Nothing but Trouble

by Susan May Warren

  PJ watched as Connie, in her off-the-shoulder satin, diamonds dripping from her ears, floated seamlessly from one guest to the next. “Absolutely.”

  “I just can’t understand what she sees in . . . him.” The associate raised her eyebrow as if PJ should know exactly to whom she referred.

  “Hey, Sergei’s a great guy.” Oh, she hoped. “And he loves her.” Connie had said as much. “Besides, little Davy needs a dad.”

  “Whatever. Everyone knows she’s marrying him for what’s under his tuxedo.”

  PJ’s mouth opened, and she cast a furtive look for her mother or any of the country club regulars. Yes, it was true that Sergei probably had the build of one of the surfers from Cocoa Beach, with the accompanying working-English vocabulary. However, Connie had enough words for both of them, and opposites attracted, right?

  Besides, the way Sergei’s gaze caressed Connie walking down the aisle, the way he locked his eyes with hers during his vows, as if seeing in her something that no one else could see and with her he might find the secrets he’d been searching for all his life . . . well, PJ might pour out eternal promises too.

  And she’d bet that Sergei didn’t use words like not working. Or even pastor’s wife material, although if anyone could qualify, it would be Connie.

  PJ downed her punch, reached for another, and wandered over to her mother, greeting guests by the door.

  “Nice ceremony,” PJ commented, her best attempt at a “Hi, I’m here, it’s just us, what do we say now” kind of statement.

  Elizabeth smiled at her.

  PJ categorized it as more of a zippered, tight-lipped grimace. “What?”

  “Nothing. Of course it was nice.”

  Raucous laughter lifted from one of the far corners of the room. PJ’s gaze darted to a group of what she could only peg as Sergei’s contingency. Internationals, earmarked by their dark dress pants, European-cut shirts, squared-off shoes, and hair either tied back or cut high and tight and severe. A regular mafioso clan, right here in River City.

  “It’s the Russians,” Elizabeth said as if reading PJ’s mind.

  “You make it sound like they’re invading us.”

  Elizabeth gave a wave of her hand. “Thankfully they only have a three-month visa.”

  “The entire lot is here for three months?”

  “No, no. Most of them live here. Just Boris and Vera are here on a visa.” She nodded toward a duo sitting at a table not far from the commotion. “Sergei’s parents.”

  Boris had cloned himself in Sergei—thick arms, narrow hips in an oddly fitting suit. His wife, Vera, had squeezed her body into a black cocktail dress that in earlier years might have been banned on country club premises.

  PJ glanced back at her mother, who wore an expression that suggested she had eaten some bad salmon. “They can’t be that bad.”

  Elizabeth raised a groomed brow. “Just you wait. They don’t speak English.”

  “Oh no, the Russians are taking over the world.”

  “Mark my words, PJ, this is just the beginning.”

  PJ shot a look at Connie, hanging on beautiful Sergei’s arm, laughing, her eyes shining. “I certainly hope so.”

  Her mother rolled away as PJ finished her salmon canapé, ditched her plate, and went after the strawberry white cake. She took a piece and moored herself in a corner while her mother made the rounds, greeting guests with a smoothness bred straight from the House of Windsor. No one would have known that she’d once been a Mulligan, raised on a farm outside a smudge on the map in southern Minnesota before meeting Carl Sugar at Wheaton College and marrying well. She refused to allow his investment firm to drop his name, even a dozen years after his death.

  Her mother knew the value of a good investment.

  An hour later, while working on her second plate of cake, PJ decided that she’d imagined her own mythology. Three hours at the Kellogg Country Club, and she had yet to hear a police siren, see bright whirling bubble lights, or even hear one snide comment about illicit activities on nearby putting greens.

  Maybe she could, indeed, return a new creation.

  She tugged at the clinging black sheath dress Connie had bought for her, eased out of the high pumps that tore at her feet, resisting the urge to dig her flip-flops from her purse. She hoped Davy liked the beach. . . .

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea for PJ to keep him while you’re on your honeymoon?” The voice, spoken too brightly for her to ignore, rose from behind her, where Connie had clumped with Sergei and, of course, her champion at arms, Elizabeth Sugar.

  “I am perfectly capable of taking care of him, Connie.”

  Him being, of course, Davy, Connie’s four-year-old dark-headed son, formerly slicked up for his parade down the aisle, smiling like an imp for the photographer. Now he sprawled on the floor, rumpling his suit and tie. He’d wedged the ring pillow he’d carried for his mother under his shirt, occasionally beating his chest like Tarzan.

  Hey, cool idea.

  “PJ’s just . . . She’s not . . .”

  “I’m standing right here, Mom,” PJ muttered as she watched Davy draw his tuxedoed arm across his gooey brown mouth, leaving a trail of glistening chocolate from his pillage of the mints table.

  “PJ barely knows David,” Elizabeth said as if she hadn’t heard PJ.

  Maybe her mom had a point. . . . But PJ knew Connie would rally, years of courtroom experience in her corner.

  “So she’s not auntie of the year.”

  PJ wanted to raise her hand, call an objection. She did send presents twice a year. And called on his birthday.

  “PJ is an adult. She’s not likely to burn anything down again.”

  Oh, good one, Connie. Bring that up. Still, the realization that Connie believed in her despite her past and seriously intended to make good on her request for PJ to watch Davy while she and Sergei escaped to Mexico drowned any words PJ might raise about her innocence.

  Besides, apparently she was invisible.

  Her mother lowered her voice, as if PJ couldn’t hear her from twelve inches away. “PJ doesn’t know the first thing about kids—” okay, she was right about that—“she doesn’t even like kids—” not entirely true, she just didn’t like runny snot—“and besides, I’m just in the wheelchair for today. I do have crutches.”

  “Two weeks with a four-year-old. How hard could that be?” PJ wasn’t sure why she’d decided to wage a defense. Her mother made some good points. However . . . “I need you.” The words had taken over her brain, giving her mouth its own mind.

  “Exactly.” Connie smiled at her gorilla-impersonating son, so much unadulterated love in her eyes. PJ’s throat thickened. What must it be like to be that adored?

  She dumped the unfinished cake onto a table and wiped her mouth with a napkin. “Listen, Connie. Mom. I’ve worked as a counselor at a wilderness camp, fed gorillas at the San Diego Zoo, jumped from tall buildings as a stunt girl, waited tables, driven dump trucks, cleaned motel rooms, changed oil, apprenticed as a locksmith, been a ski instructor, herded cattle, and even worked on a carpentry crew. I think I can figure out how to make macaroni and cheese, keep Davy fully clothed, and tuck him into bed at night. I’ll even read him a story.”

  “He likes Horton Hears a Who!” Connie offered.

  “Me too. We’ll get along famously.” PJ gave her mother a grin, all teeth.

  Behind his grandmother, Davy stuck out his chocolate-slathered tongue at PJ.

  “Well . . .”

  “The truth is, I didn’t exactly bring a wedding gift.”

  Besides, how else would she prove that she intended to . . . stay? The word wedged itself into the middle of her chest like a bubble, so fragile that if she moved too fast, it might pop. But the minute she’d touched her brakes inside the Kellogg city limits, the hope had expanded, taking up too much room inside her.

  She would start over. For the final time. Connie wasn’t the only Sugar girl who wanted a career, a house on the hill, and a man
with great shoulders. She just happened to be the one who got them.

  “Fine,” Elizabeth said, her mouth again that tight zipper.

  PJ stifled the urge to wince. Instead she produced a smile that would have made her eleventh-grade theater teacher cheer. Please don’t pop the bubble, Mom.

  Thankfully, Elizabeth Sugar would rather have her head shaved in public than air her dirty tennis shorts to the world. PJ breathed relief as her mother rolled away.

  “David will be so thrilled.” Connie’s expression screamed victory. PJ shot another look at Davy, now pulling off his socks. “He’s really looking forward to your visit.”

  Oh yeah, he was doing a regular Irish jig.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Connie brushed her lips against PJ’s cheek.

  A lifesaver. Yep, that was her, in a nutshell.

  Connie finally disappeared into an anteroom and then, ready to depart for her honeymoon, made her entrance to the crowd assembled on the veranda. She towed little Davy by the hand toward PJ, who smiled like Barney and crouched before her new charge.

  “So, you’re Davy. I’m your auntie PJ.”

  Davy winged her hard, right on the top of her shoulder.

  “David, that wasn’t nice. You apologize to Auntie PJ.”

  “I don’t like BJ!” He turned and buried his face in his mother’s pressed pants.

  “He’s a little upset about us leaving.”

  No, really? PJ stood and congratulated herself when she spied his foot moving and managed to dodge a snap kick to her ankle. “Are you . . . sure you should leave?”

  “He’ll be fine.” Connie crouched before Davy and held him at arm’s length. But her mouth trembled. “You and PJ are going to have lots of fun, David. I promise.” She pulled him to herself and held tight, whispering in his ear.

  “Um . . . Mom moves pretty fast in her—”

  Connie’s sharp look cut her off and she pursed her lips tight.

  PJ blew out a breath and, slipping out of her heels, knelt behind Davy. Then, taking his arms, she transferred his death clench from Connie’s neck to hers.

  Davy leaned back and roared, struggling, kicking. Connie stood, her hand pressed to her mouth in horror.

  “Go now,” PJ said quietly, matching his hold, trying not to wince for Connie’s sake.

  Connie wiped her cheeks. “Okay, listen; he starts summer preschool tomorrow at Fellows Academy. His uniform’s pressed and in the closet.”

  Uniform? For preschool? “No, not Fellows, Connie . . .”

  “Stop right there.” Connie leveled her a look that she could have learned only from the master. Or maybe on cross-examination. “He’s been on the waiting list for three years. It’s very important he is there on time, pressed, combed, and smiling.” She reached out to run a hand over Davy’s head, then pulled back. “Please, PJ.”

  PJ should have guessed that Connie would be well on her way to grooming Davy for his future. A true Kellogg Sugar.

  “Pressed. Combed. Smiling. Got it.”

  But Connie stood frozen, staring at her son as if seeing him for the first or, perhaps the last, time. Was she remembering that night when her first husband pulled away, waved to her from the driveway, and betrayed her in every way possible?

  PJ touched her arm. “He’ll be fine. I promise, you won’t come home to a son malnourished, ignorant, and hunted by the local law. I will drive him to preschool, bathe him regularly, feed him nutritious suppers, and read him stories. Horton, remember?”

  “Horton.” Connie swallowed back the pain on her face. “I owe you.”

  “No. . . . We’re just getting started with my payback. Go. Be married.” She winked and Connie grinned big.

  Sergei was leaning against their gold Lexus, arms folded across that mountainous chest. “Zank you, Peezhay.”

  So he had some issues with the English language. He clearly adored Connie. And the accent could turn any girl to butter.

  He adjusted his Ray-Bans and waved as the crowd delivered their bubbles. He opened the car door for Connie to climb in, then went around to the driver’s side.

  Connie leaned out the window. “Oh, by the way, Sergei’s parents are staying at the house while we’re away. Sergei’s cousin Igor lives in town—he’ll chauffeur them if they need anything. Just make sure that Boris doesn’t do any sunbathing.” She waved as Sergei pulled away.

  Sunbathing?

  Davy kicked out of PJ’s arms, landing with a thud on her bare feet. “Mommy!” Before she could grab him, Davy raced after them, arms flailing, screaming.

  Yes, they were going to have so much fun.

  “Davy, come back!” PJ ran down the stairs, cringing as he threw himself onto the pavement. Of course, her mother watched from the porch, wearing a pained expression.

  “No, don’t . . .” Standing over the thrashing boy, she didn’t know where to start. Pick him up? Rub his back? Put something between his teeth? “Davy, c’mon . . .”

  The crowd began to shift away as if embarrassed by the spectacle.

  “Okay, fine, Mom. Come and help me then.” When PJ didn’t hear movement, she looked up at her mother, who remained on the porch, shaking her head.

  “PJ, actually, I think this will be good for you.”

  “What does that mean? That’s not fair. You know him better—”

  Her expression must have betrayed her frustration, because her mother’s eyes softened. “Please try and . . . and . . . well, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Just don’t get . . . into . . . trouble.”

  Why did she always feel twelve years old around her? “Mom—”

  “Let me know when you’re ready to go.” She rolled herself into the club.

  Davy, dirty, rumpled, and noisy, pitched and frothed on the pavement. Connie’s friends had deserted her, probably heading back inside to finish off the canapés.

  PJ knelt beside Davy. Maybe she should just hike him over her shoulder, fireman style.

  Please, God . . .

  A shadow tented over her. “David, do you want some ice cream?”

  PJ stared openmouthed at her rescuer, at the unexpected smile surrounded by white whiskers against his dark skin. “Mr. Hoffman.”

  “I figured you’d show your face back here again.”

  The past flickered in his eyes, and PJ stilled. Please . . .

  “It’s just a shame that it took you ten years.”

  PJ could have kissed him. Especially when he held out his hand, his dark eyes kinder than she remembered when she’d tried to sort out the dates of the Spanish Inquisition and the Crusades, and especially when she’d tried to spit out an explanation so many years ago on just about this very spot.

  His gaze scanned her, however briefly, up and down, as if trying to find the girl he knew. Did he see past the PJ that was to the PJ she’d become? the one who longed for redemption, to know how to pick up Davy and hold him close, to be something in his world, in Connie’s world . . . frankly, the world at large?

  “I see you still have that tattoo.”

  “Oh.” Well, she was wearing a sleeveless dress. She stopped just short of moving her hand to cover it.

  He snickered, shaking his head. “Same old PJ.”

  “Same old Mr. Hoffman,” she said back, and he guffawed.

  “C’mon, David.” Hoffman held out his hand. “Let’s get some ice cream.”

  “He’s had tons of chocolate. I don’t think ice cream’s going to—”

  Davy instantly stopped crying. He poked his little tearstained, belligerent face out of his arms and grinned at his benefactor. Perfect. Leaping up, he dove into Hoffman’s arms, clinging to his neck.

  “Oh!” Hoffman said, and a flash of what looked like pain shadowed his face.

  “Are you okay?” PJ eased her nephew off Hoffman, setting Davy down on the sidewalk. She slipped her hand into his, and he promptly leaned down and bit it.

  Hoffman nodded, limping toward the poolside deck. “Bad back.”

  “I’m so
rry.” PJ switched hands, and Davy landed a fist on her wrist, then went limp. She swooped him up, aware of eyes on her as they struggled their way to the pool.

  Davy braced his hands on her shoulders, pushing away with every ounce of his four-year-old power. “I want my mommy!”

  “Me too, pal.”

  “He surely has Sugar in him,” Hoffman said.

  That wasn’t fair. To her knowledge, she’d never bodily harmed anyone. Well, with the exception of that time she’d caught Boone hitting on Angie St. John, but really, it had been mostly words thrown, not fists.

  Hoffman must have read her face. “I mean that he doesn’t give up.” He clamped his hand on her shoulder, warm, welcoming. “Glad you’re back. I hope you’re sticking around.”

  PJ had no words as Davy finally struggled out of her arms, landed on the pool deck, and raced for the ice-cream stand. She collapsed into a deck chair.

  “Ernie—I need to talk to you.”

  PJ looked up, and everything stilled as she watched Ben Murphy stride across the lawn toward the pool area. Oh no, oh no . . . former math teacher and prom chaperone at ten o’clock.

  Really, she had to stop thinking that the past happened yesterday. These people had moved on, and so must she.

  “Say hi to PJ,” Hoffman said to Murphy, digging out his wallet. He wore a dangerous smile that PJ could have done without.

  Murphy stopped as if running into plate glass. “PJ . . . Sugar?”

  PJ lifted her hand, waved it like a leaf in the wind. But the scene resonated in his eyes—the fire lashing the dark sky, the scream of the sirens, Boone’s breath on her skin a second before Mr. Murphy and company motored up on a golf cart.

  She dropped her hand back into her lap.

  Murphy had recovered his gait and gave her a small shake of his head as he passed her and joined Hoffman at the ice-cream stand.

  PJ sat there tasting yesterday like tar in her mouth.

  Davy returned, slurping a single dip chocolate ice-cream cone. Chocolate dripped from his chin. Hoffman followed, having dispensed with Murphy, and lifted Davy onto a chair next to PJ. He pressed his hands against the small of his back and stretched.

  “How’d you do that?”