Stuck With You

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Maybe she found one she liked better.”

  “Likely story, Mr. Rodeo Star.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Updegraff. This isn’t one of your mystery books. You’ve put two and two together and come up with seven squared. Let me—”

  “I’m tired of playing around with you two.” Alistair pointed the gun at Wyatt’s forehead. “I see you lurking back there, Charity. Both of you get in this room before I have to start shooting.”

  “Dammit, Charity, leave. I can handle this better alone.”

  “That’s what you think.” She slipped under his upraised arm and darted into the frigid room.

  “Charity!” Wyatt roared.

  She ignored him and concentrated on appealing to the persnickety nature of Nora’s neighbor. For the time being she decided to go along with his belief that Nora was dead. “We have to clean up this mess, Alistair,” she said. “The snow will devastate Nora’s room. She would have been shocked to see this carnage. How can we preserve her memory if everything’s ruined?”

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Alistair admitted. “I meant to climb onto the balcony and break in through the French doors. Then I was going to sneak down the stairs and catch you and the nephew flagrante delicto, so to speak.”

  “Lucky for you that didn’t work,” Wyatt said. “If you’d showed up while we were flagrante delicto, I would have had to wringo your little necko, so to speak.”

  Charity glanced around the room, looking for just the right distraction. She finally found it. “Oh, no, Alistair,” she moaned. “That picture of Nora with her college roommates is covered in snow! As I’m sure you know, they signed the picture, and one is now a famous mystery author.”

  “I know. I have all her books.”

  “That photograph is irreplaceable. I’m sure she wanted you to have it.”

  “Really? She said that?”

  “She certainly did. Just last week she mentioned that you would be the only one who would appreciate such a keepsake.”

  “She’s right about that.”

  “But someone needs to clean the snow off before the signatures run.”

  Alistair looked worried. “All right. But no false moves.”

  Charity stepped over to the dresser. She picked up the picture in its heavy gilt frame and started brushing. “Thank goodness, the snow doesn’t seem to have seeped inside,” she babbled, not looking at Alistair, not wanting to telegraph her next move. As she whirled and threw the picture, she yelled at Wyatt to duck.

  Wyatt hit the snowy floor as the picture frame connected with the side of Alistair’s head and the gun went off with a roar. Then Wyatt jumped to a crouch and hurled himself at Alistair. The little man was too dazed to protest as Wyatt wrestled the gun away and hurled it through the hole in the roof.

  “No! You should have kept it!” Charity cried.

  “Why, do you know how to shoot?”

  “No.”

  “That’s what I figured, and I didn’t want you playing with it and getting hurt while I’m busy putting a patch over that hole in the roof.”

  “Fine talk after I just saved your fanny!”

  His chin jutted in defiance. “I’ll have you know my fanny was perfectly safe!”

  “Didn’t look that way from where I stood, buster.”

  His jaw clenched. “Maybe you need your glasses adjusted.”

  “Maybe you need your attitude adjusted.”

  “Charity, so help me…” He glared down at her, but slowly the anger was replaced by the soft warmth of concern. “If something had happened to you…”

  “I thought he was going to shoot you,” she murmured, beginning to tremble again in the wake of the adrenaline rush that had sent her into the bedroom.

  His expression grew tender. “Charity, I—”

  “My head hurts,” Alistair whined.

  Wyatt glanced at him. “Let’s hang him upside down in a snowbank.”

  “Good idea. Using snow, I mean. There’s a nasty lump growing above his ear.”

  “Pardon me if I don’t ooze sympathy for this nut.”

  “But we should put something on that lump to keep the swelling down.”

  “Be my guest. I’ll keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t try anything while you make a snowball.”

  Charity had no trouble coming up with enough snow. The floor was covered with it. She packed some in her hand, pulled a pillowcase from one of Nora’s pillows and wrapped the snowball in it before applying it to Alistair’s head. “Hold that,” she instructed.

  “Now you’ll kill me, too,” Alistair babbled as he sat in the middle of the collapsed bed holding the cold pack against his head. “You’ll bury me in a shallow grave just like you did Nora. And cut out my entrails, just for sport.”

  Wyatt looked disgusted. “I’m beginning to see why folks decide to gag their captives.”

  “Please use a clean rag,” Alistair begged. “And no duct tape.”

  Charity folded her arms. “What do you think we should do with him?”

  Alistair looked from one to the other and shook. “Make it quick. Please, no torture. Nothing with cranberry sauce.”

  Wyatt and Charity gazed at each other.

  Then Wyatt braced his hands on either side of Alistair and put his face very close to the little man’s. “You seem to think I’m a dangerous character, so listen to this, and listen good. If you ever tell anybody what you heard here last night, I will personally feed your cajones to the sharks.”

  Alistair looked about ready to pass out. “Wh-what are cajones?”

  “Use your imagination, buddy. And you have an impressive imagination, so that shouldn’t be too hard for you.”

  Alistair gasped and placed his free hand over his crotch.

  Wyatt’s smile looked lethal. “Bingo.” He pushed himself away from the bed and turned toward Charity. “We’d better get that hole repaired and do what we can for this bedroom.”

  “I don’t think we can trust Alistair to run around loose while we clean everything up,” Charity said.

  “You’re right. Let’s take him downstairs. We’ll use my rope.”

  “You’re going to hang me, aren’t you?”

  Wyatt surveyed him with studied nonchalance. “Don’t tempt me.”

  “Wyatt, stop. You’re scaring him.”

  Wyatt glanced at her. “Seems only fair. After all, he scared the hell out of me.”

  “I thought you said your fanny was perfectly safe?”

  “It was. It was your fanny that concerned me.” He winked at her. “As always.”

  13

  WYATT TIED Alistair to a dining room chair placed near the fireplace, built up the fire and left Mac to guard him. Then he and Charity pulled on jackets and boots before starting upstairs.

  “How are you going to cover that hole?” she asked as they climbed. “We’ve burned almost all that scrap wood in the garage.”

  He decided she’d better know the worst of it. “I should tell you something about that scrap wood.”

  She paused, one hand on the banister. “Do I need to hear this right now?”

  “Better now than after Nora gets home.” He continued to climb. “But don’t worry. I’ll take the responsibility.”

  She followed him up the stairs. “I hate explanations that start like that.”

  “At the bottom of the pile was a diagram, explaining how to reassemble it.”

  “Into what?”

  “An antique secretary. Apparently made for President Andrew Jackson in eighteen thirty-five.”

  “Oh, Wyatt.”

  He glanced back at her. “I think old Andy would have approved of the decision to burn it, under the circumstances. Don’t let it paralyze you. If we don’t patch the roof soon, somehow, that sprinkler system in the bedroom ceiling will burst and the damage will be even worse.”

  She cringed, then started resolutely up the stairs. “I can’t believe this. All I had to do was take care of Nora’s h
ouse. That’s all she wanted. Is it too much to ask of someone that they return your house in the same condition you left it?”

  “Well, in this case—” Wyatt stopped speaking to listen. Sure enough, there was a steady dripping sound coming from the direction of Nora’s bedroom. He bolted down the hall and into the room with Charity right behind him. While they’d been downstairs with Updegraff, the sprinkler pipes had burst.

  Wyatt stared at the soggy bed and ruined curtains. Even the wallpaper had begun to peel off, although that didn’t matter much on the wall where Updegraff’s .357 had blown a sizeable hole through the plaster.

  “Perfect,” Charity said. “The only thing that could improve upon it would be a bomb.”

  As if in response, a light flickered on beside her bed and the bulb shattered in the cold.

  Wyatt gazed at her. “Power’s on.”

  Charity met his gaze. “Seems so.”

  They weren’t cut off from the outside world anymore, Wyatt realized. Help for this disaster was a phone call away. This might be his last chance to say what was on his mind. But without the cozy fire, the sense of intimacy, the sensuous mood they’d shared, words were difficult to come by. “Charity, I—”

  “Listen. Do you hear that?”

  From outside came a distant sound of rumbling and scraping. Wyatt walked with Charity over to the French doors and they stepped out on the balcony. A snowplow was slicing through the drifts and sending snow spraying in rooster tails on either side of the blade. Right behind the plow was a slow-moving taxi.

  Wyatt glanced down at Charity. “Nora?”

  “I imagine so.”

  He took a deep breath. “Listen, before she gets here, I just want to say that—”

  She placed a finger against his lips. Her blue eyes focused intently on his face. “Don’t say anything, Wyatt. Just kiss me goodbye, the way we both planned all along.”

  The pain of her rejection nearly knocked him flat. So she had meant what she’d said about wanting her independence. She’d meant every blessed word. He wanted to cry out his devastation, but instead he pulled her to him in a fierce repudiation of her decision. He put everything he’d wanted to say into that kiss. And he imagined that she answered him with the urgent press of her body and the hunger of her mouth.

  Yet she pulled away and stepped back. “Good luck in the arena, cowboy.”

  “Charity—”

  “No. Don’t trivialize this. I don’t ever want to see you again.” She turned and fled the room.

  SATURDAY proved to be a very busy one for the bookstore. During the summer Nora had told Charity to hold on until Christmas before she gave up. Apparently the Christmas season had arrived full force in Old Saybrook, and the citizens of the town enjoyed buying books as gifts.

  Charity saw Nora come into the store that afternoon and hoped customers would remain a buffer so she wouldn’t have to face her mentor alone. She’d apologized for the disaster Friday morning before leaving in the same taxi that had brought Nora home. Then she’d sent a letter offering to pay for all the damages. She doubted the letter had arrived yet, but apparently Nora wanted to confront the issue in person.

  Charity engaged several customers in lengthy conversations, trying to discourage Nora from hanging around. Nora continued to browse the shelves as if she had all day to wait.

  Finally the last person left the store. Charity glanced out the display window to see if anyone might be coming down the snowy walkway to rescue her from this scene, but the flow of customers seemed to have stopped.

  Nora approached the cash register, a book of love poems by Emily Dickinson in her hand. She carried herself with the same regal poise as always, and her knit suit and London Fog trench coat looked as smart as ever. But, Charity thought, there was something different, something softer about her today. Maybe it was the pink scarf tucked around her throat that gave her cheeks such a rosy glow and made her gray eyes sparkle. Even her short gray hair seemed to wave more gently around her face today.

  “Hello, Charity,” Nora said with a smile. “Business looks good.”

  “It’s been very good today.” Charity put out her hand for the book. It wasn’t the sort of thing she’d expect Nora to buy for herself. “Would you like this gift wrapped?”

  “No, thank you. I want to write a special inscription in it first.”

  “I see.” Charity didn’t see anything at all. She couldn’t imagine who Nora planned to give a gift of love poems to. She concentrated on the cash register keys as she phrased her next question. “Did you receive my letter?”

  “No. What letter was that?”

  “I wrote to you and offered to pay for all the damages.”

  “Oh, that. Don’t worry about the damage to the house, Charity. I’m well insured.”

  Charity glanced up, hot with shame. “Then maybe I could handle some of the chores of getting things back to rights. I’d be glad to take the rug to be—”

  “I wouldn’t hear of it. But there is something you could do for me.”

  “Anything, Nora. I feel terrible about the way things turned out.”

  “So do I.”

  A fresh wave of guilt washed over Charity. “I’m sure you do. That house was absolutely perfect, and—”

  “Not about the house. That’s totally unimportant. I’m talking about my nephew.”

  Charity’s hand slammed down on the register and the drawer popped out with a clang. She closed it and became very busy refiguring the cost of Nora’s book while she tried frantically to think of something noncommittal to say. She drew a complete blank. Worse yet, she was shaking uncontrollably.

  “That man is miserable,” Nora said. “I’ve never seen such a sad case.”

  “C-case?” Charity glanced up.

  “Lovesickness.”

  Charity swallowed. Maybe she’d heard wrong.

  “If you weren’t interested in a commitment, why on earth did you lead that poor boy on?” Nora asked sharply.

  Charity stared at her. “Lead him on? Wyatt Logan? Nobody leads that hardheaded cowboy anywhere!”

  “You could, if you wanted to.”

  Charity clutched the edge of the counter. “You must be joking.”

  “I wouldn’t joke about this, Charity. I love Wyatt with all my heart, and I hate to see him so unhappy. He’s found himself in the sad position of wanting a woman who doesn’t want him.”

  “That’s not true!”

  Nora lifted both eyebrows. “Really? Which part?”

  “He…he doesn’t want a woman to tie him down. He told me so more than once.”

  “Exactly when did he tell you that?”

  “Right in the beginning. And then again on Thanksgiving morning. And—” Charity paused. She couldn’t remember another instance, but there must have been one. Wyatt had been very clear. No ties. The message was burned into her aching heart.

  “How about after the two of you made love?”

  Heat rose into her cheeks and her throat closed in embarrassment. “He told you about that?” she murmured.

  Nora chuckled. “He didn’t exactly have to tell me, Charity, sweetheart. I mean, the rumpled mattress in front of the fire, the underwear on the window seat… It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure things out.”

  Charity buried her hot face in her hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

  “I think it’s time to tell you about my trip to Maine.”

  “Good idea.” Charity brushed trembling fingers over her cheeks and cleared her throat. “How was your trip, Nora?”

  “Fantastic. I spent most of it in bed with the most wonderful man.”

  Charity’s mouth dropped open.

  “That’s why I wasn’t in my appointed place when Alistair called to tattle on you two. I’d already moved into Stan’s house. It was a great spot to wait out the storm.”

  “I had no idea,” Charity whispered.

  “You weren’t supposed to have any idea. This was my secret, because I didn�
�t know how it would turn out, and I didn’t want anybody’s pity if the whole thing fell flat.” Nora picked up the book of love poems. “This book is for Stan. We’re getting married next month.”

  There was a stool behind the counter, and Charity felt the sudden need to sit down. “Married?”

  “Yes, and I’m inviting you, of course. Wyatt and his mother and dad will be there, so I thought you might want to work out this little problem so there’ll be no awkwardness at my wedding.”

  Charity felt as if she’d just tumbled down Alice in Wonderland’s rabbit hole. “But you don’t believe in marriage. You think it’s a patriarchal trap!”

  Nora looked uncomfortable.

  Charity had never seen Nora look uncomfortable before. “Don’t you?”

  Nora fiddled with her scarf and readjusted the collar of her trench coat. Finally she met Charity’s gaze. “It can be a trap. We’ve all seen that often enough. But—” She looked away again. “Oh, Charity, it’s not easy admitting this after forty years of kidding myself. I still believe in all the feminist principles you grew up with, but I refused to admit there was anything good about marriage because…well, mainly because I didn’t get the man I wanted. Turning my back on the whole institution was my defense against that heartbreak. I’ve been far too didactic, Charity. In the coming years I want to rectify that.”

  Charity felt as if Nora had sucker-punched her in the stomach.

  “Now, don’t look like that,” Nora scolded. “I’m not about to dress up in cellophane or fetch my husband’s slippers and pipe when he comes through the door each night. I think my marriage will be a better one than it would have been if I’d married forty years ago, because I’ll demand an equal partnership and stand a chance of getting it. I don’t look at this as a trap, Charity. It’s an opportunity—for sharing, for communication.” Her gaze softened. “For love.”

  The tension in Charity’s stomach began to ease. Nora had always represented an unreachable ideal. Discovering Nora’s human frailties lifted a burden Charity hadn’t realized she carried until it began to slip away—the struggle to live up to what she’d perceived as perfection. “This Stan must be quite a guy.”