by Leigh Tudor
His mind conjured the memory of Loren in his living room. “Like your mom used to help you?”
He watched her swallow.
“Yes, like that,” she whispered. He’d hit a nerve and she subconsciously moved closer.
“Maybe you could also find time to eat.” He continued to hold her hand and was now kneading his fingers into her palm. The fronts of their bodies were touching and he kept staring at her lips.
“I think I could manage that.”
“I do have one contingency.”
“What’s that?” she asked with a glint in her eye. “Does it involve ropes or gags?”
Ropes and . . .? Where did that come from? “Oh yes, those are definitely on the table,” he said comically, but instead of chuckling she nodded as if in contemplation.
“So, no cow-tipping or late-night toilet paper raids?”
“Good Lord, woman, you went from ropes and gags to barnyard antics. What kind of men have you dated?”
“None,” she replied softly, as they both stared at his fingers intertwined with her much smaller ones.
He turned his head in confusion. “None?”
She slowly shook her head.
“Are you saying . . . you’ve taken a break from dating?”
“No,” she said as Alec’s fingers paused.
“Wait, you’re not saying . . .? Are you saying you’ve never . . .?”
He watched her swallow and meet his gaze. “Remember? Over protective uncle.”
He bristled at the repetitive story, which he knew to a degree was just that. A story with more holes than he could keep up with. “Okay, that takes us back to my contingency.”
“What’s that?”
“No lies.”
He watched for her reaction. Brown eyes hooded as she watched their fingers no longer having their own make-out session. “That . . . shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Good.”
“But to be clear. I don’t have sex on the first date.”
His eyes narrowed. “It’s not an expectation. But if it happens, I’m willing to roll with it. Statistically, I’d say that’s pretty typical.” He hesitated and cocked his head. “But to be clear, ropes and gags are still on the table?”
“Sure,” she said, “you can show me how to rope a steer. I’m game. Not sure what we’re gagging, but I’m open.”
He gave her a side-eyed glance. Was this another one of her jokes? Her brown eyes didn’t reveal an ounce of guile, not a smidgen of pretense.
How did this woman come off so blatantly seductive, at the same time so seemingly innocent? Could he have been wrong about her? Could she be telling the truth about an overprotective uncle with radical conspiracy theories . . . who hired staff to teach her to fight and possibly run her down in Paris?
Who home-schooled her and her radically artistic sisters?
To the point where they had to watch movies and read books to learn social cues?
What did that even mean? Could they have been that isolated growing up? They all seemed so innately honest in their obliviousness.
In for a penny, in for a pound, he might as well test his theory.
“Where, exactly, did you hear about ropes and gags?”
“Lucinda Packett. She mentioned going out with a rancher who lives east of Newberry. Said she hoped her first date involved ropes and gags.”
He chuckled, “Maybe you should refrain from using terms before they’re fully defined?”
It was her turn to narrow her eyes. “What do you think it means? And while you’re at it, maybe you could explain why Cara is always saying ‘Bye, Felicia’ or ‘Damn, Gina’ with a snarky grin?”
Alec chewed his lip to refrain from laughing. He was not considered “in the know” when it came to pop culture trends, but even he knew what those terms meant merely from being a brother to a teenaged sister.
“And what does it mean to spill the tea or to be ‘shook’? And why would the girls tell me my eyebrows are the opposite of ‘on fleek’?” she continued, clearly on a roll. “And at Eli’s Diner the other day, Cara said she was ordering the salad, but she was ‘low-key cravin’ the pasta.’ And Ally said with one single word, ‘Totes.’”
Alec shifted his stance. “I don’t think I’m qualified—”
“So,” she continued, “I grab your sister’s book bag sitting next to me in the booth and hand it over to her. After which,” she said dramatically and with a flip of her hand, “she and Cara laughed at me so hard they cried.” She raised her arms in frustration. “What the hell does a tote bag have to do with eating pasta?” She looked up at him, waiting for an explanation.
Alec smiled, despite his efforts to remain serious. One thing was for certain, a date with Loren Ingalls was going to be anything but predictable. What was uncertain, was whether to believe a word coming out of her delicious mouth.
Alec reached up to hold her shoulders. His right hand tingled a bit as it touched bare skin next to a barely noticeable bra strap. “Your mission, if you choose to accept it, is to research your questions before our date tomorrow night after you help Cara with math and do whatever you feel is necessary with your hair and nails. If you still have questions, then I’ll do my best to answer them.”
“Can I find the answers on Pinterest?”
“You may have to expand your search options.”
“Instagram? I just discovered that one.”
“Why not ask one of your girlfriends?”
She grinned, her smile and whiskey-brown eyes captivating him. “Mission and date accepted. I’ll just”—she waved toward the entrance to the bar—“get Mercy and drive her home.”
She walked backward a couple of steps, clasped her hands, and turned awkwardly.
Jimbo had found his way next to Alec, just as a very drunk Arnie Feller collided with Loren and made the mistake of attempting to cop a feel. Jimbo and Alec sucked-in simultaneously as she stunned Arnie with a roundhouse kick to the head.
Arnie grabbed his cheek in pain as Loren barely lost her stride.
“Gosh darn it, Arnie, sober up and go home to Byrdie.”
“Jeezus, Loren, did you have to go and bust my lip?” He looked down at his hands and his eyes grew large. “Jesus H. Christ, woman! You clean broke off my front tooth!”
“You better be grateful I’m not calling your wife,” Loren retorted as she swung open the door to Lucky’s and slammed it behind her.
For the second time that night, Alec was surprised at what he had witnessed.
“Jimbo,” he said, as he watched Arnie spit blood onto the parking lot, “mark my words, where that woman is concerned, there’s more to the story. And I highly suspect, I’m not going to like the ending.”
Jimbo chuckled. “Maybe so, but won’t it be a hoot gettin’ to it?”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Perfect numbers, like perfect men, are very rare.”
—Rene Descartes
French-born philosopher, mathematician, and scientist
* * *
Loren worked her way to the bar and waved Gus down.
“Hey, Loren, what can I get ya?” Gus asked.
“I’m good,” Loren said doing her best to talk over the din of inebriated voices. “But could you ring Byrdie and tell her to get an ice pack ready for Arnie?” She looked down at the time on her phone. “He should be home in about eight minutes with a broken tooth and busted lip.”
He grinned as he picked up his phone. “You have anything to do with that?”
She squinted her face. “Yeah . . . about that, the heel of my boot got caught on his tooth. Could happen to anybody.”
“I’m sure he had it coming to him. He’s been known to get handsy after a few drinks,” he said as he picked up his phone. “I’ll call her.”
“Thanks.” She jerked her thumb toward the front doors. “Mercy and I are heading out. Thanks for everything.”
“Didn’t do anything but provide a venue, and quench some thirsts.”
She gave him a knowing smile. “You know this place is special.”
“Largely because of you, and now your sister.”
“Please keep an eye on Mercy if she’s ever here without me. Oh, and don’t hesitate to call me if you think she needs a ride home.”
“Will do.”
Loren gave a final wave, found Mercy, and coaxed her toward the front door. Everyone yelled their alcohol-enhanced goodbyes and simultaneous “Happy Birthdays!”, and Mercy waved back with thank you’s and blowing kisses.
The chill took Loren’s breath away. “A cold front must be coming in.”
“Feels good,” Mercy said. “It was really hot in there.”
Suddenly, Vlad was at Mercy’s side and Loren wondered how the hell he did that. Just popped up out of nowhere.
“You good, milaya?” he asked, bending his head slightly so he could look at her eyes.
“Oh, hey, Vlad. Yes! I’m great. I’m wonderful. That was the best birthday party ever!” Mercy stumbled a bit, and the Russian was there to grab her by the upper arm and help her regain her footing.
Her lack of equilibrium did little to dampen her enthusiasm. “Did you see my cake? It had candles and everything. It had my name written on it! And did you see all of my friends there? All the people who like me? It was awesome.”
“I am glad,” he said with a small smile. “You deserve to be happy, milaya.”
Suddenly she stopped, causing both Loren and Vlad to suffer the biting wind. “Are you happy, Vlad?” she asked, searching his face.
Loren remained silent, not wanting to interfere during this rare communication between Mercy and her doctor? Lover? BFF? She opened the passenger door, but Mercy remained standing, now in a staring contest with Vlad.
“How can you be happy just waiting around for my headaches to hit? What kind of life is that, Vlad?”
His eyes avoided hers. “I am happy when you are happy and well.” He looked up at Loren, clearly wanting to halt this line of communication. “I will follow you home.”
She nodded, suddenly feeling very sad for the Russian, but not altogether sure as to why.
Loren drove slowly even though she had had her last drink hours ago. But she wanted to give a now silent Mercy every opportunity to share details concerning her relationship with Vlad.
“He never once did anything inappropriate,” Mercy said out of nowhere as they made their way up the driveway. “I knew he cared for me. But he never did anything he shouldn’t have.”
“That’s good, Mercy.” Loren glanced her way. “Because if he had, it would have been wrong.”
“You know, other than you, he’s the only person who’s fought for me. Who believed in me. Who was there for me when I told him the truth and asked for help.”
Loren pulled into their driveway and turned off the engine, neither one willing to move.
Loren cautiously took that as a sign that Mercy was willing to open up. “This medicine he gives you, is he the only one who can administer it?”
Mercy shook her head. “No, any doctor could. But he doesn’t want anyone to know about the reason for needing the drug. He said it will encourage too many questions. My condition is rare, and if the details surrounding it got out, Jasper would be sure to find me. Find all of us.”
“So, he’s willing to subjugate his life to being there if and when you need him?”
“Pretty much.”
“He must really love you.”
Her eyes turned glassy. “And what does that say about me? He loves me so much he’s willing to leave his homeland, give up his medical career, and live in this dusty prairie town to simply administer drugs to me when I get a headache. And me? I can’t even manage to return his feelings.”
“Those feelings are somewhat out of your control. You can’t help it if you don’t share them. And you shouldn’t feel guilty about that.”
“So, what do I do? Do I keep leading him along so I get my injections and protect my family? Or, do I stop painting, stop the headaches, and let him go?”
Loren watched the golden hue of the lights in the front living room. “What if he left the medicine with me? What if I gave you the injections?”
Mercy shrugged. “We haven’t had that conversation. But you do enough, Loren. You shouldn’t have to babysit me anymore than Vlad.” She pushed open her car door, and Loren knew that the rare moment of sharing was over.
She followed Mercy up the steps and into the house when Mercy stopped abruptly inside the doorway, causing Loren to bounce off her back.
“What the hell, Mercy?”
Mercy finally moved to the side and what Loren saw made her stop in her tracks.
Cara was standing awkwardly next to a prim and buttoned-up woman with a stern, reproachful look on her face.
Madame Garmond.
Loren winced as Mercy whispered, “Is it me, or is she silently judging us?” Unfortunately, the alcohol had affected Mercy’s inner volume, making her loud enough for everyone to hear, including the judgmental woman wearing a string of pearls, a black crepe suit, and patent leather heels that were so shiny, she need only look down to check her lipstick.
Cara cleared her throat, sounding as if she’d just swallowed glass. “Mercy, Loren, you remember Madame Garmond?”
Taking a deep breath, Loren did her best to gather herself. She blinked more slowly this time, trying to make sense of the prim woman standing ramrod straight in their living room.
“Good evening, Ms. Garmond. You’ll have to forgive our shock as we really aren’t in the habit of greeting people showing up from . . . our past.”
Before the last word was uttered, the front door blew open, and Vlad entered the foyer, creating a small gust of wind and discrediting Loren’s statement. And just as quickly, came to an abrupt stop, staring openly at the woman with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.
“Madame Garmond.” He removed his knitted beanie and bowed his head slightly in greeting. “Quelle surprise.”
“Charlotte,” Ms./Madame, or whatever they were calling her, turned toward Cara. “You did not mention Le Docteur Russe was here, as well.”
Mercy mumbled, “Evidently, there are a number of things our sister has failed to mention.”
Ignoring Mercy’s comment, Loren took control, motioning toward the living room. “Why don’t we all sit down and discuss . . . recent events.”
Madame Garmond led the way, primly hooking her equally shiny purse over her elbow and making her way into the living room to the sofa. Before sitting, she lifted an empty bag of potato chips from the cushion and placed it on the coffee table with a look of utter revulsion.
Mercy plopped down in the chair facing the sofa next to Loren, as Cara sat quietly next to the elderly woman. Vlad remained standing in the doorway as if berating himself for failing to make one of his signature covert exits.
Loren began to feel the red tinge of embarrassment creep up her neck.
Even though the outside of the house was Pinterest-worthy, the Ingalls sisters and their elusive Russian guest weren’t known for keeping a tidy house. Magazines and paper plates with remnants of Hot Pockets were strewn all over the coffee table. The side tables littered with upended Coke cans—the last-minute vestiges of running late for Mercy’s birthday party and scarfing down food before leaving for Lucky’s.
Loren didn’t even want to think about what the kitchen looked like. But, despite the current state of their home, she couldn’t allow this woman to usurp her authority. This was her home, her turf, and this woman needed to know that.
“Ms. Garmond, you can no longer refer to Cara as Charlotte. Her name is Cara.”
“I see, then I would ask that you kindly address me as Madame Garmond.”
Loren’s eyebrows rose as the small woman tilted her head and crossed her arms in front of her. She might have been slight, but her larger-than-life persona was no less than an MMA fighter jacked-up on steroids while wearing an exquisite strand of pearls.
Loren swallowed. “All right, Madame Garmond, her name is Cara now, so you can’t call her by any other name. It’s for her protection.”
“I see.” The woman’s smile appeared manufactured. “Tell me, do you consider yourself her protector?”
How did she manage to lace so much disdain in such a succinct question? Loren took a deep breath. “I am her protector and her older sister.”
“And do you find yourself doing an adequate job?” She scanned the room and lifted a can of hair spray stuck to a paper plate on the side table. Madame continued, “This room is a disgrace. And the kitchen, a germ-riddled nightmare.” She reset the hairspray and paper plate on the table and wiped her hands together.
“Despite that, my charge did offer me a lovely assortment of Hot Pockets and Corn Dogs upon my arrival. Apparently, that was all that she could find that was edible. There was a container of tuna salad, but upon further inspection it appeared more similar to a horticulture project than a viable food source.”
Okay, she had a point. But honestly, how rude. Loren took another calming breath, and said, “Today is Mercy’s birthday. We were rushing to get to her party, and Cara,” she widened her eyes at her younger sister, “was supposed to be spending the night with a friend.”
She gave Cara a withering look. “Cara, why aren’t you at Ally’s?”
“I was, until Madame Garmond called. Letting me know she was here.”
Madame Garmond interjected, “Letting her know that I had arrived, as she had requested.”
The elderly woman, closing in on seventy, turned toward Cara. “Please inform your sisters that you called me, insisting that I travel to this backwoods part of the country because you were in crisis and in desperate need of my counsel.”
Loren turned hot eyes toward Cara. Counsel?
Cara sucked in a shaky breath as if her betrayal had hijacked her voice.
Loren couldn’t manage to hold back. “Seriously, Cara? I thought everything was settled with Amarilla and that things were going back to normal at school?”
Cara hunched one shoulder, a pitiful half-shrug. “I kinda missed her. Before . . . leaving, Madame Garmond had been the only person I could talk to about stuff when you and Mercy were at . . . math conventions and art shows.”
