universal signal of sarcasm.

  The hair on my nape danced, not at what she said, but because I sensed, without turning around, Iggy was coming up behind me.

  “Pay no attention to anything my sister says,” he announced as he pulled up a chair beside me. “She’s just mad ‘cuz I’ve always been Mom’s favorite.” He winked at me and grinned at her.

  “Mr. Perfect. The only difference between you and me is that you never got caught.”

  He leaned forward, his hands clasped on the table top and wagged his brows at her. “There’s a lot more different between us than that.”

  “Ha ha. Wise-en-heimer. You know what I mean. We’d both sneak out of the house past curfew, but Mom would sit in my room until I climbed back through the window. You didn’t mow the lawn, but I got punished for not reminding you to do it.”

  “You’re older. You were supposed to be the responsible one.”

  “I’m older by eleven months,” Irenka sputtered, and Iggy cackled at her until she joined in. “You’re deranged, you know that?” She shook her head, sobering. “Did you convince Mom to stay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course.” She threw her hands up in surrender. “Mr. Perfect strikes again.”

  “Of course. Because you laid the groundwork, like you always do. You play bad guy, and I get to swoop in and be the hero. It sucks for you, but it works just fine for me.”

  “I hate you,” she replied through gritted teeth, though it was obvious nothing could be farther from the truth. While he chuckled at her expense, she turned to me. “Does your brother give you this kind of grief?”

  “More,” I said with a mirthless grin. Like Iggy, my brother, Paul, was the perfect child in my parents’ eyes, too. Even before what happened with David, Paul enjoyed favorite-nation-status. “He lives in Ohio.”

  She glared daggers at her brother. “Lucky you. At least he’s not directly under your nose all the time.”

  I shook my head. “Not now. But he used to be.”

  “Well…” Irenka crumpled the cellophane from her cookies and shoved it into her empty cup. “I’m gonna go up and say goodbye to Ma before I have to pick up Sofia at school. You two enjoy your day, okay? Jayne, it was good to meet you.”

  “You, too,” I said and watched her walk away.

  When she was out of sight, Iggy cupped my hand and squeezed. “Where would you like to go now? Someplace crowded? Someplace quiet?”

  “I have no idea,” I admitted. “I don’t even know what there is to do here.”

  “How about we start with a stroll around Coffield’s Wharf? There are some great restaurants down there. We could have dinner, watch the party boats come back to port, see the sunset.”

  “Like a…” I swallowed, unsure. “…a date?”

  He squeezed again, and his grin made my heart flippety-flop in my chest. “Exactly like a date.”

  I took a deep breath, studied the man across from me, and made peace with the war waging between my head and my heart. “Okay.”

  Chapter 15

  Terri

  I sat there, slack-jawed. Gobsmacked. I could only stare at him and wonder. “What exactly are you saying?”

  “Do I have to spell it out?”

  “Yeah, I think you better. In case I’
m getting it all wrong again.”

  “I want to be there for you. Today. Tomorrow. I wish I could’ve been there for you yesterday. But since I wasn’t, the best I can offer you is today and all the todays yet to come.”

  The more I stared, the less sense he made. I blinked. More than once. Nope. Still made no sense. “You wanna be my sponsor?”

  “No, I don’t wanna be your sponsor,” he retorted in a whiny tone I think he used to imitate me. Though, in my humble opinion, he didn’t sound anything like me. “But you do need someone to help you steer clear of sharks like Max Trayham.”

  “Leave Max out of it. He’s been very sweet and supportive.”

  Okay, that was a stretch. The man was, in reality, manic and frustrating, but I wouldn’t let Gary know there was the slightest smudge on Max’s less-than-sterling behavior. I wasn’t entirely sure what Gary wanted from me yet, but whatever, he wouldn’t get it by making me feel foolish for considering Max a friend. Not that I understood what Max wanted from me, either.

  “Of course he’s been sweet and supportive. If he shows his true self, he can’t catch you off-guard to take advantage of you. He needs you to gush over him.”

  I sensed he was trying to irritate me, and that comment had his success rate accelerating toward the stratosphere. “I don’t gush.”

  “Yeah, you do. I saw it from the moment you walked into the room today. You fawn and fetch and gush like a Labrador puppy. That’s what Trayham wants. Guys like him aren’t nice to people unless it serves their purposes.”

  “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you.” I wanted to bite my tongue the minute the comment broke into the air.

  He laughed. “God, you’re stubborn!”

  “Yeah, and I should warn you, that’s one of my more attractive traits.”

  He stood, brushed his hands down his white pants. “Fine. Find out the hard way.” He turned toward the kitchen, calling, “Chris! Put your jacket on. Let’s go home.”

  “Okay, Dad,” came the muffled reply.

  I burst into tears. Real, loud, racking sobs that shook me from my shoulders to my toes. I don’t know why. Scratch that. Of course I knew why. The term, “Dad” shredded my insides, ripping my heart into pieces of confetti. I wasn’t biased. “Mom” would have had the same effect. This was the first time I’d heard someone call those parental names since getting sober. Decades after Aunt Andrea first sat me down to tell me what happened to them, the full reality splashed over me, icy and agonizing. I gave into the overwhelming misery that had existed inside me all these years. I missed my parents. I never got the chance to say a real goodbye, to tell them I loved them. My mom and dad would always be the same age and look the same as they did the last time I saw them: Mom all smiles as she waved from the front porch, Dad nursing the mother of all hangovers in a hammock under the twin oak trees. Did she have any idea when she told me to have fun that those were the last words she’d ever say to me? Part of me always suspected she’d sent me away “for the summer,” because she knew what would happen to her. Did I flash in her mind before she died? What was I doing at that moment? Playing on a swing set? Climbing a tree? Fishing with Uncle Larry?

  The thirst returned, the one Gary so eloquently described earlier as unquenchable. All I wanted now was for him to leave—to take his son and leave—so I could hit the nearest liquor store, which happened to be a brisk two-block walk from the shop. My feet knew the way by heart.

  I reached up to clutch my medallion, found it gone, and its disappearance only made me more desperate for a shot of something: whiskey, scotch, vodka. I didn’t care what. Only the alcohol content mattered.

  “Hey.” Gary’s hands slid under my arms and pulled me upright while I bawled at him to go, just go, I’d be all right. “No, you won’t,” he crooned. “You’re a soggy, emotional mess. Probably some leftover withdrawal symptoms. How’s your heart? Beating okay?”

  I knew what he asked. Alcoholics often suffered from a special kind of panic attack, complete with rapid heartbeat, crying jags, and a host of other symptoms. Untreated, these panic attacks could cause major health problems. Weeping too hard to speak, I could only nod I was okay.

  “Not good enough. I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you join Chris and me for dinner?”

  I wiped the back of my hand over my nose and cheeks.

  He frowned. “But you’ll have to wash up before I feed you.”

  “Huh?” He gestured at my hands, and I looked down, curious, until I remembered what I’d just done with them. “Oh. Right. Sorry.” My eyes and nose still running, I glanced around, found a box of tissues covered by a decorative case on a nearby table, pulled one out, and mopped up my face. “There. See. All better now.” I pasted on a smile. “I’m fine. Go on home. You don’t have to worry about me.”

  “Uh-huh. Do us all a favor, okay? If your sweet and supportive friend mentions he’s got a role for you in an upcoming project, turn him down.” Before I could make any kind of reply, sassy or snide, he called again toward the kitchen. “Chris? Change in plans. We’re gonna stay put for a while.”

  Stay here? How long was a while? Panic shot through me. “Oh, no. Really. I’m fine. Go on home. I’ll be okay. Honest.”

  “Forget it, ma puce. You’re stuck with us. We can hang out here, or you can come have dinner at our house. Either way, I’m not leaving you alone.”

  He knew! He knew I planned to blow my sobriety as soon as he and his son left. Now I couldn’t decide whether I should grab at his offer and cling ‘til the feeling passed or shove him and his invitation far away from me so I could just fail now and get it over with.

  “I’m gonna screw this up,” I warned him. “You know that, right? Maybe not today, but tomorrow, or next week, or next month, it’s gonna happen. I haven’t kept a promise since…” I thought back over my lifetime. “…ever.”

  “You don’t have to worry about tomorrow or next week.” He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You just have to get through today. And I’m going to help you with that. Chris and I will make you dinner. You’ll help. We’ll have some fun. The feeling will pass before you know it. You’ll see.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Come on.” He led me into the kitchen where Chris sat on a high-backed stool, a book splayed open on the gleaming stainless counter before him. The boy didn’t glance up when we walked in. “Algebra,” Gary whispered to me. “I’d help him, but I barely passed the class myself. Don’t tell him I told you.”

  I mimed a lock on my lips. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Take a break, kid,” he said to his son. “Go get your coat. We’re headed home to cook this lovely lady dinner.”

  The boy slammed the book closed and slid off the stool. “Jeez, Dad, make up your mind. We’re going, we’re staying, we’re going, we’re staying.”

  “Hey! Watch your mouth,” Gary growled.

  The kid dipped his head. “Sorry. But I can’t concentrate when you keep changing your mind. You say we’re leaving, I close the book. You say we’re staying, I gotta find the page I was on and re-read the stuff. I finally figure it out and you say we’re going again.”

  “Point taken,” Gary replied in a softer tone. “This time, I can guarantee you we’re leaving. So get your coat. You, too,” he told me.

  I didn’t argue. Despite the feathery caress he gave the order, I sensed the iron underneath. And even while I followed behind him and his son in my car, it never occurred to me to veer onto a side street and ditch him. I guess my rebellious streak had faded months ago without any alcoholic bravado to back it up.

  He turned into a driveway on Gull Lane, beside a saltbox-style home with the distinctive long, sloping roof that covered two-stories in the front, one story in the back. Weathered wooden shingles and teeny criss-crossed windows on the second floor enhanced the historical look, like some old mansion in a gothic novel. I could easily envision a creepy housekeeper in a black gown with a starched white cap and apron standing at
the front door. She’d have steel wool hair peeking out and a craggy face, and she’d speak through tight, disapproving lips, saying stuff like, “Good evening, Mr. Sullivan, Master Christian. Dinner will be served in the main dining hall at seven. Please dress for the occasion, and please be prompt.”

  Yeah, my imagination never needed booze to flourish. In fact, I think I already mentioned I often drank to stop the too-vivid pictures flashing through my mind. I parked at the curb outside the picket fence and got out of my car.

  Gary and his kid waited on the stoop for me to join them.

  “Nice house,” I remarked. Hey, I still lived with my aunt and uncle. Who was I to judge? Besides, real estate in Snug Harbor went for a premium these days, thanks to the wealthy elite who’d pushed eastward from the Hamptons. Snuggies—the term for locals who lived here year round—had a tough time competing in the skyrocketing housing market. Some were lucky enough to inherit their parents’ homes when Mom and Dad passed away or moved to warmer climes. Not me. And not Gary, either. Neither of us was a true born-and-bred Snuggy. We were interlopers, visitors who’d overstayed our welcomes. Another thing we had in common.

  I reached the stoop, and Gary unlocked the front door, then stepped aside to let me in. “Welcome to Chez Sullivan.”

  I might have been mildly surprised at the exterior of his home, but the interior floored me. I don’t know what I expected—I mean, he’s a man, not a bear—but the matching furniture and sleek, contemporary décor didn’t suit my impression of two males living without a hint of estrogen to counter all the testosterone. “Wow. This place is beautiful. Did you hire a decorator?”

  There went my mouth, engaged before my brain again.

  He smirked as he followed me inside, his son behind him. “No. And isn’t that a sexist comment?”

  “Probably,” I admitted with a wry grin. I studied the room again. A plush sectional in dove gray with matching chaise was bordered by quirky wooden end tables shaped like bongos. Floor lamps with layered shades in a soft mauve color stood in strategic spots to spill light but not intercept the open flow of the room. There was no big screen television or ugly neon beer sign in sight. This was a room where I might kick off my shoes, plop down on that delicious sofa, and relax after a hectic day. In snowy winters or rainy springs, add in a cup of tea and a good book, and a person could be in paradise.