The Day Will Come

by Judy Clemens

  Tom nodded, and swiped a finger under his nose. “Yeah. Poor guy.”

  I wondered what his version of “Jordan and Genna” was. And what exactly the deal was with Donny and his feelings about Tonya. His heart wasn’t exactly on his sleeve, but it was pretty darn close.

  I nodded to LeRoy and Parker and made my way back up the yard, toward the patio. Jordan was gone, but San still sat on the loveseat, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes were dry now, but I imagined it wouldn’t take much to set her off again.

  “You looking for Jordy?” she asked.

  Jordy? “Yeah.”

  “He went inside for a minute. He’ll be back.”

  I sat on the chair, hoping I wasn’t intruding on her space.

  “So what kind of name is San?” I asked.

  She hiccupped. A laugh, I guess. “My name’s actually Janet, but Genna couldn’t say that when I was born. She called me San. It stuck.” She sniffed, and I could see her jaw working.

  Great. I’d brought up another memory about Genna. Way to go.

  “So you just met Genna the other night?” San asked, her hiccups gone. She rested her head sideways on her knees, making her look even younger than before.

  “Friday. Jordan took a friend and me backstage at the concert. I didn’t talk to her, though, except to say hi.”

  She sighed and looked out over the yard. “I didn’t talk to her that night, either. I wasn’t even at the concert.”

  “Seen enough of them?”

  “No.” She pinched her lips together. “I was mad at her. Told her if she was going to throw away her life with that…that asshole over there—” she jutted her chin toward Ricky’s gaggle of groupie girls “—I wasn’t going to support it. Skipping the concert was my first act of tough love.” Her voice caught, and she put her face on her knees.

  I figured I should probably do something, like pat her shoulder, but I’ve never been good with crying women. I don’t cry enough myself to know what would really help. Instead, I searched vainly for Jordan, who San had promised would soon return.

  When he was nowhere to be found, I plunged back into conversation, hoping it would help. “Did you get to know Jordan through Genna?”

  She sniffled again and rubbed her wet cheeks on her jeans. “Yeah. He’s the main reason I was so pissed at her for staying with Ricky. Why she would choose Ricky over Jordan…” She shook her head.

  “Maybe she didn’t like Jordan that way,” I said.

  She made a muffled laugh. “She did.”

  “How do you know?”

  She dropped her feet to the ground with a slap. “Because I made the mistake of mentioning I was going to ask him out. She about took my head off, saying she saw him first.”

  “I thought she was dating Ricky.”

  “Tell me about it. But I saw the look in her eye, and I wasn’t about to get in my big sister’s way. If she wanted him, that would mean she’d get rid of Ricky, and I would’ve given up Orlando Bloom for that.”

  “Orlando Bloom?”

  “Or Nick Lachey. Any of those guys. Whatever could’ve gotten her away from Mr. Butthead.” She paused, looking out over the back yard. “I was hoping my taking a stand on Friday night would help her see straight. I guess I was too late.” Her eyes filled again, and she crossed her arms tightly over her stomach.

  “Too late for her and Jordan?” San apparently didn’t know about Jordan and Genna’s unofficial engagement. I wondered if it existed outside of Jordan’s mind.

  “Too late to save her.” Her eyes sparked. “The cops tell me they don’t know yet what killed Genna. The autopsy’s been put off. But I have my suspicions.” She glared again toward Ricky and his girls.

  “You think Ricky killed her?” Ricky’s words from backstage flitted through my mind. I’m gonna wring your fucking neck.

  Was he talking to Genna when he said it?

  San opened her mouth to respond, but shut it when the back door slapped shut. Jordan loped across the bricks, accompanied by Gary Mann, whom I’d last seen on the news, speaking about being heartsick. Mann looked gray; not just his hair, which was shot through with silver, but his skin, too. He obviously hadn’t spent the weekend sleeping, relaxing, or even eating.

  Jordan stopped beside San and me. “This is Genna’s sister, San. San, this is Gary Mann, the owner of Club Independence.”

  Mann took one of San’s hands in both of his. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I really thought I had everything under control.”

  She nodded and cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

  “Our security team is the best. I don’t know how this happened. Your sister’s death, the bomb…” His voice trailed off, and he blinked slowly.

  Jordan gazed at San, and I was startled by the despair and hopelessness in his eyes. Mann still held San’s hand, and I could see she wasn’t quite sure how to respond. The three of them stood in some kind of weird stalemate; the sister, the unofficial lover, and the man who felt responsible. Enough time passed I felt something should be done.

  “You mentioned your security staff,” I said.

  When Mann looked at me, San pulled her hand from his and scooted a bit closer to Jordan.

  “My crew is the best,” Mann said. “I hire only fully trained employees.”

  “Right, I’ve heard that. But you had to hire a temporary person on Friday night because your head of security called in sick. That seems pretty unusual.”

  He studied me for a few beats, his face still, before turning back to San. “I had it under control.”

  She stared at him with an unreadable expression before turning and marching up to the house and disappearing inside.

  “I had it under control,” Mann said again, then turned and walked zombie-like down the patio steps to the lawn.

  “What was that about?” I said.

  Jordan looked at me. “Jermaine getting hired last minute. You’re the one who brought it up.”

  “I know, but what about that reaction. Why did it freak him out so bad?”

  Jordan shrugged. “Because he feels responsible, I guess.”

  “Huh-uh. It’s more than that. Something about the security guy calling in sick doesn’t feel right.”

  Jordan sank onto the iron loveseat. “Nothing feels right.”

  “And what about that Baronne guy?” I said. “Do you really think he was kidnapped?”

  Jordan looked at me blankly.

  “Mann’s office manager? The one who’s missing along with the concert money?”

  He blinked. “I forgot about him.”

  “Yeah. I don’t blame you.”

  His forehead crinkled. “From what I’ve heard, Baronne’s been with Mr. Mann for years. Since they were in college, I think.”

  “So Baronne’s disappearance would hit him hard no matter why he’s gone. Whether he took off or was kidnapped.”

  “Yeah.” His attention caught on something in the yard, and I turned to see Gary Mann talking with Ricky, his arm around his shoulders. Ricky was putting on quite a show of the grieving loved one, resting his forehead in his hands, his shoulders slumped. The girls around him had varying expressions of concern pasted on their faces.

  “I’m ready to go,” Jordan said.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jordan assured me he’d be okay when I dropped him off at his apartment. I wasn’t sure I believed him, but didn’t feel I could force him to come home with me or let me sleep on his sofa. I also didn’t feel like battering him with questions about Baronne or the bomb. I knew he hadn’t set the thing. Why interrogate him like he had?

  I stayed in front of his house, motor running, making sure he got inside before heading home. I hurt for the guy, but couldn’t exactly stay on the curbside all night waiting for him to come running out.

  When I pulled into my drive I stomped on the brakes. Nick’s Ranger sat at the side of the house. What the hell?

  I pul
led my truck around his, not seeing him anywhere, and parked in the garage. I sat for a moment, my stomach churning, as I tried to reconcile his unresponsive cell phone with his return to PA. Sliding out of the truck I took a deep breath, somehow knowing his appearance here couldn’t be good.

  When I got to the house, Nick was sitting on the side steps petting Queenie, who sat with her head on his knees. I stopped in front of him and looked down into his face. He met my eyes with his. They weren’t as bloodshot as they’d been over the weekend, but the skin around them looked bruised, and his color was bad.

  “Remember last summer how we went out in the corn field and talked?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” It hadn’t been a pleasant conversation.

  He smiled briefly. “What do you say we go out there again?”

  “There’s no corn to hide behind. It’s only a couple inches tall.”

  “We don’t need to hide. Just walk.”

  I studied his face. “You don’t want to take the truck?”

  “Nah. It’s too nice of a day.”

  “All right.”

  He held out his hand, and I pulled him to his feet. His arms went around me and we stood there for a few moments, Queenie snuffling at our knees, until he let go, easing a hand down to grab one of mine.

  Without speaking we walked through the corn rows, watching our feet so we didn’t crush the fresh plants. Queenie trotted alongside us, nosing at the mounds of dirt and chasing birds. I tried to ignore the developments I could see pushing up to my property lines, but the crop—even at its full height—wouldn’t be able to hide the swarm of copycat condos. My stomach began to hurt.

  In the middle of the field Nick stopped, turning his face toward the sun. “I gave you a hard time last summer, didn’t I?”

  “You mean out here?”

  He nodded. “Saying you were going to end up old and alone if you didn’t make some hard choices.”

  I pulled away from him and tucked both hands in my pockets. “Yeah. You basically told me I had to choose between my farm and my chance at having a family.”

  He winced. “That was a bit harsh, wasn’t it?”

  “Gee, you think?”

  We were silent.

  “You haven’t had your phone on the last couple days,” I said. “I tried to call.”

  He didn’t reply, and I looked at him. His face was still as his eyes roamed the fields. I didn’t think he was seeing the townhomes in the next plot.

  “I needed some time to think,” he said.

  My heart plummeted. Was he breaking up with me? After our painful beginning? Our monthly visits? The way we’d come to understand each other? I clenched my jaw and looked at the ground.

  “You’ve made some sacrifices to be with me,” Nick said. “Leaving your farm to come to Virginia for weekends, having a long distance relationship.”

  “You’ve done the same,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I could feel him looking at me, but kept studying the mound of dirt at my feet.

  “It didn’t seem like you even minded,” he said.

  “I didn’t.”

  “I didn’t, either.”

  I hated the way we were using the past tense. Whatever Nick was going to tell me wasn’t going to be good.

  He was quiet for a minute before saying, “I’m not sure how much more I can ask of you.”

  I squinted up at him. Were these monthly visits not enough? Did he want me to leave the farm even more? Oh God, he wasn’t about to propose, was he?

  “Nick, what’s going on?”

  He sighed loudly and closed his eyes. “Things have changed.”

  “How? You suddenly need more?” My breath caught. “You found someone else in Virginia who will be there all the time?”

  His eyes popped open. “No. No, I didn’t find someone else.” He reached a hand toward me, but let it drop back to his side. “Remember this weekend, how I was feeling? How I was so tired?”

  “Of course.”

  He squatted down and picked up a clod of dirt, crumbling it in his fingers. “I went to the doctor when I got home on Saturday. Mom called in a favor to get him to his office on the weekend.” He stopped.

  “And?”

  “The doc sent me straight over to the emergency room for some tests. An MRI, a CT scan.” He stood, brushing loose dirt from his hands.

  “And what did they say?”

  He glanced at me briefly, then turned toward me straight on, grabbing both my hands. “Stella, I have MS.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “Multiple sclerosis.”

  I went cold, my head swimming.

  “Stella?”

  I pulled my hands from his and bent over, hoping I wasn’t going to throw up into the corn row. When the nausea passed I stood up. “What does this mean?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out. “Any number of things. I could have just this one episode. I could have periodic ones.”

  “But…are you going to die?”

  He smiled gently. “Someday. Not any time soon.” He paused, brushing his fingers through my hair. “But it could affect my lifestyle. There’s no way to know.”

  “Affect you how?”

  He swallowed. “Different ways. I’ll have to take medication. Watch for symptoms of an upcoming exacerbation. I’ll get tired easily, and my immune system will be compromised from the drugs.”

  “What about driving? You drove up here.”

  “Shouldn’t affect my driving, except if I have double vision or something, which kind of happened this weekend when I was here.”

  “How about kids?” I asked. “Can you have them?”

  “Sure.”

  “They won’t get it?”

  “Not from me. It doesn’t work that way.”

  I pressed my thumb and forefinger against my eyes. What ever happened to happily ever after?

  “So I wanted to give you a chance to re-think our relationship,” Nick said. “If you want an out.”

  I stared at him. An out? “Nick, are you nuts? I love you. I can’t just stop.”

  He stepped forward and put his hands on the sides of my face. “I love you, too. You know that. That’s why I want you to think about this. This is going to affect you, almost as much as me. It will determine how often I can visit. How active I can be. Who knows where it could lead in the future? Do you really want to be tied down to someone…” He shrugged. “What if I can’t keep up with you?”

  I pushed him away. “Stop it. Just…stop.” I turned away, my head reeling.

  “Stella…”

  I silenced him with a wave. I couldn’t hear any more.

  “Okay,” he said after a while. “I think I’ll go back to the house. Why don’t you stay out here for a while? Think about what I said. I’ll be there when you get back.”

  I wanted to reply, but my mouth was dry, and I ended up just shaking my head. When I finally turned around, he was already halfway home.

  Chapter Twelve

  The phone rang during my late supper with Lucy and Tess, and I jumped up to snag it before the loud jangling could wake Nick. When I’d returned from the corn field I’d found him sound asleep on the sofa in the front room, Tess’ cat Smoky curled up at his feet. Lucy said Nick had gone in for a nap, and now, three and a half hours later, he was still out cold. Lucy had looked many questions at me during milking, but I ignored them, not anywhere near ready to talk about Nick’s revelations.

  “Stella?” a voice said on the phone.

  “Hey, Jermaine. What is it?”

  “You talked to Jordan?”

  I pulled my chair over toward the phone with my foot and slumped onto it. “Earlier this afternoon. Why?”

  “He’s barricaded himself in his house. Won’t talk to any of us. Not even Ma.”

  “Have the police been to see him?”

  “Don’t know. When he wouldn’t let me in
I left. I’m sorry for the guy, but I’ve about had enough.”

  I sighed and rubbed my forehead. “I don’t know what to tell you, man, except maybe leave him alone for tonight.”

  He hesitated. “You don’t think he’ll…”

  “Hurt himself?” I considered it. “No. I don’t. But I’ll call him to check in. See if he’ll talk with me.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  “Want me to call you back?”

  “Only if there’s something I need to know. I’ll assume he’s okay unless I hear from you.”

  Great.

  I hung up and dialed Jordan’s number. I got the answering machine and started talking.

  “Jordan. Stella here. Pick up, would you? Jermaine just called, worried about you. I won’t make you talk to him. Just please come on or I’m going to have to go out again tonight to come to your place and check up on you, and you really don’t want me to do that. Or I could call your mom—”

  “I’m here. Stop talking. Please.” Jordan’s voice sounded tired and defeated.

  “I’ll stop if you tell me you’re going to be okay tonight. Or at least that you’ll be all right till morning.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “Good. Now, is there anything I can do for you right now?”

  He cleared his throat. “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No.”

  “All right. But you can call me if you need to. You hear?”

  “Yeah. I hear.”

  “Good night, Jordan.”

  “Stella?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hung up and left the kitchen, avoiding Lucy’s eyes, and walked into the front room, where Nick lay on the sofa, his face relaxed and pale in sleep. I studied his features in the light that leaked in from the living room. His looks hadn’t changed, but a vulnerability had seeped into him. Or perhaps in my perception of him.

  An afghan crocheted by my mother twenty years before lay folded on the back of the couch, made with a combination of brown, green, and yellow, with orange highlights. I picked it up and sat on the rocking chair across from Nick, holding the afghan on my lap. Poking my fingers through the holes in the pattern, I dug into the soft yarn. Memories from long ago days assaulted me—lying on the couch, Mom feeding me toast and chicken noodle soup, my throat sore from strep or some other virus. Cuddled with my mom under the blanket, watching E.T., handing her tissues while she cried at the sad parts. The comfort of being taken care of, of being loved, of security.