by Lori Avocato
Wait! I opened my eyes a tiny bit more, and he pulled back—just a bit. Damn. Not the movement I was going for. Hoping for.
“Sherlock,” he whispered.
I nodded. I could sense concern in his tone. How sweet that he was fearful of what might have happened to me. Then again, what had happened to me?
I shut my eyes for a second, and held my breath as if that would help me think better. Maybe I’d had a lack of oxygen when conked out. Then, it hit me.
My eyelids flew open.
“You scared the shit out of me by coming up behind me like that and … it was your hand on my—”
He pulled back to a sitting position. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately (if I thought in my usual, yet pathetic, thinking about Jagger) his knee still touched me. Right on my left side, oh so very close, (Lord, give me strength to be pissed at him) very close to my … breast.
I leaned a bit more toward him … to my left.
Apparently my recent brush with death had taken away all my shame. Shameless Pauline. Then again, maybe that was the norm for me as evidenced by some of my past escapades.
Jagger was staring down at me, yes, shaking his head. “You alright?”
“I … yeah. Fine.”
“Then what the hell were you doing out here? Don’t you have any sense to come out like …” He looked down at me.
I think maybe directly at my breast, and not just the left one. Breasts.
“Like that?”
My first impulse was to say they were “God-given” and I had no control over the size, but then I realized what he meant.
Bodysuit-less.
For a few seconds, I had no recourse, until I looked at him. “You aren’t in drag now so why should I be? Well, not in drag, but the bodysuit—”
He brushed my words away with his look followed by another shake of his head. At least I thought so as it was pretty dark out here. Good thing, in case someone was about and saw me on the ground and Jagger next to me.
There’d be talk!
And then we’d be busted.
“Look, Sherlock. It’s not the same. I’m a guy …”
I know Jagger was still talking-no, make that chastising me in his usual form-however, I couldn’t hear a thing. He was a guy. Understatement of the year, and I got hung up on those words and couldn’t think straight. But, I had to. I was stronger than that to just lay there and take it from him. Then again, it would be great to lay here and fantasize about him—as if he had to remind me that he was a guy.
Guy. Schumy.
I pushed up on my elbows. “I made sure no one saw me. I know my business. That is, how to do my business. So why did you sneak up on me like that anyway?”
He merely looked at me.
My heart did a little flutter, which medically could cause an arrhythmia, but a Jagger-induced arrhythmia was not life threatening.
Only life altering.
“I told you why I was here. What the hell were you doing outside anyway?”
Oh, crap. I couldn’t let him know I was spying on him.
“I needed fresh air. That room can be claustrophobic.”
Jagger’s eyebrow rose. “You wouldn’t have been following me, would you?”
Before I could answer, he leaned near, “Damn it, Sherlock. I told you there is murder involved here. Can’t you ever listen to me?”
“Someone would think you’re worried about—” Did I say that out loud? Yikes. “I mean—”
For several seconds, yet what seemed like hours, Jagger looked down at me. Me resting on my elbows (I hated when Jagger was higher than me. Gave him way too much authority over me), him kneeling next to me (that left breast thing still going on), and then he leaned closer.
I felt his breath on my cheek.
Good Lord.
“I do worry. Damn it all. I do worry.”
I do worry. I do worry? I do worry!
Did he really say that?
But before my mind could comprehend or think anymore jumbled thoughts … I felt it again.
The tiny rush of air. The warm … feeling on my … oh my …
Jagger’s lips on mine.
And this time, gulp, it wasn’t for CPR.
Maybe I had died … cause this sure as heck felt like Heaven …
When his lips touched mine, I pulled back instantly. Instantly because I was reminded of yesterday.
Yesterday, miles away—another world it seemed. When Jagger’s lips had done the same thing. Touched mine.
I grabbed onto the porch railing and tried to smile. “Dano,” I stuttered, but words failed me.
ER Dano stood in front of me on the porch of his lovely Victorian house. I’d called him from the airport in New Mexico last night, saying I was coming home for the weekend.
My case would have to wait a few days.
After the momentous kiss from Jagger, I had to break it off with ER Dano. And now he stood in front of me looking with his “experienced” eyes. And making me feel like crap.
“It’s just … I came here … Dano, you are a doll … ” As usual, I rambled on when I was nervous.
But ER Dano stood looking at me, then nodded as if in agreement. As if he knew something I didn’t. “I understand.”
“You understand?”
“Yeah.” He pulled back and leaned against the doorframe.
“Then clue me in.” I chuckled, but he remained silent.
“Maybe you need to figure this one out on your own, Pauline.” He stepped forward, kissed my cheek and said, “Yep. You need to figure this one out on your own. I wish you the best of luck. Really.” He pushed a strand of hair back from my eyes.
And I knew his wishes came from his heart.
But, what did I need to figure out on my own? Oh, right. Everything in my life, but the most recent event, I supposed. I swallowed and nodded back. “I guess I do.”
When I turned to leave, I touched a finger to my lips … and still could feel Jagger’s on mine. Delicious.
Ah. ER Dano was one of the most intelligent men I’d ever met.
But not the most.
When I stepped into the door of my parent’s house, it was like stepping back into the past (my very nostalgic past), and I inhaled.
Potato pancakes.
Tonight was Friday. My mother cooked the same meal the same day of the week—forever.
You could set Greenwich Mean Time on Stella Sokol’s menu.
And I loved it.
And I needed it.
And I inhaled and felt a warmth inside me that made me feel at home in the security of my family.
Because this time, Jagger couldn’t shroud me in security … as he was the cause of my insecurity. And now I needed my family. If anyone would have told me that a few days ago, I would have smacked them. I did not want to need my very dysfunctional, yet loving, I-would-never-change-a-thing-about-them family—although they could use it.
The issue at hand led me here—to inhale Friday night potato pancakes no less.
Jagger had kissed me.
I had kissed Jagger back.
And I had never been the same since.
Following the aroma of potatoes, I walked toward the kitchen. Passing by the living room, I paused. “Hey, Daddy.”
My father looked over his glasses while reading the newspaper. Daddy read the paper from cover to cover and would probably be the last person on the newspaper route to ever give it up once they went all online. He smiled at me, “Hi, Paczki.”
A Polish donut. He had called me his Polish donut since I could remember—and it touched my heart to hear it now. I walked over, gave him a kiss on the head and said, “Good to see you.” It had only been a few weeks, but right now, with my world in Jagger-induced turmoil, it had felt much longer.
Daddy nodded, looked down, then proceeded to read me an entire article on some protests going on in France.
I’d always hated listenin
g to him read out loud—all of us kids did—but I stood there, this time very patiently, and listened until he started another article.
After a peck on his forehead, I mumbled, “That’s great,” and headed out of the room toward the kitchen. “Ma?”
“Don’t call me ‘Ma,’” my mother said without hesitation (and as usual) as she spooned a glob of her famous potato pancake recipe into the frying pan. One she would not even share with my sisters or myself—not that I could cook anyway, but they could.
It smelled heavenly. I dipped my finger into the bowl of applesauce she always served with the sour cream. She smacked my hand with the spatula, but I remained silent.
“You home for good now or you still doing that foolish job? Nurses are always needed,” she finished as she lifted a perfectly browned pancake from the pan and set it on the paper towel-covered dish.
“Ma … mom, you know I am now an investigator and use my nursing skills for my job. They need people like me.”
She looked at me with one of her “who do you think you’re kidding looks,” and said, “People, sick people, need nurses, Pauline. Criminals need jail.”
I sucked in some air, let it out slowly, and snatched a pancake from the dish before her spatula could make contact.
Yes! “Want me to set the table?”
She lifted one eye from her frying.
“Okay. Okay. Stella Sokol, the master of the kitchen, is already prepared with the table set.” I laughed and although my mother didn’t, I think she might have smiled a bit.
“Helloooooooooo!” came from the hallway.
I ran out toward the voice and jumped into Goldie’s arms, jumped down and landed in Mile’s embrace. “My two favorite guys!”
They both looked at me and said in tandem, “You need a man.”
We all laughed as we headed into the dining room. Already seated was my favorite uncle who had lived in our house for as long as I could remember. I went to him, gave him a hug and said, “How about our Steelers, Uncle Walt?”
As he went on and on about the plays of one of the games, I thought how great it was to see him and be back at home. The usual crowd gathering around the table. Stella Sokol’s fabulous meal, with, I hoped, her killer chocolate cake for dessert, no one trying to kill me—and I sighed. A sigh of relief and content.
“Pauline, get the door,” my mother said, before the bell even rang.
That wasn’t so unusual, so I turned toward the hallway, walked out to hear the chime of the bell as I opened the door.
“Oh, Lord. Not you!”
Seven
One would think I should be used to Jagger surprising me after all this time of him popping up in janitorial garb, to an eighty-year-old Italian man, to a rather large woman … yet, here I stood with my jaw dropping down to my chest again.
Funny how the feeling of … er … excitement (in my head, not down there!) always filled me when I saw Jagger. (Okay. Okay. Down there too. Mostly.) But, standing outside my parent’s house on the night I’d secretly “escaped” from the Rancho Mirage gig, still had me flustered.
Truthfully, Jagger usually had me flustered, and I still didn’t know how to deal with that.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I really wanted to say, “Um, delicious. Glad to see you again after … you know,” but I didn’t.
Apparently I had some latent pride in myself.
“Your mother invited me,” he said as he passed by, turned and kissed me on the cheek.
My hand suddenly went to my face and my finger touched the exact spot as I stood there watching him walk past and the gang in the dinning room welcoming him.
The Twilight Zone.
I’d entered The Twilight Zone. (Which, by the way, was a common phenomenon around my parent’s house. At least for me. My siblings all seemed so normal.) Mother had invited Jagger on several occasions, shocking me each time I saw him at their house.
It wasn’t even worth running after Jagger and asking him how he “escaped” the spa and what the heck flight did he take here since I had gotten the only red-eye into Connecticut.
For a second, I tried to think of all the passengers I’d seen on the plane. Apparently one was Jagger—and, again, I had no idea.
I really was a damn good investigator with my nursing skills and all, but darn it all if Jagger didn’t baffle me over and over and over. I did give myself a pat on the back for feigning feeling sick to Henry and then sneaking out to come home for this short time—and using the old trick we kids used on our mother. Stuffing pillows in bed so she’d think it was us.
However, it never worked on her.
Hopefully Henry was not as smart as a Polish mother.
“Pauline,” my mother called. “You are being rude making us wait. Unless you have to go to the bathroom. And, if so, let us know if you will be in there a long time so we can start passing the food without—”
Ugh. Leave it to Stella Sokol, I thought as I walked back into the dining room full of everyone staring at me.
I forced a smile and sat down in the only seat left. Next to Jagger. Stella Sokol does it again.
We all ate the delicious and nostalgia-inducing potato pancakes, and I wondered why I never grew tired of my mother’s “fixed” menu.
Maybe because it was comforting to me. Maybe coming back here, even if only for two days, was exactly what I needed.
Maybe it would help to sort out my feelings for … gulp … Jagger.
I peeked at him from the corner of my eye. The guy was as delicious as the potato pancake he was sticking into his mouth.
Warm. No, hot. (Stella Sokol always served everything hot.) And familiar and comforting.
Oh, Lord.
The thought of dropping a dollop of sour cream on him and licking it … oh, geez.
I tried to continue eating and looked down at my plate as if that would distract me from admitting my feelings to myself, but a glob of sour cream next to a glob of applesauce is nowhere near a tealeaf reading.
“Miles and I are … going to be daddies,” Goldie announced.
My head flew up along with everyone else’s in the room.
“You’re pregnant?” My mother said without missing a beat.
Goldie and Miles looked at her and began to laugh. For some reason, I realized that Stella Sokol was a pretty darn savvy lady herself. (I had always wanted it on my tombstone that “Pauline Sokol was a damn savvy lady.”)
“Ma—”
This time Jagger interrupted me. “She’s kidding, Sherlock.”
“I … knew that.” To avoid admitting my face was as red as my mother’s Christmas tablecloth that she’d used for my entire lifetime, I continued with, “Tell us details! An adoption. Right? From where?” I got up, hugged each one with a stronghold around their necks and flew back to my seat.
“Easy, Suga. Poland. We actually are adopting a little girl from Poland.”
“Wow! She can come to Wigilia on Christmas Eve! That is so cool! And you can teach her how to wear makeup, Gold!” I said.
Goldie laughed. “And eat potato pancakes on Fridays if your mother invites us.”
Amid our laughter, my mother said, “My grandchildren are always invited here, and since Pauline doesn’t add to that list, why shouldn’t you two?”
The room froze.
Great. She could change the direction of all of our lives in a heartbeat. Stella Sokol had a “Mother Nature” kinda power and no one could fool Mother Nature.
Amid the room filled with shocked friends, I couldn’t get one word out of my mouth, but Jagger stood up next to me and said, “That may change.” With that he took my hand and said, “All of you please excuse us.”
While Jagger guided me out of the room, my mind stuck on that “that may change,” and foolishly my thoughts ran to—is he taking me to my old bedroom to make mad, passionate love to me to contribute my share of grandchildren to the Sokol clan?
&nb
sp; Oh, Lord.
Despite my insane thoughts, Jagger led me out to the porch off the kitchen. We’d had many a conversation out here throughout our time working together.
He still held onto my hand—and I gotta say, it felt good.
Almost right.
Then he let go. “We need to get back to New Mexico. I’ve booked us a flight that leaves in a few hours.”
“Ok.” Ok? Ok? I stood there racking my brain to figure out why I had agreed so quickly and also chastising myself for thinking about … children with this man.
I really was insane.
But, I had to agree to go back soon before we were found out. People needed our help to solve this insurance fraud and possible murder issues, and my work back here in Hope Valley was done.
I’d ended my ER Dano gig.
But did I do it for the right reasons?
Once back in my room at the spa, I donned my bodysuit while Jagger headed into the bathroom to don his. He’d amazingly gotten us back unnoticed and through a door no less. No window for the crafty Jagger.
The sun was starting to come up, and despite my exhaustion (one gets very little restful sleep on a plane especially when their head is resting on a shoulder owned by one Jagger), we had to get going on this case. Taking a few days off was necessary, yet we probably could have been done if we’d stayed here.
When Jagger came out of the bathroom, I did a double take and then blinked my thoughts back to the case, but not before I thought, he looks good in purple, even for a “woman” that size. “Look, I know you are working your case and we are like, in competition but—”
“They know about you.” He’d said it so matter of fact that I said, “Huh? Who knows what?”
“Whoever is running this fraud ring.” He sat on the cranberry chair by the window and as I watched it sink in, he bent over to tie his shoes. No black boots that made me … wet. This time Jagger was wearing white tennis shoes that were befitting his size. Women’s white with a purple Nike design.
“Sherlock?” I heard him say. “Did you hear me?”
“I got stuck on your shoes,” came out before I could realize how dumb that sounded. “Yes, I heard.”
