I hate him!
I hate him!
I hate him!
Liar! He told me he liked me! Maybe I should have done it with him when he was trying. But I said no. And now look what happened. He went to someone else.
I want to cry…
I want to get out of Kissimmee. I hate it here. I want to be anywhere…but here.
I hate my life.
Thirteen
Lucy sucked in her breath when she spotted Raul Nunez by the half basket of honeydew melons. With fierce determination and a heated shove of her grocery cart, she angled straight for him despite the wobbly front wheel. She had to rein in thoughts about knocking him into the banana rack.
She’d been shopping at Sutter’s, roaming the aisles for discounted specials to make budget meals at home, since she had no one to cook for. Tossed in among the food items in her cart was this week’s fat issue of the Mountain Gazette. As soon as she arrived home, she planned on reviewing the want ads.
The racket her cart made from that defective front wheel tipped off Raul. His head shot up from the honeydews, and his hand knocked a few melons to the floor. Lucy almost ran one over as she all but burned rubber and came to a stop. She was not letting him get away, so she pinned his cart to the fruit display.
“Raul,” she ventured, her tone clipped. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
His coffee-bean-brown eyes widened with fright, the black hair on his head shining like a crow’s wing beneath the energy-efficient lighting. “C’hew about gave me a freakin’ heart attack.”
He wore his hair slicked down with some kind of pomade, his complexion olive-toned. He had oversize upper teeth that were on the straight side, while the bottoms buckled. They were the color of white out. Clearly, he bleached.
Raul had a thick accordion folder on the child seat of his cart. It brimmed with food-soiled recipes, handwritten notes and coupons. He hadn’t struck her as the coupon-clipping type.
“How come you haven’t returned my calls?” she asked bluntly, now that she had him captive.
Brown eyes darted to the honeydew melons. “I don’ know what c’hew talking about.”
“Cut the crap, Raul. I’ve been leaving you messages for days and you haven’t picked up.”
“I’ve been bee-zy. I work for a living, c’hew know.”
“Yes. And I’d like to work for mine.” Lucy straightened, her spine stiff and shoulders thrust back. “How do you expect me to get any clients when you keep telling them not to hire me?”
“I did no such ting!”
“Oh, come on! Raul, you own this town. But when we had a latte that day, you said, ‘There’s more work than I can handle, c’hew come right on up and you’ll be bee-zy.’”
Those big teeth looked ready to bite. “C’hew making fun of my English?”
She sighed, frustrated. “You have to help me out, Raul. Quit sabotaging my chances of survival in this town. I have two sons to support. I want to work. I enjoy my job.”
“C’hew can do your job. Jess don’ expect me to loose any of my clients, becuz you can’t cook like the Raul.”
“How would you even know?” she demanded, venting. “I’ll bet you and I could have a cook-off and I’d win.”
His stature seemed to pump up from about five foot eight to six feet. “Don’ tempt me.”
Raul Nunez was a legend in his own mind.
Lucy loosened her grip on the cart’s handle, not realizing she’d been holding it so tightly. She’d once read that frustration and anger had the ability to snap even the strongest metal in two if one’s nerves were agitated enough. And hers were at the breaking point. “So are you going to stop telling people not to hire me?”
“I have never don’ any such ting.”
She hated to call him an outright liar to his face, so she didn’t. This was getting her nowhere other than giving her a headache.
“We’ll see about all this, Raul. You haven’t heard the last of me.”
“C’hew have me quaking in my chef’s hat,” he called after her as she pushed the cart away, its wobbly wheel rattling.
Lucy had no real destination when she left Sutter’s until she saw the sheriff’s Blazer parked at the High Country Motel’s lounge. On an impulse, she signaled, made a sharp left and angled her Passat next to his.
She got out of the car, slipped her folded sunglasses into the vee of her shirt, then swung one of the double doors open.
The lobby was dingy, but clean; it smelled like detergent and bleach. Chlorine from the indoor pool seeped into the air, and she glanced through the sweating windows to her right to see several people in the pool.
Heading for the lounge, she wasn’t sure what to expect, except to see the sheriff, since his car was parked outside. She hit a double jackpot when she found both Sheriff Lewis and Deputy Cooper sitting at one of the tables with Bud Tremore.
“Hey, Lucy,” Bud said, seeing her before the lawmen did.
“Hi, Bud.”
“I’ve been meaning to get out there and take a look at that porch.”
“It’s fine for now, Bud,” she said, not really needing to go into that at the moment.
Sheriff Lewis tilted his chin at her, his tanned face even darker than she recalled. It amazed her he didn’t have skin cancer lesions on his nose. His red-mustached deputy gave off a more subdued aura, but his gaze traveled over her, too.
“Sheriff, I’d like to file a citizen’s complaint,” she said, quite seriously.
Taking a sip of what looked to be iced tea, and not missing a swallow as he drank around a full glass of ice cubes, he asked, “What about?”
Deputy Cooper thought he’d be a comedian and interjected, “She’s going to put one out on you, Tremore, for all them run-down motor homes on that property she rents from you.”
Bud snorted. “I can park whatever RVs I want as long as I own that land, Clyde. That’s not in the dang covenants where my teardown is.”
“What kind of complaint?” Sheriff Lewis inquired, setting his glass down.
“Raul Nunez is slandering me.” She refused to cower despite the small town sheriff’s raised brows and annoyed expression. “I have been trying to establish myself as a personal chef and he’s done nothing but deter my business opportunities.”
“How’s he doing that?”
“Well, by telling his clients not to hire me.”
“Freedom of speech,” Clyde offered. “I believe we voted that in, back when Betsy Ross was sewing the flag.”
Lucy staved off a groan and a desire to kick the legs right out from under Clyde Cooper’s chair. He tilted backward, fingers knit together over his narrow chest.
“Well, now, Miz Carpenter,” the sheriff said matter-of-factly, “there’s nothing illegal going on here. My hands are tied.”
“Surely there’s a law against someone slandering a name.”
“How’s he been slandering yours? What exactly has he said that’s been detrimental?”
Lucy’s mouth opened, then closed. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. “He hasn’t exactly been saying bad things about me, but he hasn’t told anyone to hire me. He assured me before I moved to town that there was plenty of work and I’d have more clients than I knew what to do with, and now that I’m here, he’s gone out of his way to ensure he’s the only one doing the cooking in Timberline.”
“I fail to see how that’s a crime, Miz Carpenter.” Sheriff Lewis tossed a few Spanish peanuts into his mouth by way of his raised fist.
“But it’s not free enterprise,” she argued.
Clyde Cooper gave her a forced smile. “I think that’s what that Democratic presidential hopeful wanted for our great state of Idaho, and we voted his ass out of Dodge.”
The three men chuckled.
“Isn’t it illegal to be in a bar while you’re on duty?” she retorted, then clamped her lips together.
“Now, now,” the sheriff cautioned. “We’re off duty. There’s no law in Red
Duck that says we can’t come into an establishment wearing our uniforms.”
Lucy said nothing further, knowing she’d get no help here. It occurred to her, after the fact, that Red Duck was a town where the justice officials only served those to whom they felt justice was entitled.
With a discouraged stride, she left the lounge through the lobby, giving that overchlorinated pool one last glance.
For a moment, she thought about jumping in and sinking to the very bottom of the deep end, because that’s where her life was headed. Not that she really would, but it sounded dramatic. And right now, she was in dire need of something drastic.
A heavy sigh left her lungs and a thought came to mind.
There was only one option left.
And it was about the most drastic thing she could think to do. In fact, it was her only choice.
Fourteen
Wearing a plush white towel wrapped around his waist, Drew strode barefoot through his seventy-five hundred square foot home.
Late afternoon sunlight slashed through the tall windows.
The main living area on the ground floor was spacious and open to the second story, with heavily timbered ceilings. He used the entry area as an informal gathering place. The fireplace was massive, its stonework reaching to the rafters. A set of six long-paned windows, which he left without blinds, gave a panoramic view of the backyard. He didn’t have fencing around his property. The back was private, screened with white birch, aspens and pines.
He preferred natural stone and earth tones on the outside of the house. The deck had several hunter-green Adirondack chairs angled to view the decorative landscaping boulders, and—in the distance—the creek.
Heading for the kitchen, he crossed terra-cotta tile that felt cool, yet good, after a hot shower. He didn’t have a lot of clutter on the countertop. The large range, with its professional hood and stovetop grill were barely ever used. There was a cook island with a black-and-white-speckled marble top. He usually tossed his mail on the surface, and there it sat until he was ready to open it and pay a few bills or answer letters.
He still got fan mail diverted to his P.O. box. Technically, he was supposed to go to the Timberline post office and collect his mail, since the Knolls didn’t have rural mail delivery. But Drew had made a deal with the postmaster—he got delivery to his home in trade for free home plate tickets to a Dodgers’ game for anyone working at the post office and taking a vacation to Los Angeles.
There wasn’t a whole lot Drew Tolman didn’t get, and damn if he wasn’t aware he could get away with most anything. He knew he had a way about him, but he didn’t think he abused anyone. He did a lot for charities, hosted events at no charge. He made anonymous donations to causes he felt worthy—the local city center was one of them. The town had been short a few thousand to put in a fountain and he’d taken care of it.
He didn’t need or want any recognition. He liked to do things for the sake of doing them. It made him feel good.
He stopped at the chef-size, stainless steel refrigerator with its two double-wide doors, took out the milk carton and drank from the plastic spout. The icy-cold liquid coated his parched throat. He’d been slugging balls before he came in to shower.
He only bought skim milk. Hated homogenized. It tasted like cream.
Glancing at the clock in the library off the kitchen, he noted he had fifteen minutes to get dressed.
His cell phone rang with a basic ring tone that echoed off the cold countertop where he’d left it. He’d finally had its settings changed. When he was at the phone store, he’d decided to add Mackenzie to his plan. He’d overnighted her the new cell, then had the clerk program his phone to play Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone” whenever her number was incoming.
He’d asked Lynette what Mackenzie’s favorite song was, and she’d said Mackenzie had just bought the Clarkson CD. Drew had checked it out, found that song on the playlist, and figured it was the perfect choice for his daughter’s ring tone—considering he had been gone.
“Tolman,” he said into the receiver.
“Drew, it’s Jacquie.”
He’d spoken to Jacquie twice since the breakup, but had seen her only once. She’d shown him some investment properties just before they’d parted ways, and he’d opted to buy one in Hailey. He saw no reason to get a different Realtor to complete the transaction, so he’d had Jacquie do so.
Their conversations started out strained, but always ended up a little more loose by the time they were ready to hang up. He didn’t want her out of his life completely. Three years was a long time to throw away without even salvaging a friendship.
Since they’d broken up, he’d owned up to the fact that he had to take partial blame. He’d even mentioned failing the relationship by taking his heart out of it the last time he and Jacquie had talked on the phone—only she didn’t want to discuss it. Just the same, he’d said he was sorry.
Drew didn’t hate anyone, couldn’t see himself never talking to Jacquie again. Polite exchanges would be inevitable. The town was small. They would run into one another.
“Hey, Jacquie.”
Her raspy voice was seasoned, professional, as she continued. He knew her well enough to know it was an automatic response. “I have the counteroffer from the owners on Bear Creek. They made one minor change regarding the closing date, but I don’t see it as a problem.”
“Okay. If you say so.”
Muted noise sounded on her end, as if she’d tucked the phone to her ear to read through the legal documents. “They’re asking for a forty-five day escrow rather than the thirty you proposed. Oh, and comps came in higher than the asking price.” She gave the Jacquie laugh, the one he recognized as a marketing strategy. “So you’ve already made money.”
“That’s cool.”
She exhaled, obviously smoking a cigarette. “You’re probably the only person I know who can be so indifferent about an extra twenty grand in your pocket.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s true. I’m thinking about how I’m going to turn over the property and make even more money off it.”
“I should have known.” Then she must have smiled, because her tone changed. “So I’ll need you to sign the revised offer. I have to present it to the agent first thing in the morning, and this has to be taken care of a-sap.” She paused, almost hesitant. “I was hoping you’d be home tonight so I can stop by and get your signature.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Good.” She audibly sighed. “I’m still at my office, tying up a few loose ends for some other people, and I shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Whenever.”
“Okay. Good.”
The line went quiet, and Drew stared out the back windows to the expanse of green grass, tall trees and a familiar mallard duck walking up to his patio.
“How’re you doing?” he finally asked.
“Busy,” she responded lightly, casually, with no undertones of emotion. “Summer really heats up.”
For a flicker of a second he thought about how her slender body heated up when he’d kissed her, made love to her. But the thought was gone before he could remotely grasp it, or visualize her naked, or even remember what her mouth tasted like.
They talked a few minutes longer, then Drew’s doorbell rang.
“Oh, shit! I forgot something. Jacquie, I gotta go.” He clicked off the phone, tossed it to the counter and strode to the front door, still wearing his towel.
He hadn’t planned on doing this, and he realized how it would look. Maybe he should go down the hallway first and slip into some jeans, but his movement had been detected through the glass panels on each side of the massive front doors—because an oval face pressed closer. Neither side had a window treatment covering it.
She’d had to have seen part of him, his silhouette. No doubt.
When he started toward his bedroom, the bell rang again.
“Shit,” he repeated beneath his breath, then backtracked to the foyer.<
br />
Standing back, he opened the door.
Lucy Carpenter stood before him, grasping the blue handles of two extremely large plastic totes. They looked like suitcases, and through the murky plastic he could see utensils, spices, pots and pans, and a bunch of other cookware he was fairly clueless about.
This was her first cook date at his house. He’d hired her.
She wore a pair of jeans and a basic pink T-shirt that hugged her breasts. The shape of her face was delicately defined, with her hair pulled back in a claw to keep it off her shoulders.
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