by Gina Ardito
“What’s for dinner?” Christian grumbled, tossing his backpack on the chaise.
So much for paradise.
♥♥♥♥
Jayne
Coffield’s Wharf sat at the northernmost tip of Snug Harbor and featured a boardwalk wrapping around the last spit of land at the edge of Long Island and the Atlantic Ocean.
I strolled with Iggy along red cobblestones in the rainy dusk coated with a spray of salt, absorbing the sensory overload. Closer to the street, quaint shops lined up in a pretty pastel row, their windows displaying nautical gifts, handcrafted toys, and bottles of local wine. Interspersed between the shops, several restaurants, from casual outdoorsy to elegant, lured hungry diners with the aromas of garlic, roasted meat, and rich spices. Soft music wafted from speakers hidden beneath striped awnings. Rows of manicured gardens, at measured intervals, sported spiky mums in autumn colors of gold and rust, pink and blue asters, and waves of goldenrod. The rows all pointed, spoke-style, toward the open-air gazebo in the center of this visual wagon wheel.
On the sea side of the wharf, a wooden walkway led to the pier, where the party boats sailed twice a day and advertised various fishing or whale-watching adventures. There were no fast food eateries or name-brand coffee shops. Mass-produced commercialism didn’t exist beyond the bar taps with beer labels seen from restaurant windows. No wonder this site was, after the beach, the place to be seen in Snug Harbor.
Even in lousy weather, the charm and simplicity of the area eased troubled minds and invoked daydreams full of hope and happiness.
With tourist season over, several of the stores—the ice cream shop, the bike/surf rentals, and the outdoor daiquiri/margarita bar, to name a few—were boarded up, asleep ‘til mid-May when the crowds would return. The restaurants, however, remained open year-round, and offered a dozen different cuisine options.
“Have a hankering for anything in particular?” Iggy asked.
“Nothing too fancy.” I gestured at my jeans, sneakers, and purple puffy jacket. “I’m not dressed for fancy.”
“Are you kidding? You’re perfect.”
His words sparked a glow inside me. Oh, sure, I know. As compliments go, it wasn’t original, but there was a sincerity to his expression, in his steady gaze and the set of his lips, that emphasized his wholehearted belief in what he said. That kind of intensity could make the lamest line woozy-worthy. Wooze-worthy? Whatever. The point was his admiration pleased me. More than I cared to admit. It was easy to see his allure, and even I, who should know better, felt the pull of attraction. “Thank you.”
An icy rain began to fall, and I huddled inside the warmth of my jacket.
He took my cold hand in his much warmer one. “Let’s get you inside somewhere and warmed up. What would you prefer to eat? Seafood? Italian? Pub style sandwiches? Asian fusion? Whatever you like.”
I considered the choices, but, really there was only one obvious answer. “I’d be a fool to not have seafood when I’m so close to the ocean, right?”
He shrugged. “Not if you don’t like seafood or have an allergy. This isn’t a test. There’s no right or wrong answer here, Jayne. I want you to enjoy yourself and enjoy a little freedom for a while. You think I haven’t seen the way you keep looking over your shoulder?”
Gee. I hadn’t even noticed I was still doing that. Then again, the action had become second nature to me over the years. I didn’t exactly notice when I breathed every minute, either.
“It’s no way to live.” Iggy held up his hand. “Don’t get me wrong. I understand how it happened and why it’s a hard habit to break. Dom told me, in college, you were the girl to know. You made everyone feel like they belonged and brought the most diverse people together. You were the group leader, the girl every girl wanted to be and every guy wanted to date.”
“Every guy except Dom,” I quipped. Still, I thought back to those carefree days and sighed, my breath expelling a vapor balloon in the chilly air. “That was a long time ago. I was a different person then.”
“It was one lifetime ago,” he replied, his tone soft and empathetic. “But not your lifetime. David’s. He threw his life away over a rough patch. I don’t want to see you make the same mistake, Jayne.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t worry. I have no intention of hiring my own hitman.”
“That’s not what I mean. What I’m saying is, why live in the shadows when you have every right to walk in the sunlight?”
I glanced up at the gray sky, the waning light behind ominous clouds. “What sunlight?”
“Don’t be obtuse. You know what I’m saying. You say you were a different person then. But you were Jayne then, you’re still Jayne now. You haven’t changed on the inside. On the outside, you married a man who turned out to be someone different than you thought. Big deal. That has no bearing on who you are, unless you let it. I’ve yet to see the woman Dom described, the confident, knows-who-she is Jayne Herrera, the woman every girl wants to be and every guy wants to date. Instead, I see this pale imitation of who you are, this shy mouse who folds into yourself, huddling to seem small and insignificant. I can’t imagine why you’d want to be perceived that way when you’re anything but.”
I couldn’t look at him, and when I spoke, the words were barely above a hoarse whisper. “You know why.”
He shook his head. “I know why you’re afraid, but it’s long past time you reclaimed your life from those vampires. Every time you spend a month in hiding, you give them a reason to suspect you’ve got a deep, dark secret they should dig up. I’d like to help you learn to stop giving them reasons to pester you, if you’ll let me. We’ll focus on ignoring them so you can live your life. The way it was meant to be lived. You’ve spent enough time atoning for your late husband’s sins. What do you say?”
The passion in his words woke me up. Stupid, really. Iggy didn’t say anything I didn’t already know. Yet, perhaps because he didn’t talk down to me, or because he showed me he had confidence that I could be more than I was, I heeded his advice. I missed the old Jayne. I wanted her back. Only I could make that happen.
“Where do we start?”
“With the death-defying feat of choosing dinner. Now, answer from your gut, without considering a diet, without worrying what people would think or any possible consequences, what do you want to eat?”
“I could really go for a burger.” Wow. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d indulged in red meat. But that was where my stomach took me when asked to answer on demand.
“There ya go.” He pulled me into a bear hug. “Felt good, didn’t it?”
Yeah. It did. Nodding, I stepped out of his protective embrace, ready to stand on my own, proud of who I was and all I’d accomplished in my life. My spine elongated, and I stood tall. Goodbye, timid Jayne. Welcome back, my old self.
This time, I took his hand. “Come on. I’m suddenly starving.”
Chapter 16
Terri
The kitchen spoke of a passion for cooking with walls of cherry cabinetry, rows of recessed lighting over granite counters, and a center island the size of a queen bed.
“How are you at chopping vegetables?” Gary asked me.
“How are you at applying false eyelashes in the dark?” I retorted.
He smirked. “That good, huh?”
I stared down at my feet. “Yeah, well, I’ve never been much of a domestic goddess. I’m not even a domestic apprentice.”
“I can do it, Dad,” his son interjected.
“You focus on algebra. Terri will do just fine.” He clapped his hands. “Okay, step one. Let’s grab some veggies. We’ll need onions, peppers, cucumbers, garlic…”
“What are we making? Some kind of stir fry?”
His soft chuckle drew me in. “That’s just for the salad, ma puce.”
“Oh.” Didn’t I feel stupid now?
Gary yanked open the fridge, pulled out a colorful array of vegetables, and placed them on a cutting board on the center island.
“It looks like Thanksgiving,” I mumbled as I surveyed the fresh, vivid bounty. “Like one of those horns of plenty.”
“I’m just thankful you agreed to come here. Much better than your original plan for tonight, don’t you think?” Without giving me time to answer, he stepped behind me, his arms coming around mine in a backward hug until we were back to chest, his head tilted over my shoulder. His body pressed even closer, leaving nothing between our individual skins but his shirt and my sweater, while his left arm stretched to the butcher block and pulled out a knife so sharp it glinted under the recessed lighting. I gasped.
“Relax,” he crooned, his voice warm and rhythmic against my ear. “I’m not going to hurt you, you know. Are you a righty or a lefty?”
“Umm…” I could barely form a sound. “Righty.”
“Good. So am I.” He handed me the knife, covered my right hand with his, and picked up a large green pepper in his left. Placing it in front of me on the board, he murmured, “Let’s start with something simple.” With the gentle pressure of his hand on mine, he slid the knife easily through the bright green flesh once, twice, a third time. “There you go. Nice and smooth. See? You’re good at this.”
The sudden scorching temperature in the room could melt the stainless steel appliances. “I…umm…think I got it now.”
“Okay. Let’s try the cuke.” He curled my hand around the cucumber. “You’re going to want to use a defter style and a quicker stroke.”
Hoo-boy. I let out a series of short breaths, gulping air to cool the fire burning in my veins. Every nerve and fiber inside me felt enmeshed by him. Surrounded by the circle of his arms, I’d become a prize to be won: valued, protected. Worthy. Those words, unfamiliar since my first hit of booze a decade and a half ago, terrified me. I struggled to wriggle free of his hold and the vulnerability it had awakened. “Seriously, I can do this on my own. I’ve made salad lots of times. Why don’t you get started on the entrée?”
“You sure?”
God, yes! I nodded, too uncertain of what would pop out of my mouth if I spoke. To my blessed relief, he agreed and released me, then strode to a wall of cabinets on the opposite end of the large kitchen.
“If you say so. I’ll get the pasta going.” He picked up a stock pot and took it to the sink to fill with water. “I’m going to make butternut squash ravioli with sage and walnut sauce. Okay with you?”
Okay? At home, I would’ve made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and canned tomato soup for dinner. Standard comfort food, no fuss. What he described as a simple Thursday night meal would, to me, be something I ordered in a four-or-five-star restaurant. “Sounds great.”
“Hey, Dad?” Christian asked.
I stiffened, but kept my wits this time. I had to get used to hearing the term. Snug Harbor was full of families—some who visited the town for vacation, others who lived here year-round. They’d patronize my tea shop; they already had. I couldn’t fall apart every time a kid said, “Mommy” or “Daddy” around me.
Still, Gary watched me closely while he answered his son. “Yeah?”
“Can you help me figure out question six here? I keep coming up with a different answer.”
“Umm…sure. I guess so.”
While the two males solved one of those ridiculous “If Train A leaves Chicago at eight a.m., going seventy miles an hour and Train B leaves New York at nine a.m., going ninety miles an hour…” questions—which, by the way, were impossible to answer without knowing whether either train was going to make any stops, and anyway who cares; that’s what schedules are for—I returned to cutting vegetables.
Finished with cucumbers and peppers, I moved on to the red onion. The knife was super-sharp—too sharp. I guess I didn’t have a firm enough grip or maybe I held it too tight because the blade slid in, the onion skittered sideways, and I sliced a fabulous gash into my palm.
“Damn!” I sucked in a breath.
Gary sped to my side before I could inhale a second time. “What’d you do?”
Embarrassed at my clumsiness, I slapped my hand, palm-down, on the counter. “Nothing.” I glanced around the well-lit room, searching for a towel to wrap around and stem the bleeding.
“Let me see.”
“No.”
He nuzzled my neck. “Come on, Terri. I can’t fix it if you don’t let me see what you did to yourself.”
I shivered as his lips took delicious control of the skin behind my ear. I swear to God, my eyes rolled back in my head, and I think I might’ve moaned.
“Wow,” he said. “That must be some slice to have you in so much pain.”
It wasn’t my wound, and he knew it. The wink and nudge in his son’s direction he gave me conveyed his true intention—to not draw the kid’s attention to us. And while he distracted me with his need to remain discreet, he pulled up my hand and surveyed the damage I’d tried to hide.
“Hmmm. That’s pretty deep. You’re probably gonna need a few stitches. Grab your coat. We’re headed to the ER, ma puce.”
“No!” Panic set in, and I hurried to explain my outburst, though honestly, he should have realized what had me so freaked. “They’ll wanna give me painkillers,” I whispered. “I…I can’t. You know I can’t.” Now, I jerked my head at his son with a meaningful glare. “Of all people, you know why.”
Once an addict always an addict. Most of us trade one habit for another: coffee, cigarettes, candy, or, if we’re not careful, painkillers.
“Just give me a towel or something to tie around my hand for now, and I’ll call Dr. Florentino when I get home. She’ll take good care of me.”
He grabbed a dishtowel from a drawer and thrust it in my direction. “Okay. Then call her now. She can treat you here.”
While wrapping the clean cloth around my bloody hand, I teased, “Don’t you trust me?”
“Not particularly.”
“Ouch.” To be honest, I didn’t take offense. How could I? My drunken history preceded me. We stared each other down for a full minute, neither wanting to give in. I broke first. “She might not even be home, you know. She might be working.”
“In which case, we go back to Plan A and take you to the ER.”
Yeah, I’d forgotten about that glitch. Dr. Florentino was Dr. Florentino of Morrison General Hospital. And she worked the emergency room. Still, if it hadn’t been for her intervention and the phone calls she made to rehab centers for me this past summer, I might never have started on this path to perpetual sobriety. Francesca Florentino cared about her patients—even the loser ones like me.
“Okay, let me get my cell.” I grabbed my purse and pulled out my phone, found Francesca’s number in my contacts list and hit the icon to dial.
A drowsy sounding Francesca answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Umm…hi. Did I wake you?”
“Terri?” Yeah, I probably should have identified myself. “No, you didn’t wake me. Josh and I were just watching a movie.”
From the background, a male voice shouted, “For God’s sake, I haven’t had her to myself for three days. Whoever’s on the phone, gimme a break, and I’ll build you a deck for free!”
I glanced down at my hand, at the red band of moisture soaking through the towel. “Sorry. Never mind.”
“Pay no attention to him,” Francesca said. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”
I backpedaled. “Yeah. I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother you.”
“Gimme that phone,” Gary growled and took my cell out of my hand.
“Hey!”
“Get over it,” he said, then spoke into the phone. “Dr. Florentino? It’s Gary Sullivan. Terri cut her hand on one of my knives. It’s deep. I think she needs a coupla stitches, but she’s afraid to go to the emergency room.”
Oh, well, now that was going too far. He made me sound like a six-year-old with a boo-boo who needed a Band-Aid and a kiss. I gave him a dirty look, but he ignored me and listened to whatever Francesca said on the other e
nd.
“Uh-huh. She’s wrapped it up tight in a clean towel, but she’s still bleeding pretty heavily.” Pause. “Uh-huh.” Pause. “No, we’re at my house. On Gull?” Pause. “Seventeen.” Pause. “Great. Thanks.” He disconnected and placed my phone on the counter. “She’s on her way. In the meantime, she wants you to sit and keep pressure on it.”
I looked at the carnage I’d created on his granite countertop. “I should clean this up.”
“I’ve got it. We can forego the salad tonight. You go sit down. The ravioli will keep until after your doctor friend gets you stitched up.”
I sighed and trudged my sorry fanny over to the kitchen table, feeling like fifty shades of crapola. “I sure know how to screw up an evening, don’t I?”
“You didn’t screw it up,” Gary said with a grin. “You brought some excitement.” He nodded at the bloody towel. “And color.”
♥♥♥♥
Jayne
While I may have won over Iggy, my coworkers were still unsure how to deal with me. And their methods of compensating for their confusion ran the gamut.
Miranda and Becky did all they could to avoid me: no eye contact, shrinking against the wall when we were in the same room, stilted professional conversation kept to the barest minimum.
Meanwhile, Patrick and Desiree went out of their way to be conciliatory, with constant questions about how I was doing, how I felt, was I sleeping okay, did I need anything…
Naturally, the pet owners took on the mood of my assistants. When Joanne or Patrick escorted them into the examination room, their faces would flush with embarrassment, and they’d paste on these huge, insincere smiles. On the other hand, if they dealt with Becky and Miranda, I received direct looks of suspicion and mistrust. Mrs. Pflug returned with the Archduke for a follow-up, and as I related my findings on the feline’s exam, the woman kept shooting glances at Miranda, who would surreptitiously nod or shake her head, as if to agree or disagree with my assessment. The cat, however, treated me with the same level of disdain he had on our previous visit. Some things never changed.
