Mac stood and slipped on his leather coat. “Well, there’s no good time for news like this. Might as well get it over with. Seems I’ll be searching for an apartment again.”
“Happy New Year!” Antonio called after him as he took off down the hall.
Thirty-year-old Maclain Moore paced in front of the door to what he had been starting to think of as his future apartment. “Good evening, Miss Jones.” He shook his head and stopped. “Good, if you want her to think your three hundred years old and from Transylvania. Jennifer, I have some news for you.” He reached up and ran his hand through his shoulder-length blond hair. “Too casual. Miss Jones, I’m afraid something rather upsetting… Too British. Bloody hell.”
Mac leaned against the wall of the hallway and nervously tapped the heel of one of his boots against the toe of the other. He reached in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a rumpled pack of Marlboros. Inside, there was one cigarette.
Two years ago he had lost his mother to breast cancer. Before she died, she begged him to promise her it would be the last cigarette he ever smoked, and he had yet to smoke it. Every time he looked at it he remembered her pain and the incredible void he experienced with her death.
He put the pack back into the pocket of his jacket, tucked his motorcycle helmet under one arm and began to search his pants pocket for some gum. As he pulled the pack free, his helmet slipped, falling onto the hardwood floor with a loud clunk. Predictably, it rolled down the hall and knocked against the front door of Jennifer’s place. He bent down to pick it up, freezing momentarily at the unmistakable sound of the latch opening.
“You’re early for a change! Come on in.”
Mac stood and peered into the apartment. It was bigger than the one he’d been staying in, although the layout was basically the same. Jennifer was nowhere in sight. Where she had disappeared to so quickly, he couldn’t begin to guess. He crossed the threshold, then quietly closed the door.
“I’m almost ready,” she called out from the direction of the bathroom.
It was as if he’d inadvertently stepped into a naughty shampoo commercial. Jennifer emerged, shaking out the loose curls of her long mane of honey blonde hair. She was wearing a stunning red dress. It was cut on the bias. Dipping low in the front, it hugged her curves. This girl had them and in all the right places.
“What do you think? Should I go with the sexy, strappy sandal or the more conservative pump?”
“Wow.”
In her hand she held a mismatched pair of shoes. He’d obviously surprised her. “I’m sorry, I was expecting my friend, Rachel.”
Mac lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “Ah! I thought you were talking to me when you shouted out the invitation.”
She smiled brightly. “That’s okay. You can give me your opinion. Sandal or pump?”
“Care to model them? It’s hard to imagine which would look best.”
“Sure.” Jennifer leaned down and easily slipped the pump on first, and then the sandal.
Mac stepped back. “Maybe if you walked a bit?”
She dutifully turned around and took a few steps away from him. Mac let his eyes roam up the length of her body, drinking her in from head to toe, appreciating the way she moved, the way the skirt of her dress swished with each and every sway of her hips. For a moment he became lost in thought. Before he knew it, she had spun around and was walking back toward him.
“Well?” she asked, expectantly.
“What kind of an impression are you trying to make, exactly?” He was stalling, plain and simple.
“Impression?” Jennifer pursed her lips together in thought. “Sexy but not slutty. Fun but not frivolous.”
“This is a first date?”
“Date?”
“Not that it’s any of my business.”
She replaced the sandal with the second pump. “No, no date. I’m going with Rachel and Tom. But you never know when you’re going to meet Mr. Right. What do you think of the pumps? I’m leaning toward these. They’re more comfortable for dancing.”
On impulse he reached out for her hand, pulled her to him and took her on a quick spin around the living room. “They’re good,” he declared before releasing her. “Go with the pumps.”
“Right.” She spun on her heels and headed for her bedroom. “Now you can help me choose earrings. Come on.”
“You do realize I’m a guy, right?”
“I let you lead, didn’t I?” She frowned. “Of course I know you’re a guy, that’s why I’m asking you what you think.”
His forehead wrinkled in confusion. “Something is different.”
“Well, my hair isn’t pulled back in a ponytail, I’m wearing makeup and I’m not in jeans and a sweatshirt.”
“No!” He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s not you, you were just as stunning yesterday.” His eyes were drawn to the large boxes stacked in the corner of the living room. “It’s those.”
Jennifer blushed slightly at his unwitting compliment before continuing back into the bedroom. “You don’t happen to have a screwdriver and read ancient Sumerian, do you?”
This time Mac followed her. “Sumerian?”
“I’m not very handy. The assembly instructions might as well be in some dead language for all the good they’re doing me.”
“I think I could lend a hand. I’ll have some time tomorrow. What are you trying to put together?”
Jennifer made a beeline for her dresser. She held up a pair of ornate black-jeweled earrings. “I bought a desk and shelving for the third bedroom. I’m planning on setting up an office in there. Rachel and I had used it as an office before, but the furniture was all hers.”
“Rachel is the friend you’re going out with tonight?” Mac leaned in to more closely inspect the earrings, then shook his head.
“Yeah. We run a business together, Seasons. We plan events and parties for people with no time and obscene amounts of money. We used to be roommates, too.” After discarding the first set, she held up a pair made of red crystal. “Rachel’s found true love. She and Tom are really committed to one another. They just bought a fixer-upper together over in Golden Hills. What do you think of these?”
“I’m not crazy about them.”
“Really?” She started to fish through the jewelry box again. “Anyway, Tom’s great. He’s a pastry chef. Wedding cakes, mostly. That’s how the two of them met. He moved here about a year and a half ago from New York, we were planning this big wedding—”
“And he did the cake?”
“Yup. He claims he took one look at Rachel and bam, love at first sight.”
“Don’t you believe in love at first sight?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What about these?” The third pair were plain gold hoops.
“Too run of the mill.”
“You’re right.” She tossed them back. “When Rachel told me they wanted to live together I couldn’t help but be happy for her. I have a feeling we’ll be planning her wedding soon.”
Mac looked over her shoulder and pointed to a pair of simple square-cut ruby earrings. “Those.”
Jennifer looked up, surprised. “My mother gave me these for Christmas the year I graduated from high school. They used to be hers.”
“They’re perfect.”
She slipped one into her ear, then went to work on the second. “Mom loved them. No matter how bad things got, she always held on to these. She would say they were the only thing of value she ever had.”
He had to tell her. Mac took a deep breath, then dove in. “Jennifer, there was a reason I came.”
“You’re not bailing on me, are you?”
“No, nothing like that. It’s business.”
“Business?”
“It’s about your mum and sister, actually.”
“My mom and sister?”
Mac pulled the paper from his pocket. “Best you sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit down.” Jennifer crossed her arms protectively in f
ront of herself. “What do you know about my family?”
“I don’t know much of anything. This came across the fax at work today. One of the other social workers was assigned the call—”
“What call?” She was becoming angry now, increasingly agitated.
“I’m sorry, I’m not handling this right.” Mac once again ran his hand through his hair. He’d made calls like this, dozens of them, why was this so difficult? “Jennifer, your mother’s passed away.”
“What? When?”
“It happened a few days ago, but she was found only yesterday. Your little sis is alone. She needs a place to stay. L.A. CPS thinks the best place for her is here, with you.”
“Here?” Jennifer’s eyes filled with tears. “My mother’s dead?”
Mac led her over to her bed and she mechanically sat on it. “Yes, I’m sorry, your mum’s passed away—”
“I…I heard you, I guess I’m…”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to keep saying that. How?”
They were interrupted by a harsh buzzing sound. Both sets of eyes were automatically drawn to the living room.
“Rachel and Tom.” Jennifer pinched her nose and shook her head, trying to prevent the inevitable flow of tears.
“Shall I buzz them into the building?”
“No!” She looked almost panicked. Tears spilled over and rolled down her cheeks, streaking her makeup. “I don’t want… I’m not ready.”
“They’re you’re friends, right?”
Jennifer stood and swiftly walked out of her room. Mac wasn’t far behind.
“Rachel?” Her voice was surprisingly steady as she spoke into the intercom by the door.
“Hey, Jennifer. Buzz us in!”
“You know? I think I’ve caught some awful flu thing.” Jennifer flashed Mac a sideways glance.
“Oh, no!”
“I was about to call you on your cell. It’s ugly, really. I’m feeling awful.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I don’t want to let you up and expose you. You two go and have fun, all right?”
“I hate to leave you alone,” Rachel said hesitantly.
“It’s probably just a twenty-four-hour thing. I’ll be as right as rain by tomorrow, I’m sure of it. Have a glass of champagne for me tonight, will you?”
“Sure. But I’d much rather you were with us.”
“I’m going back to bed. Sleep is what I need. Happy New Year.” Jennifer leaned her head against the intercom and released the call button.
“All right. Happy New Year. Call if you need me?”
“Of course. Night.”
And then there was silence. Several minutes passed without Jennifer moving. Mac removed his jacket and laid it over one of the living room chairs. He glanced around the apartment and tried to look for clues. Who was this girl? What made her tick? He realized, for the first time, how sterile it all appeared, how impersonal. The furniture was of good quality and, although there weren’t many pieces, what she had was elegant, tasteful. But it looked like a showroom, devoid of pictures or any of those other touches that can make a space feel lived in, that makes a house a home.
“What do I need to do?” she asked.
Mac walked over to her and placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. “I’m sure this is quite a shock.”
“Don’t.” She shrugged off the gesture and stepped away.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be tender. Don’t pretend like you care.”
“But I do care.”
“You couldn’t possibly. You don’t even know me. You don’t know anything about me.” Without another word she walked back to her bedroom and quietly shut her door.
Mac stood there for a few minutes looking at it.
“What the hell are you going to do now?” he mumbled to no one in particular. Then he listened and he heard them, heart-wrenching sobs coming from within.
She was in pain. He didn’t think twice. He turned the knob and quietly pushed open the door.
Jennifer was lying on her side on the bed, facing away from him. Her hair was splayed out across one pillow and she appeared to be clutching a second to her chest. She was weeping, bearing the burden of grief alone. Mac knew what that was like, he knew all too well.
With trepidation he stepped farther into the room. “Some of what you said in there is true. I don’t know you—”
She sat up. “What are you doing?” Her voice we full of accusation.
“Trying to comfort you?”
“But the door was closed. I closed it.”
“Yes,” he admitted, nodding.
“And I specifically left you out there, on the other side!”
“True, but the comforting thing doesn’t work as well that way. See, we social workers use this technique called empathic listening and in addition to occasional vocalizations like, ‘Tell me more’, ‘I understand’, and ‘Hmm’, it requires actual eye contact.”
Jennifer climbed off the bed and moved over to the dresser. “Did I ask for your comfort?” She angrily pulled a tissue out of the tissue box. “No!” With haste, she reached for a second and in doing so knocked over her jewelry box. “Damn it!”
Mac knelt down. “Let me—”
“I can do it!” Jennifer fell to her knees. Frantically, she began to gather up the dropped pieces of jewelry. “I can take care of myself! I don’t need… I don’t…”
He placed his hand on top of hers, stilling her movements. Jennifer’s eyes lifted and locked with his. The wall she kept trying to erect crumbled. Mac swept aside the remaining pieces of jewelry and she fell into his arms. He slid closer, but said nothing. He simply sat there, held her and let her weep.
Finally, her cries of anguish subsided.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Maybe a glass of water?”
Jennifer pulled away. “I’m sorry you had to see me like this.”
Mac reached out, gently guided her head toward him and searched out her eyes. “I’m not.” He grabbed a tissue from the box and offered it to her. “Except for the snot part. I could have done without that. Blow.”
Jennifer smiled wryly. “Thanks.” She accepted the tissue and dabbed daintily at her eyes before turning away and blowing her nose.
Mac pulled the front of his now tear-stained T-shirt away from his body and looked down at it. “I’m going to go change. I’ll be right back. Then, we’ll talk.”
Jennifer climbed to her feet. “You don’t have to babysit me.”
Mac followed suit. “Look, you don’t have any plans now. I don’t have any plans, either. I was going to cook myself some dinner and watch a bit of television. It’s just as easy to cook for two. It’s not babysitting. It’s being a friend.”
“A friend.”
“Yeah. Now, why don’t you wash your face and put on something comfortable. In spite of my snarky snot comment earlier… Well, I want you to know I’d rather see the real you, warts and all, as they say.”
Jennifer wrinkled her nose. “I don’t have warts.”
Mac reached back to rub his neck. “Blondie, we all have warts of some kind.”
“Was it suicide?” The question was asked so softly, he almost missed it.
Mac nodded. “It looks that way. She overdosed. Booze and barbiturates.”
“My sister, she’s in detention someplace?”
“Over at Oliveview, for now. I’ve got the number if you want to call her.”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he said. “Okay?”
“Okay.” She followed him back into the living room. When she opened the door, he noticed her hands were shaking.
Mac slipped out. “Lock the door behind me. I’ll knock, and you can let me back in.”
Jennifer shook her head. “That’s all right. I’ll wait and leave the door open.”
Mac shook his head. “Not safe.”
Jennifer s
natched the extra set of keys off the counter. “Here. Let yourself in.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Chapter Two
Thirty minutes later Jennifer emerged from the shower and toweled off.
Before Mac had shown up she had bathed and painstakingly readied herself for the evening. As soon as he left she felt the need to shower again. She told herself the hot water would help relax her and the steam would help stave off the headache now forming behind her eyes. But really, it was nothing more than an irrational desire to remove the stench of her past.
Although she had pulled her hair back before stepping into the shower, some random loose strands had gotten wet. She pulled out the clip, brushed out her hair, then rearranged it into a neat ponytail at the base of her neck. She put on a thin layer of moisturizer, slipped on her red silk robe, and walked out of the bathroom and into her bedroom.
As she caught a glimpse of herself in the closet mirror, she turned toward the image, studying it for a moment. Jennifer leaned forward, sticking her tongue out at her own reflection. Then pointing at it she said, “You know what your problem is, Jennifer Jones? Wherever you go…there you are.”
Suddenly she became aware of music playing out in the living room. Not just music, opera. She followed the unfamiliar sounds that were at once beautiful and hauntingly moving. The kitchen, living room and dining room came into view. Mac had lit the gas logs in the fireplace and the candles on the coffee table, her expensive candles, the ones she used purely for decoration.
He was in front of the stove, standing over a skillet, singing along in Italian with the score while he stirred. He must have sensed her presence because suddenly he looked up at her. “Finally used up all the hot water?”
Jennifer buried her hands in the pockets of her robe. “I think there might be an ounce or two left.”
He reached for the remote and turned down the volume on the stereo. “Can I offer you a glass?” He nodded toward the bottle of wine on the counter. It wasn’t a brand she recognized, he had to have brought it with him, along with the opera and the scads of groceries that were now strewn across her previously neat and tidy countertops.
“Sure. You listen to opera?”
Shelter from the Storm Page 2
