Chapter 12
“…I’m telling you, it was great! Great! No one suspected a thing! You would have been so proud of me! I walked through Cissy’s house as if I owned the place, and no one gave me a second glance.” Elyse was talking fast, exhilarated, still on a high as she explained to Marla what she’d done, how she’d mingled with the enemy and showed up not only at the funeral but at the gathering after the service. Her nerves were still jangled, and she felt breathless, as if she’d spent the last five hours in the company of hungry wolves. And she’d survived! Thrived!
“I should be proud of you?” Marla scoffed. “As if it was hard for you to blend in? Give me a break.”
Elyse stared. She’d expected praise.
During her last visit to the bungalow Marla had been pleased to hear that Elyse had killed Rory, just as Marla had requested.
“About time that half-wit got what was coming to him,” Marla had said with a little more animation than she’d shown for a week. “This is all working perfectly.” She’d actually ignored the damned television for once. “Do you know how much money it costs every month to keep him at that swank facility?”
Swank? There had been nothing swank or posh or expensive-looking about Harborside Assisted Living, but, of course, the kind of care Rory Amhurst needed hadn’t been cheap.
“He was lucky to be alive,” Marla had added. “I was there when dear old Mom ran over him. I heard the thump and the crunch of his bones.” She’d had the grace to shudder at the memory, but added callously, “But I guess he was an Amhurst. All of us are pretty thick-skulled.” She’d actually laughed and Elyse had felt strangely put off, even though, she was certain, she’d heard the same joke before.
“It was a freak accident. The poor kid…”
“Was it? An accident?” Marla had repeated enigmatically. “I guess dear old Mom didn’t set out to kill him, but you—defending him—when you baked him the brownies that killed him. What did you call him, ‘a poor kid’? He was a man; that accident was over thirty-five years ago! And don’t be acting all caring and warm and fuzzy. For God’s sake, you watched him die, you told me you did, and you liked it. That ‘poor kid’ didn’t know up from sideways. He’s better off dead.”
“I’m not sure that’s true.”
“Then why the hell did you kill him?”
“For you,” Elyse had blurted, stung. “What? Did you forget?”
“Oh, come on.”
“For the plan. Our plan.”
“You did it for the thrill,” Marla had said knowingly. “Because you could. It’s an incredible sense of power knowing you can take a life, even a pathetic one. Tell yourself it’s for our plan…we both know differently. But it was a good job. Now we can move forward.”
Elyse had let herself bask in Marla’s praise, grudging as it was. And Marla had been right. She had enjoyed the kill.
But now they were back to their same roles: Elyse trying to placate a testy, surly Marla. For God’s sake, the woman acted as if she were a prisoner, when Elyse had risked her neck to spring her. Ungrateful, self-centered bitch!
“You think you’re something special, don’t you?” Marla suddenly accused, as if reading her thoughts. “Because you killed two people who deserved to die. Oh, don’t deny it. I saw it on your face when you burst in here after killing Eugenia, and then Rory. You were on a high like no other. You felt invincible.”
Elyse was thunderstruck. Was it possible that Marla understood her better than she’d thought?
“But really,” Marla said stiffly, “just how invincible are you? Eugenia was tiny and old, had already taken her dose of Valium, right? She couldn’t have weighed a hundred pounds soaking wet, and so you tossed her over the rail. Big deal. And then Rory, just an innocent boy in a man’s body, right? Not a mean bone in his body. Crippled enough that he used a wheelchair and you slipped him some doctored brownies. How much intellect or skill does it take to trick a retard?”
“You wanted me to kill them. You told me to,” Elyse burst out.
“Yes, I did. And it’s fine that you feel exhilarated with the kills, but let’s just keep it all in perspective, okay? You preyed on the weak and the helpless. Things are going to get harder. A lot harder.”
Elyse didn’t know what she’d expected but it hadn’t been a lecture on the finer points of murder, a discussion of what was morally right or wrong.
Jesus, what did Marla want from her?
“You know, if I could get out of here, everything would be already done.”
“These things take time.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not stuck in this hellhole. It’s a miracle I haven’t gone flippin’ insane down here!” she said, then continued to whine and feel sorry for herself again. After all Elyse had done for the bitch. All the risks she’d taken. While Princess Marla was fighting boredom. Well, who the hell cared?
The trouble was, it appeared that Marla was getting weirder by the day, more paranoid about being caught. Not once had she gone up the stairs. She usually just sat in her damned chair in front of the boob tube. This was getting bad.
Yes, Marla wanted to hear every last detail of the funeral and the gathering afterward, asking about people Elyse didn’t know, but Marla was pouting as well. They had talked about her attending the funeral with Elyse in disguise, but had decided against it. The cops would be looking for her, and no matter how good the makeup, padding, wigs, contacts, and clothing, there had been the chance that someone might have recognized her.
Elyse said now, “I’m certain the police are thinking you’re behind Eugenia’s and Rory’s deaths. Even though I gave your prison wear to the guy who’s going to leave it in Oregon, the authorities won’t buy that you’ve left the state unless we stop now.”
“We can’t,” Marla said fervently. For once, she seemed to understand. “Not yet.” She seemed upset now, fretting. “You just have to work faster. That’s it. Take care of everyone who’s in our way. Then send your man to Oregon. No, wait a minute. I’m going crazy here anyway. I’ll help.”
“How?” Elyse asked, not liking the turn of the conversation.
“I’ll leave here…go to a local hotel. I can take a taxi from there. Disguise myself, have the taxi put me near BART and I could take a bus or—”
“No!”
“Then I’ll drive the car,” she said with more animation than she’d shown in a long while. “I need to get out of here.”
“Not yet,” Elyse said, panicking. “You can’t leave yet.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Just show a little patience. Everything’s going according to plan.”
Marla glared at her.
“First go upstairs. See if you can handle being out of this damned basement. If you can, then we’ll see.”
“You’re like a damned warden!”
“I’m just making sense,” Elyse told her. She didn’t want to upset Marla, because there was nothing to prevent her from leaving if she so chose. Even if Elyse decided to lock her inside, Marla had keys, and she was a master at escape. No, Marla had to be convinced that she needed to stay inside for a while longer. Till they were both safe and the job was done. “Really, everything’s going perfectly.”
So don’t blow it!
Marla let out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.”
That was more like it.
“I can stay hidden for a few more weeks. It’s god-awful, but it won’t be forever,” she said as if she were convincing herself. “I just have to keep telling myself that. This place is worse than prison. At least there I had people I could talk with.”
“You mean cons and guards?”
“I saw sunlight.”
“I know, I know, I’ll take care of it.” Secretly Elyse was glad to ratchet up the schedule. The highs of the killings didn’t last long, and she was anxious for everything to fall into place.
She picked up some of the garbage Marla let lie around…. Jesus, couldn’t she smell the rotting apple cores and bits of sandwiches? Maybe it was because she was trapped down here with it. She also, nonchalantly, cleaned the brush Marla used on her hair.
“Look,” she suggested, pocketing the snarl of hair when Marla wasn’t looking. “At least walk into the other room of the basement and stretch your legs. Go up and down the stairs and walk around on the other floor. I’ll go up there now and make certain the blinds are drawn. No one will see you.”
“I do need to get out.” Longingly, she eyed her coat draped upon a hook and the boots on the floor below.
“Absolutely. Go upstairs,” Elyse agreed, trying another tack to mollify the older woman. “I’d go stir crazy if I just sat down here all day and night.”
“But you’re not me, are you?” Marla asked, a sense of new-found pride in her voice. “You’ve never been penned up like an animal.” She smiled almost wickedly, her green eyes sparkling in the half-light of the little room. “You don’t have the same backbone I do, the same sense of purpose. That’s the difference between us.”
Not the only one, Elyse thought, but held her tongue. I’ve never been caught.
She left Marla, the weirdo, and took the garbage with her. She would put it in a bin in a park, as she didn’t have pickup service. She didn’t want to take the chance of someone going through it here.
Sliding behind the wheel of her Taurus, she glanced back at the house. What if Marla did leave? She could take off when Elyse wasn’t here and never return. Elyse would never know the difference, and Marla could screw up everything. Damn! Still lost in “what ifs” she jammed the gearshift into reverse, backing out of the driveway quickly.
BAM!
A thud echoed through the car.
“Hey!”
Elyse slammed on the brakes.
Somebody had pounded on the trunk of her car.
In her rearview mirror, she caught a glimpse of a blur.
She gasped, looked again, just in time to see a bicyclist, one hand raised, middle finger extended, fly past in the glow of the street lamps. “Watch where you’re going, you lunatic!” he raved, and she paused a few minutes to catch her breath. Her heart was knocking so fast she couldn’t think. Sweat bloomed over her body, and she felt her insides tremble. She couldn’t afford to hit a bicyclist or pedestrian or dog or anything. She couldn’t risk getting caught. Could not! She was too close to having everything she wanted.
Cautiously, her heart jackhammering, she eased out of the drive and onto the street.
What if the bicyclist remembered her license plates? What if those same plates had been caught on some security camera at the nursing home, or on the street near the Cahill home on Mt. Sutro? These days, everyone had a cell/camera phone which they carried with them. Tons of crimes were caught on camera. Yes, it was dark, but the blue glow cast from the street lamps was enough illumination to read her license plate.
Don’t panic. The biker was flying by too fast to catch the plate’s numbers, and so what if he saw you: you’re leasing this place, remember, Elyse?
Inside she was quivering, but she set her jaw and regulated her breaths, her tense muscles relaxing a bit as she drove through the near-dark streets without another incident. No one stared at her. No one turned to follow the Taurus with their eyes. No one lifted a cell phone high and zoomed in to take a picture of her car. She wondered if the trunk was dented where the biker had driven his fist. She didn’t want any mark on the vehicle, nothing that would allow it to stand out or be identified.
Calm down, you’re safe. What you have to do is steal a license plate off another car, not switch it with the ones you’ve got now, just find another silver Taurus that looks similar, one parked in a Bay Area Transit station, and take the damned plate or two. They don’t have to match front to back; no one will ever know, and the driver of the car from which it’s stolen will just think his fell off somewhere and get a duplicate. You can do this. You’ll be fine.
Her fingers eased over the steering wheel. She clicked on the radio, listening to some smooth jazz. Cracking the window as she approached the bridge, she smelled the scent of the ocean, and she leaned back in the seat as she drove toward town, back to her real life. She thought about calling her boyfriend and making a date, but she knew that they were both tired. And he’d probably play that stupid cat-and-mouse game that seemed to be his favorite, as if he was always on the verge of breaking up with her, calling the whole thing off.
She knew better.
He was in too deep to back out.
“Silly man,” she chided as lonely notes from a saxophone drifted from the speakers. She would visit him another day. As much as she wanted to see him, to kiss him, to feel his hands on her, to straddle him and fuck his damned brains out, another time would be better. She needed to think things through, focus on her plan. Not Marla’s. Just hers.
She thought of Cissy Cahill Holt, the ultimate target.
God, she couldn’t wait to see the look on Cissy’s face when she realized she was about to die. Then there would be that other, unique moment of realization and recognition when she understood who “Elyse” really was. A little tingle of adrenaline slipped through her bloodstream again, a rush of anticipation. She licked her lips as the car’s tires sang over the bridge, the night-dark waters whipping by.
Yeah, Cissy. Just you wait, Elyse thought as she drove toward San Francisco, where the city lights were winking seductively over the black water. Things were working out so well. She thought about the cell phone she had tucked in her purse and the key, two items she’d managed to pick up when no one was looking at the gathering of the bereft for poor Eugenia Cahill. She smiled to herself as she thought what she would be able to accomplish with Cissy’s cell phone and the key that was “hidden” by the staircase leading to the basement, a key probably no one would miss, not even Cissy herself. Elyse had left another key, one that looked identical. As long as no one tried to use it, no one would be the wiser that it was a dummy key, a decoy, just like those fake ducks hunters floated on a lake.
A pure stroke of genius.
But the cell phone was a different story. Cissy would miss it, freak out, and, when she didn’t find it, cancel her service. Elyse would have to work fast, use it before Cissy got wise.
But then, she intended to.
As she drove off the bridge and toward the city, the traffic snarling at some of the stop lights, Elyse stared at the taillights of the minivan in front of her and imagined Cissy’s frustration when she realized the phone was missing. She wouldn’t cancel her service immediately; she would expect the damned thing to turn up, probably lost when someone at the gathering had inadvertently moved it.
How perfect was that?
You’re in for the shock of your pathetic, spoiled life, bitch.
Cissy Cahill Holt didn’t know the meaning of the word fear.
Not yet.
But she was going to learn.
Soon.
And, better yet, so was her mother.
Cissy yawned and rolled over.
And bumped right into something solid and warm and snoring.
Her eyes flew open, and in the early hours of dawn she saw Jack lying beside her.
“What are you doing here?” she said, shaking him awake. “You can’t be here, you can’t be…Oh God…” What had she done last night? She didn’t remember, and the headache behind her eyes told her that she’d had a lot, maybe too much, to drink.
Jack opened one eye. “’Mornin’ beautiful,” he said, one side of his mouth lifting into a sexy grin.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing sneaking into bed with me when I’m asleep?”
His grin widened. “I thought I might get lucky.”
She stared at him as if he truly had gone round the bend. “We’re separated, remember?”
“So you keep reminding me.”
“We do not sleep together.”
“I wasn’t thinking about sleeping,” he admitted, and something deep inside of her responded.
She started to fling the covers off, and he grabbed her wrist, pulling her back, so that her pajama-clad body was touching his, which of course was naked.
“I thought we had a truce,” he murmured.
Cissy could feel his warmth where their bodies touched. “It was for yesterday and didn’t include the bedroom,” she said, trying not to notice how her body yearned for his. It was semidark in the room, the only light coming from a nightlight that gave off a soft white, luminous glow, enough that she could see his features, catch shadowy glimpses of his expressions but not read what he was thinking.
“Cissy,” he said in a voice that sounded an octave lower than usual. “I—”
“Don’t say it,” she said and placed a finger over his lips. She didn’t want to hear any apologies or mention of the word love. Here, in bed with him, under thick, downy blankets, in a room where they’d made love more often than not, she didn’t want to be emotionally ambushed. “Just don’t.”
He kissed her finger, and she felt a tingle deep inside.
She should have removed her hand, but didn’t, and he wrapped his lips around that finger. The warm wetness of his mouth sent a shot of desire to her core. And that desire, deep inside, in the most feminine part of her, grew in intensity. Memories of making love to Jack cut through her mind, quicksilver images of him staring down at her, levered on his elbows, his blue eyes intense, or of him kissing her breasts, his tongue teasing at her nipples, or of the feel of him as he nudged her legs apart, then held himself for a few moments, just touching her, rubbing against her, making her writhe with want before he actually…Oh God.
She slowly pulled her finger out of his mouth. “This is not going to happen, Jack.” Her voice was raspy, her heart tripping expectantly.
“We need to start over.”
“We’re past that.”
“Are we?”
Damn the man, he had the nerve to slip his arms around her and kiss her.
Hard.
Warm lips found hers, and she closed her eyes. Stop this, Cissy, stop it now! Before it goes any further. You do not want to make love to Jack, do not!
But she moaned softly, and Jack’s big hands seemed to envelop her, pulling her tight against him, fingers sliding beneath the hem of her pajama top to splay against her back as he slowly moved downward, kissing her neck, her collarbone, the hollow of her throat.
Don’t let him…Oh God, he’s doing it, isn’t he?
Her back arched of its own accord as he began working the buttons of her pajamas, opening each with his tongue, a trick that amazed and seduced her. Warm breath, wet tongue, the click of the button against his teeth as each pearly little disc was slowly released.
It would have been easier and faster to just jerk the damned piece of cotton over her head, or for either of them to unbutton the fabric with their eager fingers, but this slow method, where his hot breath seeped through the cotton, the fabric parting, his lips and tongue skimming her breastbone, moving ever lower, was magical and sexy and turned her on to incredible heights. His hands were free, and he used them to hold her tight, one across the small of her back, the other, as he eased himself down, cupping her buttocks and holding her fast as the pajama top parted from the pants. With his teeth, he pulled her bottoms down, exposing her, leaving her partially dressed as his mouth scraped lower, past her abdomen and belly button, his breathing hotter now, faster.
Desire pounded through her veins. Her throat was dry, her hands entwined in his hair as he began to kiss her between her legs, his lips and tongue touching, flicking, toying with her as sweat sheened her body and the wanting deep inside began to throb.
Moaning, she began to move with him. A quick tug on her pajama bottoms took them off, and he gained closer access, his tongue working magic, his hands on her buttocks.
“Oh God,” she whispered and was undone. “Jack…” Hot need thrummed through her. She wanted more. So much more. Just when she thought she would go mad with the yearning, he came to her, sliding up her body more quickly now, hands at her breasts, lips skimming her nipples.
All denial fled. She didn’t care about the ramifications, didn’t think about tomorrow, just wanted him. All of him. Now.
He kissed her again, his mouth clamping over hers as his legs pushed hers apart. She arched upward, her fingers digging into the smooth muscles of his back. “Jack,” she whispered when he lifted his head to gaze at her.
“I hate to tell you this, Cissy,” he said, “but I love you. I love you.”
As the words left his lips, he thrust into her. Any argument that might have been forming in her mind quickly fell away. Her body met his eagerly. Hungrily. She wanted so much more from him, so much…. Her thoughts fled, her breath came in short gasps, her blood thundered through her ears as he made love to her. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. Pressure building. She was sweating, gasping. She saw the veins bulging in his forehead. Her entire body centered on the joining of his body to hers.
“Cissy…”
A jolt rocked through her. A soft scream erupted from her throat. Spasm after spasm. She clung to him, felt him tense, and then in one instant he let go, pouring himself into her, whispering her name. “Cissy…oh…damn…Cissy.”
He collapsed atop her, his body as covered in perspiration as hers, his own heart echoing the frantic beat of hers.
She was gasping, but managed a smile.
“And you thought this was a bad idea,” he murmured.
“I still do.”
He lifted his head and cocked a skeptical eyebrow. She laughed.
“Okay…I think it was a bad idea, but I’m glad it happened.”
“Are you?”
Sighing, she wound her arms around his neck. “You are still my husband, for a few more weeks.” His grin widened, and she almost gave in to trusting him again. Almost.
“That’s not set in stone either,” he reminded her, kissing her forehead.
“Let’s not ruin this morning talking about the divorce. I’m going to shower, and you go downstairs and make coffee, and about the time we’re on our second cup, Beej will wake up and we’ll have a perfectly pleasant morning.”
“It could be that way every morning,” he said softly, then, as if realizing he was overplaying his hand, said, “Okay…coffee it is. And I’ll take care of the dog.”
“Coco!” she cried.
“Relax, B.J. and I took her out of the crate last night, walked her, and played with her. Surprise, surprise, she didn’t bite me.”
“How could I have forgotten?” She felt horrible.
“You had a lot on your mind. I think she’ll forgive you.”
“Where is she?”
“Downstairs in her bed, I think.”
“I’m a terrible dog owner,” she said guiltily.
“You’ll get the hang of it. Besides, no harm, no foul.”
“Yeah, right.”
He rolled off her. The cold air in the room touched her skin, and she wondered why it was she couldn’t get enough of him. Why couldn’t she just throw him out and be done with it? True, she thought, as she pulled up her pajama bottoms and walked into the bathroom, she’d used the excuse of her grandmother’s violent death to let Jack back into her life. Twisting on the faucets, waiting for the water to heat, she admitted to herself that it had seemed petty and selfish to keep the divorce front and center when people were being killed. But by putting the divorce on the back burner, she’d sent out mixed signals to her estranged husband.
Was that what she wanted?
So what’s the big deal? her mind taunted as she stepped out of her pajamas and into the shower. Another week or two? Who cares? You’re separated…well, kind of. Allowing the hot needles of water to wash away her anxiety, she picked up a bottle of shampoo, poured a dab in her hand, and worked it through her wet hair. Steam rolled through the room, and she felt her mind clear and her body relax. You’re on no timetable, no schedule; you can do this any time you want. She’d been outraged, of course, when she’d seen Jack coming out of Larissa’s and had told her attorneys she wanted the fastest divorce possible, but her anger had tempered a little over the past few weeks, and Jack, damn him, had been incredibly charming.
But you know that about him.
From the first time you met, he got to you.
All-blue eyes, athletic body, irreverent bad-boy smile, and maverick appeal.
From the moment he turned his attention your way, you were had. Don’t be played again, Cissy. Do not!
Damn it all.
She rinsed and lathered, hot spray running down her face and neck.
Rap. Rap. Rap.
He was knocking?
“What?” she called over the glass door and heard the door to the bathroom creak open. This wasn’t a good idea.
“Coffee,” Jack announced through the steam. “Geez, it’s like a cloud bank in here.”
She smelled the rich aroma, heard the clink of a cup being set on tile.
“And that’s all? You came in just to bring me coffee?” The lather had drained away.
“Well, that’s up to you.”
“That sounds like a bad line from a B movie, Jack. A real bad one.” She clicked open the shower door, reached for her towel, and stepped into the small, foggy room. Jack was there, of course, standing naked as the day he was born. “For the love of God.” She wrapped the terry towel quickly around her. “Did you make the coffee that way?”
He glanced down at his nude body, unconcerned. “Gave Coco a thrill.”
“You’ll scandalize the neighbors.”
“I hope so.”
She thought he’d pull her into his arms, force her back into the shower and do all kinds of incredible things to her body while the water cascaded over them and the soap made their skin slick and pliable. Instead, his blue eyes sparkling, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he eased around her and stepped into the shower. “It’s big enough for two,” he said pointedly.
She gazed at him, knowing if she wanted him, he was ready. But he wanted her to come to him.
“I’ll see you downstairs,” she said after a long moment.
“Tease.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
She toweled her body and rubbed the water from her hair, then tossed on her robe. Quickly she reached for her brush, but it wasn’t in its usual spot in the drawer. What? She searched, but came up empty-handed. Rather than worry about it, she found a wide-toothed comb and ran it through her hair, pulling water out. Then she picked up her cup of coffee and, after peeking into B.J.’s room and finding him sleeping soundly, headed down the hall.
Jack had to go. He had to. For her sanity. He couldn’t just hang out here, she thought, walking downstairs.
It’s the weekend. Let it go for now.
At the base of the steps, she saw Coco, lying in her little bed near the couch in the living room, her scruffy white head propped on the bed’s edge. Dark button eyes blinked. At the sight of Cissy, her little tail wagged, and she yawned, stretching, then shot to her feet, trotting over to be picked up.
“I’m sorry,” Cissy said as she scratched Coco behind her ears. The little dog grunted in pleasure. “I should have let you out last night.”
Thank God for Jack.
Wait. No. Strike that! She didn’t like the turn of her thoughts. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Carrying the little white scruff and her cup into the kitchen, she set the dog down, then opened the refrigerator. She found a few scraps of chicken left over from the gathering and, tearing off a couple of small bites, hand-fed them to the dog. She then took Coco outside, where dawn was streaking the sky in shades of magenta and gold. The air was cold and brisk but, for once this winter, there were no clouds scudding across the sky, no fog wisping through the spires of the skyscrapers visible above the trees.
She rubbed her arms and told herself she’d been six kinds of a fool for letting Jack spend the night.
You didn’t let him stay; he crawled into bed with you while you were sleeping.
But she could have stopped him from making love to her. This morning, when she discovered him all warm and hard-bodied beside her, she could have pushed him away. Sleep hadn’t clouded her mind. Grief hadn’t devastated her willpower. Too much wine the night before hadn’t clouded her judgment. Oh, no. She’d wanted to make love to Jack as much as he apparently had wanted to make love to her.
Idiot!
Damned fool woman!
Now they were back to square one.
What was wrong with her? She knew he was bad for her, and yet she was like some of those stupid women always attracted to the wrong kind of guy, the guy with an edge, the bad boy they wanted to tame.
What a load of garbage!
“Hey,” she said to the dog. “Let’s go inside. It’s not exactly red hot out here, and I’ll get you some real breakfast.” Coco lifted her head. Finished with “her business,” as Gran used to call it, she shot across the grass and through the opened French door. Cissy followed, shut the door, then really took a look around. The place needed work, no doubt about it. Though the house was tidied up from the gathering after the funeral, there were recycling and garbage to deal with, the floors needed mopping, and…and what are you going to do about Jack? You can’t just bury yourself in menial jobs and avoid the issue.
“Damn it all,” she muttered, taking another bag of garbage and depositing it into the already overstuffed can.
You know you love him. No matter what you say. You’ve never stopped.
After feeding Coco and refreshing the dog’s water bowl, she filled a bucket of water and added some lemon juice, then set to work with the mop.
You have to make him leave. Now. You can’t let yourself be lulled into this feeling of security. You know better.
Working like a demon on the floors, washing them vigorously while Coco barked and played, pretending to attack the mop as it slid in front of her, Cissy worked out her aggression and tried not to think about Jack as she heard him moving around upstairs. He was such a big part of her life, and when he finally walked down the stairs carrying a rosy-cheeked and groggy B.J., her heart melted. “Did someone wake up?” she asked, smiling at her son.
“Dad-dee got me.”
“He was just beginning to stir,” Jack said, and Cissy caught a whiff of his aftershave, the one bottle she’d forgotten to toss out, the bottle that at least twice she’d opened and smelled, secretively drinking in the scent of him in the long days over this past month.
“Don’t let him down. The floor’s still wet. How about breakfast, hmm?” she asked her son, who was still in his pajamas. “I’m sure your daddy changed you.”
“Last night and this morning, yeah,” Jack said. “I do know how to take care of him, y’know.” He handed Beej to her, and she kissed his curly head.
“You sleep well, baby boy?”
“I not a baby!”
“Always to me.”
“No, Mom-mee!”
“Okay, you’re my big guy, is that better?”
“Big guy,” B.J. said seriously.
“He’s got ‘no’ down pat, doesn’t he?” Jack remarked, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
“Absolutely.”
“Dog-gie!” B.J. suddenly saw Coco and began wriggling like crazy to be set on the floor. “Dog-gie!”
She set him on his feet, and Beej, in footed pajamas, took off a little unsteadily after the dog. Coco barked, and the chase was on.
“I thought she was old,” Jack said.
“Believe me…she’ll show her age pretty soon, and she’ll start hobbling and probably sleep the rest of the day.”
The doorbell rang, and Cissy glanced at Jack.
“Beats me,” he said to the unspoken question. Barefoot, he walked through the foyer and yanked open the door. Beej trotted after him.
Jannelle was standing on the front porch. Her eyes traveled up and down her brother’s half-dressed body, and her expression said it all: she was not pleased.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, not bothering to hide her disapproval. “You’re getting back together.”
It’s not what it looks like, Cissy wanted to deny. But Jack said, “Maybe.” Then, as he picked up his son, “Want a cup of coffee?”
Jannelle was shaking her head and ignoring her nephew. “No, I just came by because I left my sunglasses here, I think. They must’ve fallen out of my purse. I didn’t put it upstairs; I had it over here….” She walked into the nook and searched in the corner behind a potted plant. “Voila.” She glanced at Cissy’s state of undress. “You know, I tried to call and let you know I was dropping by, but you didn’t answer your cell.”
“Oh. I turned it off for yesterday’s service.”
“The landline works.” Jack placed B.J. in his high chair as Cissy found a box of Cheerios, poured some of the cereal into a small plastic bowl, then put the bowl on the tray of the high chair.
“I don’t have the house number in my contact list on my cell.” Jannelle looked at her brother again, shrugged, then slid her sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. “I wish you guys would just make up your mind. Either you’re married, or you’re not.”
“We’re not divorced yet,” Jack said and then, as if to derail her, asked, “How’s Dad?” as Cissy searched in the cupboard for Beej’s sippy cup. She found it, but noticed that his tiny silver mug, the one that Eugenia had engraved with his name and birth date, wasn’t where it usually sat. Strange. She knew she’d seen it just the other day, but she didn’t have time to search for it now. Instead, she took the sippy cup from the shelf and poured a little milk into it.
All the while, Cissy ignored her sister-in-law’s comments. Jannelle, who took being the older sister to the nth, had always butted in. Her remarks were always pointed, always full of judgment.
Jannelle’s brow furrowed as she glanced around the house through her glasses. “Talk about smudged.” She yanked off the shades and polished them with the hem of her sweater. “I haven’t talked to Dad today, but I imagine he’s got one helluva hangover. He’s probably still sleeping it off.” She slid the glasses on again, and once more swung her head, testing the clarity of the lenses. “By the time J.J. and I poured him into his condo, he was feeling no pain.” Her eyebrows shot up over the rims of her designer sunglasses. “I mean no pain.”
Jack offered, “I’ll call him later.”
“Do that.”
As Coco patrolled the kitchen, B.J. picked up several Cheerios, put one in his mouth, and, grinning, tossed several over the side of the tray.
“No,” Cissy admonished.
“No!” He pounded on the tray. “No!”
Beneath the highchair, Coco was ready, sniffing and eating whatever little tidbit fell to the floor.
“How about J.J.? Did he get home okay?” Jack asked.
Jannelle lifted a shoulder. “How should I know? He kept yammering about all the ‘hotties’ who he’d met here. I thought he might show up again, you know, and start asking for phone numbers and e-mail addresses.” She made a face. “I don’t really think he understood the gravity of the situation. I dropped him off at Dad’s since his car was there, and I assumed he went home, but then again, I don’t know, and it’s really none of my business.” She was already heading for the door. “I’ll see you around. Keep me posted, will ya? Once you decide whether you’re going to stay married or not?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Jack said dryly, following her barefoot to the vestibule. “Well…right after Cissy and me. I think we should get the info first.”
“Funny man,” she said.
He held the door for her, and once she was over the threshold, swung it shut. “She didn’t even say ‘hi’ to Beej,” he observed.
“I noticed.”
“Maybe she’s jealous, you know. Thirty-eight and never been married.”
“Thirty-eight isn’t exactly ancient.”
“Maybe she feels like she’s running out of options. If she wants kids, she’s got to find a guy, get to know him, decide he’s the one, get married, and then plan a kid that may or may not happen right away. That takes time.”
“She could have a baby next year if she wanted to, Jack. She doesn’t need to do the whole dating-courting-marriage thing. I just think she doesn’t like or want kids. And that’s okay.”
“Maybe.” Jack forced his hands into the front pockets of his pants as he walked to the French doors and stared at the yard. “Sometimes I think my family is more dysfunctional than yours.”
She had to laugh. “Is that possible?”
“Let’s face it, Cissy, between us, we have our share of nutcases and lunatics.”
“It’s possible the Cahills don’t have the corner on neuroses and psychoses, but you Holts can’t hold a candle to us.” She thought of her psycho mother running from the law, and Cherise and her brother, Monty, another criminal. She slid a glance at her son, who was contemplating shoving a Cheerio up his nose. “Oh, Beej,” she said, distracting him before he actually pushed the bit of cereal up his nostril. “You are the cutest, smartest boy I know, but genetically, you’ve got some major strikes against you.”
“Amen,” Jack agreed and glanced up at Cissy. She started to say something about him leaving, but he read the message in her eyes.
“I’ll get my things.”
Her heart tore a little, but she didn’t fight it when, dressed in the same clothes he’d worn to the funeral, he hugged his boy, then dropped a kiss on her forehead.
“Dad-dee!” Beej yelled from his high chair. “Dad-dee stay!”
“I’ll be back,” Jack promised, then closed the door behind him.
“Nooooo!” the boy wailed, beginning to sob. Cissy quickly unstrapped him from the high chair. He kicked and cried and wrestled, then wept as if his little heart would break.
Cissy felt terrible. How could she do this to her child?
How could she do it to herself?
Forgive him, Cissy. Give Jack a second chance.
“And then what?” she wondered aloud, but there was no answer.