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Hell's Belles
Kristen Robinette


Shaking it up at the stop-n-bowlThe belles of hell–four best friends growing up in Haddes, Georgia–had a plan. Right before graduating high school, and setting off to capture their dreams, they decided to create a "time capsule"–a letter describing their fantasies for the future. In twenty years they'd meet and see if fantasy had met with reality.MATTIE: At forty, was the man of her dreams still miles away?DELLA: Her old prom dress no longer fit. Did her wedding ring?ERICA: Had seen the world, and found that Hell, home and love all meant Haddes.SHAY: Now could she stop running from her fears?Hell's Belles were back–and though they'd traded milkshakes for margaritas, one thing still remained the same: a whole lot of shaking was about to happen in Haddes!









“Who says I even want to be married by thirty?”


Erica downed the last of her Coke, then crossed her jeans-clad legs. Adjusting the ankle strap of her spike-heeled sandals, she suddenly looked thoughtful. “Thirty-five, maybe. I gotta admit, any older would be freaky.”

“We’ll make our meeting, then, an even twenty years from now,” Della said, straightening as she always did with the brilliance of an idea or a piece of juicy gossip. “That means we’ll be back here on this same day, at the same time—” she did the math, ticking off the years on her fingers, red nails flashing “—in the year 2005.” Her gaze fell to her engagement ring, and she bit her lip. “Jeez, that sounds like something from a science fiction movie.”

Mattie tugged Della’s hand across the table, admiring the tiny diamond that adorned it. “At least one of us knows what’s in her future.”

Erica rolled her eyes, grabbed a bar napkin and tore it into four squares. She scribbled the future meeting date on every small scrap of paper, then slid the pieces of napkin across the table to the other three.

When each girl held a square, they looked up like reluctant knights of the round bar table, each making brief eye contact with the other. Shay looked relieved, hanging on to her scrap of napkin like a teddy bear. Della looked suddenly uncertain and Erica defiant, as usual. Mattie’s gaze wavered under the scrutiny of her friends, then strayed to the stack of envelopes with a look of pure longing….




Kristen Robinette


could never decide what she wanted to “be” when she grew up. She wanted to become an archaeologist, a firefighter, a psychiatrist, an equestrian, an artist, a police officer…all at the same time. After deciding that her affliction was actually the urge to write about such things, she set out to become a writer. Now a multipublished author with ever-changing fictional careers, she couldn’t be happier!

Kristen lives in Alabama with her husband and three daughters. When not at the keyboard, she can be found horseback riding, boating and generally avoiding domestic chores.




Hell’s Belles

Kristen Robinette





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Josh and Christina

You’re the only ending that fit.




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


Haddes, Georgia

May 11, 1985

The four girls crashed the Stop-N-Bowl a few hours before its official opening, as they had virtually every Friday night for the last two years. They were now perched at a long-legged bar table, sipping colas and wondering what they’d gotten themselves into. Four white envelopes lay piled in the center of the table, the name of each girl written in her own handwriting across the outside.

Erica Donovan reached for her envelope only to have her hand slapped away by her friend Della Murphy.

“Don’t even think about it,” Della warned.

Despite her blond starlet looks, Della was the undisputed matriarch of the group. Though the girls were all eighteen, she had a worldliness and maturity that made her the natural leader of the pack.

At last night’s sleepover at Mattie Harold’s house they’d each agreed to participate in a self-improvement exercise found in a back issue of Cosmopolitan. “Make your own fantasy time capsule…” the article had dared. They’d since come off of their cheese-curl and pizza high and were now eyeing the envelopes with regret. Private thoughts took on a life of their own when pen met paper.

“This was so stupid.” Erica tossed her straight black hair over her shoulder and pretended not to care.

Della shot her a look. “Then what did you do it for?”

The two girls were as opposite as opposites came but they had a bond that thrived in the gray area that separated their opinions. Della had managed to go from mood rings and Rod Stewart to an engagement ring and impending mortgage without flinching. Erica, on the other hand, thought Della had lost her mind and had every intention of sowing her friend’s wild seeds for her.

“Search me. The only fantasy I have is to get the hell out of Haddes…”

“You’ve mentioned that.” The comment belonged to Shay Chambers. Shay had long since grown weary of Erica’s wanderlust. She pulled her long, shorts-clad legs up to sit yoga-style on the bar stool.

The pre-opening hustle and bustle as the waiters wiped down tables and stacked glasses was as close to the bar scene as the eighteen-year-olds had ever been. And it was as close as they were likely to come at the bowling alley, since Della’s family owned the place. In fact, Jack Murphy, Della’s older brother, would soon escort the underage girls out of the bar, ending their small taste of adulthood.

“I think it’s good to write down our goals,” Shay added. “It helps to know what we want in life. Right?”

“Um…” Mattie Harold pulled the napkin from beneath her glass and wiped up the ring of condensation that had bled through. “Were we supposed to be writing down our goals? I thought we were writing down…. Well—” she lowered her voice as Jack passed behind their table “—more like our fantasies.”

Della scowled at her brother for the intrusion, oblivious to the way Mattie’s eyes followed him as he disappeared behind the bar. What she hadn’t missed was the way shy little Mattie had torn into her fantasy assignment like a groupie after Michael Jackson’s white glove. She was clearly hot for something—or someone. Della eyed Mattie’s envelope with a surge of curiosity. “Is there something you want to share a little early?”

Jack chose that moment to crank up the music. “Like a virgin….” Madonna’s voice rang clear and excruciatingly loud as if in answer to Della’s question. The foursome convulsed with laughter as Jack adjusted the volume.

“So now we need to agree on a date.” Shay straightened, refocusing on the task at hand. Her gaze fell on Mattie. “What year are we going to open the envelopes, see if we made good on our goals? How about when we turn thirty?”

Mattie sniffed away her laughter. “What if we’re not married by the time we’re thirty….” She let her sentence trail, luminous blue eyes growing seriously horrified at the prospect. She stroked the bare skin of her arms below her tank top and shivered.

Erica shot Mattie a look. “Who said everybody’s future fantasies included marriage?”

The other three stared her down, Erica’s tough-as-leather exterior transparent to her friends. “Get real,” Mattie said.

“If we’re not married by thirty, we’ll have to do something.” Shay examined the ends of her long auburn curls for splits before nervously smoothing her hair into place.

Shay’s life hadn’t been as carefree as that of her friends. She’d lost her parents in a car accident at eight years old and had long ago stopped questioning fate. If not for the tragedy, she wouldn’t have moved to Haddes to live with her aunt and uncle and would never have become part of this circle of friends. They were her family. But in three weeks they would graduate from high school and their adolescence would end. Who knew what lay ahead?

Mattie tugged Della’s hand across the table, admiring the tiny diamond that adorned it. It winked in the dim light of the bar. “At least one of us knows what’s in her future.”

Della smiled, a lovesick expression on her face. “Donald,” she whispered dreamily, then pressed the ring against her chin. “Wouldn’t it be neat if we all got married and lived in the same apartment building—right here in Haddes?”

Erica groaned. “Spare me! Besides, who says I even want to be married by thirty?” She downed the last of her cola, then crossed her legs. Adjusting the ankle strap of her spike-heeled sandals, she suddenly looked thoughtful. “Thirty-five, maybe. I gotta admit, any older would be freaky.”

“We’ll make it an even twenty years from now,” Della said, straightening as she always did at the brilliance of an idea or a piece of juicy gossip. “That means we’ll meet back here on this same day, at the same time—” she did the math, ticking off the years on her fingers, red nails flashing “—in the year 2005.” Her gaze fell to her engagement ring and she bit her lip, marring her perfect candy-apple gloss. “Jeez, that sounds like something from a science-fiction movie.”

Erica rolled her eyes at the sudden change in mood, grabbed a bar napkin and tore it into four squares. She scribbled the future meeting date, down to the half-hour, on every piece, her large handwriting dominating the small scraps of paper. Then she slid the pieces of napkin across the table to each friend with a challenging smile.

When each girl held a square, they looked up like reluctant knights of the round bar table, each making brief eye contact with another. Shay looked relieved, hanging on to her scrap of napkin like a teddy bear. Della appeared suddenly uncertain, and Erica defiant as usual. Mattie’s gaze wavered under the scrutiny of her friends, then strayed to the stack of envelopes with a look of pure longing.




CHAPTER 1


May 11, 2005

Della spun the chair around with a whoosh, and Mattie found herself facing a familiar image in the salon mirror.

“Now then,” Della announced. “You’re presentable.”

Presentable. Why did that word grate on her nerves? It was true, that was why. Presentable and totally boring, though she’d broken out the most alluring thing in her closet today. But from her mouse-brown hair to her white slacks and aqua twin-set, she was merely…presentable.

Mattie touched the freshly cropped ends of her hair, causing the bob to swing at chin level. “Do you think I should let it grow out a little?”

“Why would you?” Della asked, obviously confused. “It would just make it harder to care for. As it is, you can wash it and be presentable in ten minutes.”

There was that word again. Normally Mattie didn’t spend much time fretting over her appearance, but today was different. Or was it? She wondered if anyone else would remember the reunion date. She met Della’s eyes in the mirror but couldn’t detect anything out of the ordinary. Disappointment settled in her chest. Della had forgotten. It was foolish, but she’d carried the scrap of bar napkin in her billfold for twenty years. Lately, though, it seemed to serve more as a reminder of her failures than her fantasies.

“I guess you’re right.” Mattie responded to Della’s comment and was rewarded with a satisfied smile. Della liked to be right.

The world could begin spinning again. Mattie Harold, spinster bookstore owner, wasn’t going to let her hair grow out. Much less let it down. God forbid.

Mattie wrote out a check to Della and resisted the urge to dot her name with a smiley face as she’d done as a teenager. Her eyes stung. She was feeling ridiculously nostalgic today. Blinking away the tears, she glanced around the salon.

Della had hired a new stylist named Kimee. With jet-black hair cut in a geometric bob and more piercings than a pincushion, Kimee needed no introduction to Haddes’s youth. She was the poster child for the generation gap, hired, as Della said, “to bring in the teens and their allowance.” And bring in the kids she had. Teenage girls lined the waiting area, sitting two to a seat and giggling in nervous anticipation of their Kimee makeover. She was currently stroking fuchsia eyeshadow on a young girl of about fifteen. Her red hair had been cut frighteningly similar to Kimee’s and now sported a streak of white down one side. The girl looked like she’d won the lottery. Her mother looked like she’d just swallowed one of Kimee’s nose rings.

Just say no, Mom, Mattie thought. But obviously Mom was more interested in making her daughter happy than asserting her parental rights.

Several of the salon’s patrons, all over sixty, were obviously waiting to see Della. Mattie sighed. It didn’t look as if Della could get away even if Mattie reminded her.

Which she refused to do.

Mattie tugged off her cardigan as she left the air-conditioned salon and entered the Georgia heat. May had arrived with confidence, chasing away the cool air. Already the heat was pooling against the asphalt, swirling and rising against her ankles and sandaled feet.

She lifted her face to the sun, a little sad that her wrinkle-busting, age-defying youth-radiating foundation had an SPF of 30. She hadn’t had an honest-to-God tan in a decade. Back in the good old days, they’d slathered themselves with baby oil mixed with iodine, plopped down on a quilt and fried like teenage eggs. No guilt involved. She forced herself to stop frowning and rubbed the furrow between her eyes. Maybe she should just ditch the wrinkle-defying foundation and zap any intruders with Botox. She’d been thinking a lot about Botox lately. She’d been thinking about a lot of things like Botox lately.

Mattie sighed. Too much thinking was bad for the soul, not to mention the complexion.

She tried to clear her mind as she began the three-block walk to her duplex but her thoughts circled back with a will of their own. It seemed like some cosmic joke that she was pushing forty and still single. In her mind she’d freeze-framed her age at about twenty-three. But lately she’d been catching reflections of herself in unexpected places—the window of the drive-thru lane at Hamburger Heaven, the mirrored tile behind the florist’s counter. And the woman who looked back at her was definitely not twenty-three. More often than not, the woman in the reflection was scowling. Mattie touched her forehead again and massaged away the tension.

It suddenly occurred to her that she’d drifted through life like someone drifting through a supermarket, perusing aisle after aisle with an indefinable craving.

Despite the encroaching heat, which would soon rule Haddes during the summer months, it was a picture-perfect day. A few residential areas remained downtown, snuggling comfortably against the businesses as they had for decades. Not much had changed in the nearly four decades she’d lived here, but the few changes she’d seen were for the better. Old homes were being renovated by enterprising early-retirees, morphing into quaint tearooms and antiques shops.

The shops in the original part of the little city were old two-story brick buildings that shouldered one another along Main Street, causing shoppers to wedge their SUVs in side alleys and narrow parking spaces. Mattie took it all in, both content and discontent to walk the same path she’d walked all her life.

But then she spotted the bookstore and the doubt melted away. Something in her chest swelled with recognition and pride. Looking at the bookshop was like looking in a mirror but actually liking the reflection. Or maybe it was more akin to looking at your child, an offshoot of yourself of which you could unabashedly be proud. She wasn’t sure. But nothing and no one else belonged in that store.

She’d created it and it was hers alone.

Mattie had built the bookstore from nothing. In fact, the idea had come about eight years earlier when a stack of paperbacks on her nightstand careened over. When she went to pick them up, she realized they’d hit another stack of novels on the floor, knocking them over as well. She’d cleaned up, packing the books neatly in a plastic crate, but when she went to store them in her closet, there was no room—thanks, in great part, to her shoe collection. Mattie grinned at the memory. The left side of her walk-in closet had been stacked to the ceiling with crates of books, the right equally as jammed with shoe boxes. Since she refused to give up either prized collection, the idea for a used bookstore was born.

She took two weeks vacation from her clerical position at the bank and rented some space in an old building previously used as a saddle shop, signing for the run-down real estate on a month-to-month basis. The venture was little more than an organized yard sale at the time and she had every expectation of returning to her old job when her vacation time was up. But the day she opened for business a fierce spring storm blew through Haddes and the shop lost power. Mattie lit a half-dozen candles and opened the front door. The damp air lifted the dormant smell of leather and oil, mixing with the scent of the lemongrass candles and books. Mattie was in love.

Not only had the storm blown in that day, but customers had, as well. Somehow parting with her books had been not only easy but enjoyable when she watched them leave with a happy customer. When her own personal collection began to wane, Mattie went in search of more. Her clerical job was history. She began selling new rather than used books but also began acquiring books from estate sales. She lucked out on some rare editions and started educating herself on collectibles. Before long, she’d gained a reputation for handling antique and rare books as well as stocking popular fiction.

These days the bookstore was well known for hosting book signings and writers clubs. There was always hot tea and slices of lemon cake and good conversation. Mattie loved the shop like a friend, was proud of its success. So why did the accomplishment feel a bit abstract, as though the shop itself was responsible for the success rather than her?

She sighed. Possibly because, after nearly four decades in one place, she’d managed to misplace her self-esteem. Mattie ran her hand through her hair, surprised at the feel of the short strands. Della had been a little overzealous today. But then she thought of Kimee Scissorhands and shivered.

Though she’d hung the “Closed” sign on the door in honor of the big reunion—which suddenly seemed like a short road to depression—Mattie slipped through the door, locking it behind her. She breathed deep and smiled. It was home away from home. Like a favorite pair of faded Levi’s, or slipping into fresh sheets at the end of a long day, the shop was an instant shot of pleasure endorphins, despite the work required to run the place. And it was hard work.

Three stacks of boxes sat next to her desk, their cardboard edges battered and suspiciously dirty. Mattie knew what was inside without checking. A large order of children’s books had been missing in action for two weeks now, lost in the mysterious realm of overnight delivery. She dug her box opener from her desk and slit the wide tape from the top box. The first book in the shipment was a picture book. The artwork was delightful, sporting a neon-green cricket, the author’s name boldly splashed across the front in blue. Mattie ran the pad of her thumb across the author’s name, mentally substituting her own.

The goal of owning the bookshop had been consuming at first, and her need to see it become successful had fueled her for years. But two years ago the shop had settled into a sort of easy rhythm that worried her. Then that indefinable craving had returned.

Mattie thought of her writing and shook her head. She’d gotten the urge to see her own name in print, but the stories, the characters and erotic worlds she created under cover of night would never see print. That part of her would remain saved on a CD, safely tucked away in the closet where she did her late-night work. So she’d targeted the children’s book market instead, a much better fit for Mattie. Or at least the Mattie the rest of the world knew.

With her usual determination, Mattie formed a local writers’ group and had been working steadily toward publication ever since. But so far she’d only met with rejection. Some days she wondered if the goal to write was just another distraction, something no more achievable than marriage and children. After all, marriage required a man, and children required, well, something to which she didn’t currently have access. Especially without a man.

The number of dates she’d had in the last ten years—or rather the lack of them—was scary. Some days, especially after a rerun of Sex and the City, when it seemed the whole world was having sex, she’d vow to join them and just do it. Like the Nike commercial. She was straight. She was still relatively young and attractive. But then she’d go out with the postman, or the nephew of her insurance agent, and somehow the urge was lacking. She really didn’t want to sleep with the postman. In all honesty, she didn’t want to sleep with someone she wasn’t in love with. She’d only had sex with one person, her college boyfriend, Brad. A.k.a. a distant memory. Brad had been a disappointment. Or maybe she had. Who knew? But she’d sort of given in, then given up.

Now she considered herself a sort of pseudo-virgin, and she was actually kind of comfortable with that. She figured there was some sort of statute of limitations. If you hadn’t had an orgasm in a certain number of years, you got to reclaim virginhood. It made sense to her.

She spent the next two hours unloading the boxes, making order out of chaos and managing to avoid smudging her white slacks with dust. Finally she shelved the last book, stacked the empty boxes for recycling and made her way to the ladies’ room to freshen up before heading to the Stop-N-Bowl. What’s the point? her inner crab complained. Go home. Eat ice cream. Watch Oprah. Avoid more rejection. No, she countered. She kept her promises. If she was the only one that showed, she’d at least have the satisfaction of being the only friend with enough honor to remember. She smoothed pale pink lipstick across her lips, powdered away the afternoon shine on her face and mentally braced herself. No one would remember the reunion date but her. Unlike her friends, the wheel of Mattie’s life turned at a predictable pace. Manageable. Comfortable. Familiar. As easily shelved as one of her books.

She decided to walk to the Stop-N-Bowl rather than hoofing it back to her duplex to get her car. Besides, she wasn’t too anxious for her friends, in the unlikely event that they showed, to see her recent purchase. The land barge, as she thought of her Crown Vic, had been retired from the local police force. And it was as ugly. Dirty white, with the outline of the police shield still visible from the side, it had turned out to be more embarrassing to drive than she’d expected. Mattie sighed, feeling a niggling of regret. Oh well, it was big and cheap, which was why she’d taken the plunge and bought it at auction. She could stack boxes of estate-sale books in the trunk and back seat and still have room for a pony.

When Mattie rounded the corner to the bowling alley, she was surprised to see several cars, none of which she recognized. Probably the cleaning crew, she reasoned. The Stop-N-Bowl shouldn’t even be open this time of the afternoon. She paused when she reached the door, her hand icy despite the fact that she clutched the sun-warmed handle. In all likelihood, the door would be locked and she would spend the evening in a blue funk, watching someone eat bugs on reality television while she downed a pint of rocky road.

Mattie squeezed the latch and the door swung open easily, enveloping her in an air-conditioned cloud of familiarity. She took a deep breath. The Stop-N-Bowl was her own personal time machine. Her writers’ group held its share of meetings there, taking advantage of the deli and private party rooms available in the back. But no matter how often she came, she always experienced the same sense that time had stood still.

As her eyes adjusted to the interior, she found that the lanes were darkened but the bar area was well lit. Only a few tables remained, the rest squeezed out by a new pool table. Pinball machines still lined the wall but were now frighteningly referred to as “vintage.” Rows of neatly arranged liquor bottles topped a mahogany bar devoid of graffiti. Mr. Murphy, Della’s father, had an imposing presence that kept the locals in line. His glare as he wiped down the glossy wood was usually the only warning necessary.

Della’s brother Jack hadn’t been behind the bar since his summers spent home from college. He’d moved to Atlanta fifteen years ago to start a career as a private investigator. Mattie could never seem to reconcile the quiet athlete she knew with her image of a PI, though Della assured her it was less gumshoe and more corporate inquiry than the books that filled the mystery section of the bookstore led one to believe. Still, the job sounded dark and mysterious and only fueled the fantasy.

As if her fantasies about Jack needed more fuel. They had been simmering since she was the ripe old age of thirteen. Though she knew he often made it home for the holidays, the Murphys were a tight clan and Mattie made certain not to intrude on their family time. She’d run into Jack a time or two, though, her knees turning to Jell-O and her brain becoming sixteen again.

Thirty-eight-year-old knees and a sixteen-year-old brain. A scary combination.

Muffled voices from the far end of the bowling alley caught her attention. Mattie froze. She could have sworn she was alone. She glanced around, still feeling like a trespasser. Mattie grabbed her purse and thumbed through it to distract herself from the acid burning in her gut. She found her envelope in the side pocket of her purse and tossed it on the table as if it contained flesh-eating bacteria.

She’d experienced absolutely nothing written inside. But the moment of truth was here.

She wasn’t anxious to admit her failure. So why was she here, trespassing, wishing her friends had remembered their childish pact?

“Long time no see.” Della’s familiar voice rang out as she sidled up to the table and slung her ten-pound purse atop it.

Della was still beautiful, despite the fact that there was more of her to love these days. She’d styled her platinum-blond hair in an ultramodern cut picked up from a recent hair show in Birmingham. It barely brushed her shoulders, the ends moussed to messy perfection. Everything about Della’s appearance spoke confidence. Tight, black capri pants said, “Love me as I am,” and a spaghetti-strapped tank peeked from beneath a colorful mesh blouse, flashing glimpses of ample cleavage.

Mattie was so shocked that Della had showed up, that she was speechless. But Della didn’t appear to notice. She lifted her well-padded hips onto the vinyl seat across from Mattie, sighing heavily.

“You little sneak. I thought you’d forgotten.”

“Ditto.” The knot in her stomach loosened considerably and she smiled. “I thought… You had so many clients waiting.”

Della waved a dismissive hand, nails the identical shade of red they’d been twenty years ago. “I gave them to Kimee.”

“You did not!” Mattie suddenly pictured hordes of Haddesians walking around with Goth haircuts like a scene from The Night of the Living Dead. “Oh my God, please tell me you didn’t leave old Estelle Ashworth with Kimee.”

Della grinned a grin so mischievous that Mattie had only seen it on one other face—that of Della’s three-year-old son, Trevor. “I did.” She giggled. “I can’t wait to see what she does to her.”

“You mean Kimee or Mrs. Ashworth?” Estelle Ashworth was no shrinking violet. She ran the local dry cleaners and had a reputation for being gruff. She kept a candy jar full of Dubble Bubble and handed pieces out to the children along with a fierce pinch and a smile. Half left crying and the other half knew to refuse the offer politely. “I don’t know which one to be worried about.”

“Good point. It should be worth showing up in the morning.” Della laughed, then opened her purse and began sorting through the contents. “Estelle gripes every time I cut her hair. Maybe after Kimee gets through with her, she’ll appreciate my talent. In fact, I’m going to consider it a crash course in Della appreciation.”

Mattie nodded. That course should be mandatory for a few people she knew. Namely, Donald. But she kept that observation to herself.

“So have you heard from anyone else?”

Mattie knew the “anyone else” Della was referring to meant Shay and Erica. She shook her head.

“I have a feeling we’ll be the only attendees at this little party.” Removing a sandwich bag filled with what Mattie hoped were raisins and a Hot Wheels car, she continued fishing until she extracted her envelope, placing it atop Mattie’s. “Last I heard Erica was out of the country and Shay was out of her mind.”

Mattie chose to ignore the comment about Shay. It hurt that Shay had withdrawn from their lives, but her reasons were certainly valid. She’d left Haddes to free herself from an abusive marriage, and despite the fact that her life was totally unconventional—maybe even a little weird—Mattie understood. And what was worse—making every poor choice available, as her friend had, or taking no chances at all, as she’d done?

She lifted the corner of the sandwich bag and examined the contents. Was it possible for raisins to shrivel? She gave Della a questioning look and dropped the bag. “Last I heard, Erica was covering the war in Iraq.”

Della ignored her silent commentary on the state of the raisins. “If a war breaks out without someone there to snap a picture, does it really break out?” Della slipped from her chair and sauntered to the bar, smiling at her humor.

Mattie considered the caustic comment. Okay, so maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling a little ordinary. Besides, she knew Della well enough to realize that the comment was sheer bravado. Sarcasm was easier than worrying about Erica’s safety.

“Do you have any red wine back there?” Mattie asked. She’d only recently learned to tolerate alcohol in the form of wine. Half of the articles in the medical magazines she stocked at the bookstore were now claiming that red wine was beneficial to your heart. But in all honesty, holding the stem of a graceful wineglass while she read in bed at night made her feel more like a literary connoisseur and less like a lonely spinster.

“No, no red wine,” Della answered absentmindedly, ducking beneath the bar in search of something.

“Are you sure?” Mattie eyed the dozens of bottles on the shelf.

“No.” Her friend’s blond head popped up. “Besides, today I’m making margaritas.” She shook a canister of salt for emphasis, cha-chaing her hips to the beat, then held up her hand when Mattie started to protest. “Don’t be a wimp, Mattie.”

She snapped her mouth shut. Tonight she was not a wimp. She was a successful small-business owner, single and still a size six. She bit her lip. Well, a size six most of the time. If she wasn’t retaining water and if she held her breath. At any rate, she was going to drink a margarita without grimacing, dammit.

After sipping and perfecting, adding various potions and revving the mixer to a deafening RPM, Della returned to the table with the drinks, leaving a half-full blender on the bar.

Mattie took a sip and managed not to grimace. A muted burst of male laughter erupted from the direction of the conference rooms. Della waved her hand as she sipped.

“Chamber of Commerce meeting in the back.”

Mattie was about to get the details when a soft rustle from the entrance caught her attention. Shay stepped out of the shadows, her tall form gliding gracefully toward their table.

“Shay!” Mattie jumped to her feet, scooping her friend into a hug as she neared. Della was next in line for a hug, though Mattie thought she detected a guilty expression, at least one that looked as close to guilty as Della ever came.

“We never dreamed you’d come.” Della hesitated. “How are you?”

Shay took a seat and met their eyes, hesitating until she had their full attention. “I’m great,” she answered, her voice breathy. Shay always gave the impression of being delicately out of breath, as if she’d just breezed in from somewhere important.

Mattie shook her head in amazement. Shay looked like some misplaced Celtic princess. The crushed silk sheath she wore came nearly to her ankles, the effect no less than stunning. Auburn curls wound to her waist, and her ivory complexion was ten years more youthful than it should have been. Cut crystals hung from her ears, matching the crystal pendant that swung between her breasts. The New Age garb was the only hint that Shay’s life had taken a turn down the road less traveled. Mattie sipped her drink and suppressed a surge of jealousy. Did everyone else have to be so damn interesting?

“Cough up that envelope.” Della got right to the point.

Shay opened a delicately crocheted handbag and removed her envelope. Mattie eyed her own pedestrian-looking purse, then Shay’s. Heck, she’d probably grown the cotton—organically, of course—spun it and crocheted herself, all the while chanting good thoughts for the universe. Mattie sat her drink down with a thud. Was it the alcohol or was she just becoming a middle-aged bitch?

Shay added her envelope to the growing pile in the center of the table, her expression serene but not entirely natural. The envelopes themselves told part of the story. Della’s was ringed with coffee stains, Shay’s rumpled but clean, and Mattie’s pristine, having survived its twenty-year wait pressed between the pages of a dictionary.

Mattie thought about what her envelope contained. This was the one that had started them all, the first time one of her fantasies met paper. And for twenty years it had been her little secret. Proof that she could be naughty when she wanted to. But now she wasn’t so sure. What had been deliciously wicked twenty years ago suddenly seemed a little, well, stupid.

There was a feeling Mattie got when she was about to do something colossally dumb. It was a creepy creeping sensation that started at the base of her spine and worked its way to her chest like a big hairy spider. It was crawling now. And once it got to her chest, she wouldn’t be able to breathe. She flexed her shoulders as if she could dislodge it. It didn’t work.

“Jack!” Della’s voice shouted in Mattie’s ear. “Come say hi.”

What? What? She followed her friend’s gaze to find the silhouette of two men frozen in the shadows of the entrance. One was thin and rather short. The other was obviously Jack. The shadows fell across his face but she’d know that perfect silhouette anywhere.

“He and his partner are moving back here from Atlanta.”

Partner… Mattie’s tequila-laced mind turned the word over, trying to make the puzzle piece fit.

Jack’s posture spelled r-e-l-u-c-t-a-n-t as he crossed the distance to their table. Mattie’s stomach clutched, then froze in a spasm of denial as Jack stood before her. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit, a stunningly shy grin and…bronzer? She squinted. Mother-of-pearl, he looked like the local news anchorman after last season’s disastrous brush with self-tanner. And to make matters worse, his black hair was spiked and so thick with gel that it could put out an eye.

“Y’all remember Jack, of course.”

Shay stood and embraced Jack without hesitation. Mattie watched her friend’s ample breasts flatten against the lapel of Jack’s suit, strained to make out her breathless greeting. Unlike Shay, Mattie was frozen in place, cemented to her seat. Something was off kilter, something—

“And this is Cal,” Della said, as she motioned the second man to the table. “Cal is Jack’s partner.”

The smaller man literally seemed to pulse with energy as he approached. His head was shaved smooth, the shiny dome interrupted only by a pair of goggle-like glasses perched atop it. He wore a casual white shirt tucked inside eye-popping striped pants. Mattie felt her eyes go round with realization. No straight man she knew would wear tight white denim with wide brown stripes. She cocked her head, thinking for a moment that the vertical stripes had a great slimming effect. She blinked, forcing herself to focus as her gaze traveled upward, finally resting on a diamond stud that winked in one earlobe. Cal smiled in response to her scrutiny. He had blindingly white teeth and one perfectly manicured hand resting possessively on Jack’s shoulder.

Oh God.

“E-excuse me.” Mattie stood.

“Mattie? Mattie Harold?” Jack held out his arms and her stomach lurched. “My God, you haven’t changed—”

Neither have you. The normal response formed in her brain but ended as a strangled noise in the back of her throat. “I— I’ve got to…” She stammered, then reached for the obligatory hug. The sound of a million and one fantasies shattering was deafening. “Excuse me for a moment.” Mattie swiped her drink from the table and dashed to the ladies’ room.



As Mattie hightailed it, Della shook her head. Her gaze fell on her brother, sweeping him from head to toe before settling on his face. “What,” she said slowly, “on God’s green earth happened to you?”

Jack’s jaw twitched and his eyes narrowed. “Kimee happened to me.” He tried to flatten the spikes on top of his head but they only bent, instantly standing up again like a tinsel Christmas tree.

Della burst out laughing. “You look like Dennis Rodman and Peter Pan’s love child.”

“I can’t believe you left me with her.”

“You showed up out of the blue. I had no choice.”

Jack’s face was turning a threatening shade of red. “You told Kimee I was on my way to get a photo made for the chamber of commerce.”

“I did.” Della pretended to swoon, pressing her hand to her chest. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. What was I thinking?”

Jack raised an eyebrow, then pointed to her drink. “How many of those have you had?”

“Not enough. Now please explain to me how telling Kimee that you needed a haircut so that you could get your picture made has caused you to look like—” she wavered a little under Jack’s glare “—like a tanning salon mutant.”

“Because, dear sister, little Kimee was convinced that the photographer’s lighting would…how did she put it?…fade me out.” He rubbed at his face with his knuckle. “She put… What was it called, Cal?”

“Bronzer,” Cal offered with a sly grin.

“Yeah. That’s it. She put bronzer on me with a weird little sponge.”

Della looked at Cal. “And you were…?”

“Reading Cosmo.” He shrugged, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “What can I say?”

“Yeah, about that,” Jack interjected. “Try Field and Stream next time you’re in public.” He glanced at Cal’s slacks. “I know subtle isn’t your nature, but you might want to let people get to know you before you break out the tiara.”

“Oh, please.” Cal rolled his eyes. “This is Haddes, not Green Acres. I think they can handle one gay man.”

Jack looked serious. “This is Haddes, not Atlanta.” He shrugged Cal’s hand off his shoulder. “And cut the touchy-feely stuff before you give everybody the wrong idea about us.”

Della straightened. “A tractor and a head of cattle wouldn’t hurt, either.” She fell into a fit of laughter. Shay muffled a giggle.

Cal winked. “Cows. I’ll get right on that.” He looked at Shay, then gestured toward Della and Jack. “Can you believe these two?”

Shay smiled, laughter replaced by her usual Mona Lisa serenity. “Haddes is pretty good at taking folks in.” She met Della’s eyes for a moment. “Even people who are different.”

“So.” Della jumped back to her brother. “Why did you let Kimee do this to you?”

“I didn’t let her.”

“Then why are you, uh, tan?” Della leaned forward to get a closer look.

“Because when I said no thank you, she started to cry.”

Della laughed. “Kimee does not cry.”

“I can assure you that she does.”

Della was horrified. “Why? Why would that make her cry?”

“You left the poor kid with a gazillion people waiting. When I got there Estelle Ashworth looked like she was going to a Pink concert.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh is right. Kimee was in over her head. I thought putting up with this stuff—” Jack scrubbed his jawline with his knuckle again, but the uneven color appeared to have adhered permanently “—until I could get to the car and wipe it off would make her feel better. But now it’s not coming off.”

Della smirked. “Well…uh…it’s kind of a stain.”

Jack looked puzzled.

“Self-tanner. It’s what we use in the salon. It’s a semi-permanent application. It won’t wash off, it has to wear off.” Della flinched and jumped behind Shay when Jack straightened his six-foot-three frame to full height. “It may take a week.”




CHAPTER 2


Mattie burst through the ladies’ room door, stopped at the sink and stared at her own horrified expression. The tequila swirled in her stomach, threatening to swirl in the sink. Fighting fire with fire, she threw the rest of her margarita down her throat, sat the empty glass in the sink and headed for a bathroom stall, opting for a good pee instead of a good cry. What was the use, anyway? Jack wouldn’t be any less gay if she burst into tears.

Jack is gay…. Jack is gay…. How could she not have known this?

Mattie zipped her pants and straightened with new resolve. She knew one thing: there was no friggin’ way she was going to read that fantasy letter to her friends. The idea of sharing her thoughts on sex was like a bad joke. Nope. Unlike Jack, she was going to keep her secrets in the closet.

Only one time in her life had she considered herself sexually active. And even then, she’d probably been more inactive than active. Despite the fact that she’d been a virgin, she’d instinctively known that Brad, her college boyfriend, was a sexual underachiever. She squeezed her eyes shut, wincing at the memory of Brad pounding away while she sort of flopped about, her back pressed against the mattress, her expectations withering along with her passion. It hadn’t been the kind of experience she’d dreamed of, definitely not the sort penned in eighteen-year-old handwriting and sealed in an envelope.

It hadn’t been with Jack.

And all these years she’d been certain that, if it had been, it would have been perfect.

Not.

Mattie felt as if someone had just jarred her from a deep sleep. One that she’d been in for, say, about twenty years. She’d written down every passionate thought she’d ever had and had sealed it in that envelope. And there it had stayed, safe and sound, pure and unmarred. Looking back, she doubted that even Brad had gotten the benefit of that passion. How could he? It had been sealed away in an envelope and flattened in a dictionary.

The sense that she’d waited too long flowed over her, and her shoulders slumped. She looked at herself in the mirror. Defeat lined her eyes, softened her jawline. Mattie looked away.

Too late, too late, too late, the tequila taunted over and over in her brain.

She envisioned herself marching out of the bathroom and to the table, snatching up the envelope and breaking the seal. And then what? What would she find? Would the glue crumble, would the pages be yellowed?

The sense that this was not all about Jack was pretty obvious, and yet… How could she not have known? Jack had never been too involved in small-town life, or small-town girls. She had always assumed he was destined for bigger things, had his sights set outside the city limits of Haddes. Of course, it had been easier to fabricate the perfect life for Jack rather than face her own. And in doing so, she’d somehow missed the obvious.

But now… Now she was beginning to feel entirely too sober. Mattie washed her hands, retrieved the margarita glass and gathered her courage. She willed the hinges to stay silent as she eased open the door to the ladies’ room and peered out. Relief washed over her. Jack was gone. She marched straight to the bar, refilled her glass with the melting margarita mix and returned, none too coordinated, to her chair. She stared with hostility at the ominous pile of envelopes instead of making eye contact with Shay and Della. Surely fragments of shattered dreams were still clinging to her face.

“Jack said to tell you that he hopes to see you again now that he’s back in town,” Shay said.

Heaven forbid. “I didn’t know that Jack was—” she hesitated, mentally rephrasing “—that Jack had a partner.”

“I thought you did.” Della shrugged. “Cal’s great. They’re opposites. Sort of yin and yang. A great fit.”

Mattie flinched at the image Della’s words conjured.

“I didn’t tell you that they’re moving back to Haddes because I just found out myself— Oh my God!” Della interrupted herself, her gaze glued to the entrance.

“Erica?” Mattie and Shay said in unison as they followed Della’s gaze.

Erica’s normally athletic gait was slow and as she neared, Mattie realized her friend’s arm was in a cast. The three women hesitated, as if not quite sure what to do with the injured, solemn-faced woman in front of them.

Erica grinned then, her face transforming into a familiar expression of bravado. She shrugged. “Land mine.”

The comment broke the ice and the next few minutes were filled with swapping comforting hugs and laughter.

Shay helped Erica into a chair with characteristic sympathy. “What really happened? Were you in an accident?”

Erica looked momentarily confused. “Land mine,” she restated, her brows arching.

“You mean a real line mand? Land mine…” Mattie corrected, hoping no one else noticed the tequila-slip.

Erica nodded, her face serious. “It was activated by a humanitarian relief crew I was following in Afghanistan. They were killed instantly.” Her gaze appeared distant before she straightened with a weak smile. “I’m okay, though. Just a few bumps and bruises.” She held up her arm. “And one minor fracture. I’m taking a month or two off to recuperate.”

“Here in Haddes?” Della asked.

“Um…maybe.” She pulled a tiny black purse into her lap and unzipped it. The envelope she produced had been folded accordion-style, no doubt to fit.

Erica always did travel light, Mattie thought. Friendships and relationships included. Without fanfare she tossed the envelope into the pile.

Della brought a drink, but Erica declined, holding up her injured arm. “Better not mix it with the meds,” she explained.

Mattie’s gaze slid from Erica’s arm to her face. She’d changed very little during the years that had separated them. Still strikingly beautiful, her dark hair spilled over strong tanned shoulders, and the calculated movements of her body fell somewhere between athletic and graceful. If you didn’t look into her eyes, it would be easy to assume she spent her days on a tennis court. But there were new lines at the corners of Erica’s eyes, and for reasons unclear to Mattie, she was certain that they’d been hard-earned.

Della slid the drink in front of Mattie instead and the next hour was spent filling in the gaps of information about their lives. It was awkward at times, a social dance that included accepting Shay’s silence when the subject of men came up and the lack of detail surrounding the last few years of Erica’s life. Della played hostess and gossip instigator like the pro that she was.

Conversation finally waned, and the four friends lapsed into companionable silence.

Mattie realized that their gazes had all inadvertently settled on the pile of envelopes. The creepy spider feeling began to walk up her spine again and her lips felt numb. The tequila? Maybe. The sight of the envelopes reminded her of an old black-and-white episode of The Twilight Zone, when the object of some paranormal event began to take on a life of its own—growing, heartbeat throbbing, spinning in the center of the camera lens…

“I just remembered…” She made a move toward the stack of envelopes.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Della said. She leaned her palms on the table, tenting the envelopes with her body.

Della looked like an angry rottweiler guarding its kibble. Was that a bit of drool at the corner of her mouth? Mattie stifled a hysterical laugh at the thought, then straightened, attempting to gain control of her ping-ponging thoughts.

“I’m sorry. I—I really can’t say—stay…” she stammered. “I have a shipment of books from Ralph Barnes’s estate that I need to go through.”

“Ralph Barnes?” Erica shivered. “He gave me the heebie-jeebies. Always walking around in that silk smoking jacket like Hugh Hefner.”

Della ignored her, focusing on Mattie. “You’re not wiggling out of this one, Missy. I don’t care if St. Peter died and left you the keys to heaven.”

Erica fidgeted with a bar napkin, seemingly oblivious to Della’s rising temper. “Isn’t St. Peter technically already dead?”

“It’s okay,” Shay said, shooting Della and Erica disapproving looks. “We understand.”

Erica shrugged but Della landed on her feet, pointing at Mattie. “No, we don’t!”

Mattie cocked her head, studying the image of her friend. With her arm extended in perfect pointer position, she looked more rabid golden retriever than rottweiler.

“Mattie!” Della’s voice cracked and Mattie jumped, suddenly alert. “I’ve waited twenty years to hear what’s inside of that envelope of yours.” Della’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “What are you so afraid of, Mattie Harold?”

Oh crap. All sorts of things came to mind—bugs, the bottom of her garbage can when she lifted the bag out, the rejection of men dipped in self-tanner….

Mattie had never had an athletic moment in her life. She’d always assumed that whatever gene was responsible for hand-to-eye coordination was dormant in her body. She had a colorful history of sending tennis balls into outer space and gymnastic coaches to the ER. But for one shining moment, she was Olga Korbut and Chris Evert rolled into one. She was on her feet before anyone could blink. Her hand shot out, unchallenged, grasped her envelope and shoved it safely into her purse. She executed a perfect half-spin and was halfway across the room before Della knew what had happened.

“Gotta run!” she called cheerfully.

Then she tripped over the threshold on her way out the door.



Jack watched Mattie Harold weave her way hell-bent through the maze of bar tables and pinball machines toward the back door of the bowling alley. He’d suspected she was tipsy earlier. Her gaze had seemed a little out of focus and her face had been flushed. But when she stumbled over the threshold, arms flapping like she was an agitated flamingo in an effort to keep from falling, he realized she was more than tipsy. He grinned. Damn, she was cute. She’d always been the cute one in the bunch. She was Della’s age, a few years younger than he was, but she still looked like the kid he remembered.

A kid who was about to walk into traffic drunk as a skunk.

He stepped out of the building and slipped behind Della’s minivan, ready to intervene if necessary. But Mattie successfully made her way through the cars in the parking lot and to the sidewalk that lined Main Street. But she’d now stopped and was fiddling with a piece of paper. An envelope, maybe? What in the world was she up to? He thought he recalled seeing a stack of envelopes on the bar table, but hadn’t paid much attention. The haze of his own embarrassment at his appearance had been pretty thick.

He watched as Mattie began tearing the paper into pieces. He couldn’t help but grin. She appeared to be seriously pissed off at the envelope. Mattie then wadded the pieces of paper into a ball and tossed it into the roadside ditch.

Jack felt a rush of curiosity that he hadn’t felt since he’d stopped taking on personal investigations. He slipped his shades on and repositioned himself by another car, making certain that Mattie wasn’t headed toward a vehicle of her own. The last thing she needed to do in her condition was to get behind the wheel. Thankfully, she was leaving on foot, though her feet didn’t look too steady, either.

He watched until Mattie disappeared from sight, then his gaze settled on the ditch. Whatever lay crumpled in that soggy ditch was none of his business.

But that wasn’t going to stop him.



Mattie dipped the sponge into the soapy water and squeezed, her head pounding as she bent over the bucket. She straightened, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose with her free hand. She’d slept off the tequila last night—well, yesterday afternoon and last night—but woke this morning feeling like she’d been hit by an eighteen-wheeler. And had been dragged behind it for about a mile.

The midday sun was now glaring off the chrome bumper of her car like a laser, and the sunglasses were no match. And she was unnaturally hot, even in shorts and a tank top. Not to mention a little queasy. She wanted to go inside her duplex, pull the curtains and die. But she wasn’t going to. Washing the land barge was her penance for drinking like a fish and buying the ridiculous vehicle in the first place. Besides, she wasn’t exactly mentally sharp, and washing the car was one task that didn’t require her to think. She’d managed to retrieve one load of books from Ralph Barnes’s estate this morning, but by the time she’d hauled the heavy boxes into the store she’d felt bloodless and about as strong as a noodle. No more tequila, she vowed. Never, never, never.

She squatted next to the side of the car and scrubbed at the dingy silhouette of the police shield as if it would miraculously disappear. No such luck. Little flakes of faded white paint stuck to her sponge. Groovy.

Mattie stood and snatched up the hose. She shot a stream of water at the sudsy side and pretended the nozzle was an Uzi. More paint chips cascaded to the asphalt with the water and settled in a mocking little puddle around her bare feet. So much for improving the outside. Hauling the estate books this morning had left a trail of spiderwebs and grime in the back seat, so she traded the hose for her cordless vacuum, shoved her sunglasses on top of her head and crawled inside.

The car was like a vault. But it wasn’t the size that unnerved her as much as the car’s gender. Insane, she knew, but the car was a guy.

She’d always had a secret habit of assigning gender to inanimate objects. This car had male written all over it. Testosterone practically haunted the thing, left behind by the countless police officers that had driven it. It even smelled like a man. The scent of aftershave and the faint odor of cigarettes still lingered, forever embedded in the worn upholstery.

It was completely foreign to her.

Men in general were a mystery to Mattie. She was an only child and therefore had missed brother exposure. Her parents divorced when she was ten, wiping out any chance that she’d have a sibling and severely altering her view of her father, who’d gone from father extraordinaire to awkward director of every-other-weekend activities in the blink of an eye. Of her friends, Shay was an orphan and Erica’s older brother had married and moved away by the time they’d become close. Della was the only friend with a brother still at home, and Mattie’s feelings for Jack were hardly sisterly.

Mattie’s gut took a one-two stomach-acid punch as an image of Jack, complete with bad self-tanner, formed in her head. She moaned, revved the vacuum and went to work on the upholstery. Her tenuous grip on mental and physical health just couldn’t process the new Jack.

A mechanical scream suddenly came from the hand vac, ripping Mattie from her thoughts. She dropped the vacuum and listened with dread as a chopping sound replaced the screech, decreasing as the engine sputtered to a halt. She eyed the vac, which now lay on the floorboard like a dead animal. Obviously something other than lint had been sucked into the lint trap. She sighed.

The day just got better and better.

She sat cross-legged on the back seat, pulled the vacuum into her lap and popped it open, exposing the disposable lint trap. Sure enough, a small hole had been ripped through the liner. She pulled the damaged lint trap out, holding the edge of the crud-encrusted thing with two fingers, then tossed it out the car door. But when she tilted the vac to examine the exposed motor, a ring fell out, landing on her bare thigh. She was shocked. She’d expected a small rock, maybe a penny, but not a ring. She picked it up. It was a thin gold band with a filigree setting, centered with what looked to be a ruby. The ring’s band was marred with a few nasty scratches from the motor, but was otherwise intact.

She mentally backtracked, trying to judge where the nose of the vacuum had been when it sucked up the ring. Probably the seat’s crevice, she reasoned. Mattie held the ring up to the sunlight, examining it. The setting was old-fashioned, either a reproduction or an antique—it was difficult to tell. She pushed it onto the ring finger of her left hand for safekeeping.

In all likelihood, the ring had been stored with the books she’d bought from Ralph Barnes’s estate and had fallen out when she was transporting them. Since Ralph had no living relatives, she could only ask the Realtor handling his estate if she knew anything about it. If that didn’t turn up anything, she could always ask around at the police precinct. But she doubted that would do any good, given that all Haddes’s officers were male. Maybe she could keep it. A gift from the universe for having treated her so poopy lately. Mattie spread her hand, admiring the ring. It really was beautiful.

She retrieved a fresh lint trap from the duplex and reassembled the vacuum. To her relief, it revved back to life and she returned to work, keeping an eye out for foreign objects. She came across a quarter and a hairy cough drop but nothing else out of the ordinary.

Finally, exhausted, she treated herself to a cold cola and a break. She dragged a folding chair from her porch to the driveway and plopped into it. She wasn’t wearing her age-defying makeup with an SPF of a gazillion and, frankly, she didn’t give a damn. In fact, she spritzed her legs with a fine mist from the hose, hiked up her shorts a little, slid her shades down over her eyes and leaned back. Burn, baby, burn. She was still too hungover to do anything but succumb to the sunshine. And she didn’t care who saw her. She wiggled her toes. Besides, her neighbors were all of the geriatric set. If you didn’t steal the Sunday newspaper or play loud rap music, they generally didn’t notice you.

“What say, Mattie Harold?” The voice was deep, a little raspy and a lot sleazy.

Mattie bolted upright and was rewarded with a pounding pain to her right temple and dancing spots before her eyes. She blinked up at the silhouette that was now blocking her sun, but she’d know the voice anywhere. She pressed her fingertips to her temple. The voice was about as welcome as a tornado siren. She adjusted her sunglasses as she stared up at Shay’s ex-husband, Mac McKay.

“Mac.” It was more of a statement than a greeting. Her voice was cold, lacking inflection. And that was just how Mattie intended it. “What are you doing here?”

He ignored the question. “Getting a little sun?”

“Yeah. Something like that.” He shifted and the sun hit her full force, blinding her. If possible, she was even more annoyed. “What do you want?”

“I just saw the cruiser. And you.” He hesitated and the comment suddenly seemed suggestive. “I thought I’d stop and see if it was still performing like it should be.”

There was a certain emphasis on the word performing. What a creep. She thought of Shay and wondered if Mac had gotten wind that his ex-wife was back in town. She felt a surge of protectiveness and stood. He wouldn’t learn of Shay’s whereabouts from her, that was for sure. Mattie had been raised to forgive and forget, but she doubted that she would ever forget the sight of Shay’s battered face.

At five foot four, Mattie was petite. Though Mac was average for a man, probably less than six feet tall, she hardly came to the center of his chest, especially in bare feet. But that didn’t keep her from wanting to take a swing at him. Especially today.

“The car’s running fine. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really need to finish what I started.”

He shrugged. “Just thought I’d ask.”

When he didn’t make a move to leave, Mattie turned to find him staring at her with an odd expression. She suddenly felt vulnerable with her bare feet and legs, her thin tank top.

After a minute, Mattie accepted that he wasn’t leaving without fulfilling some police quota of small talk. She sighed. “Any news on Christina Wilson?” Christina was a local teenager, just eighteen, who had been missing for almost a week now. Mattie was concerned, as were all the locals, and she figured the neutral topic was as comfortable a one as she’d get with Mac.

“Of course not.” He shoved his hands into his pants pockets, made a kind of hissing noise and looked off into the distance as if the question perturbed him. “She’s a runaway. Her daddy just needs to accept the obvious.”

Whether Christina had run away or had been taken by force was a question being asked throughout Haddes. You couldn’t go to the barbershop or the grocery store without someone engaging you in the debate. The way Mattie saw it, either scenario was heartbreaking, especially for Christina’s father, Rand Wilson, who had been Jack Murphy’s closest friend in school and as underfoot in the Murphy household as Mattie. She had a lot of respect for Rand and she wasn’t the only one in town that felt that way. He’d unexpectedly become a father at nineteen and had raised his daughter alone when his young wife took off in search of a less demanding life. Rand had risen to the occasion and Christina had become the center of his world.

Mattie could only imagine what hell Rand was going through, and Mac McKay’s callous dismissal of the girl was just another strike against him in her book. As if she needed another reason to dislike the man.

Mattie narrowed her eyes and picked up the hose, wishing for all the world that it really was an Uzi. She really didn’t want to start a fresh debate with Mac, but she couldn’t resist adding at least one last word. “Maybe,” she said.

Mac threw his arms into the air, hissing again, like a punctured tire. “The girl left a note. How much clearer can you get? She’s a runaway, plain and simple.”

Mattie supposed he had a point. There had been a note left on her bed, a one-liner saying that she was leaving. But Rand thought she’d been forced to write the note, had pointed out the obvious changes to her handwriting, the cryptic wording. And the way Mattie looked at it, Rand knew Christina better than anyone else in the world. If he sensed something was wrong, it just might be.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything to the contrary?” He eyed her with suspicion, his gaze suddenly dark as it raked over her.

“No, of course not,” she answered. As if she’d be calmly washing her car if she had any useful information for the police. What an idiot.

She squeezed the nozzle’s trigger and the hose jumped to life. Mattie sprayed the car, making certain that the overspray drifted in Mac’s direction. When droplets began to cling to his dark uniform, he got the hint. Backing up, he lifted his hand. It was both a wave goodbye and a dismissal, as if he’d given up on the conversation. Good riddance, she thought as he turned and sauntered off in the direction of his shiny new patrol car.

Since the Crown Vic had gotten way more attention than it deserved and Mattie was ready to throw in the towel on the sorry excuse for a day, she emptied the mop bucket and gathered her sponge and wheel brush, then tossed them inside. She was coiling the garden hose over her shoulder when the chirp of an electronic car lock caught her attention. She looked up to see a man crossing the street toward her.

Good grief, no. Not now. Couldn’t a girl wash her police cruiser in peace?

It was Jack Murphy. Six foot three, two hundred pounds of recently banished adolescent fantasy. And he was walking toward her with the same masculine stride he’d had at nineteen.

She wanted to run. Instead, she threw down the hose. Then instantly picked it up again. Mattie felt like a squirrel dashing about in the middle of the road, looking for the perfect place to hide, the best direction to avoid the wheels of the car. In the end, it was always the lack of a decision that got the squirrel. Taken out by a Michelin on the centerline stripe.

Her next thought as he neared was that he looked more like the old Jack than he had last night. It was strangely comforting. He was ruggedly handsome, like a smiling—and overly tanned—model from a Jeep ad. The tan was a little uneven, but what the heck. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt that only accented his dark hair. But gone, thankfully, was the spiky, over-gelled hair, replaced with a top-down, windblown look. Deceit like that should be illegal, she thought. It was false advertising in the cruelest sense.

“Hey, there,” she said when he stopped before her. She heard the friendly lilt in her own voice, marveled at it. Talk about bogus.

“I was hoping to run into you today.” Jack paused, a shy-looking grin lifting one corner of his mouth.

“Thanks. It’s good to see you again.” Liar, liar.

Jack put his hands on his hips and stared at her car rather than her, distracted, no doubt, by its sheer ugliness. He finally dragged his gaze to meet hers, picking up where he’d left off. “I know my appearance was a little weird last night. I hope Della filled you in.”

Mattie bit her lip, not certain what to say. All the bizarre comments that popped into her head were far from politically correct. And she wanted desperately to be supportive. So she nodded and smiled. There was little you could do to offend someone when you nodded and smiled.

But now that he was within detail range, she could see that the self-tanner cut a jagged line along his jaw. More subtle today, true. But still there.

“Kimee should come with a warning label,” Jack said.

Mattie realized, with a start, that the expression on his face was one of embarrassment. “You mean Kimee from the salon?”

“She ambushed me when Della had to leave early.”

“Oh.” She tried to process the information, but the conversation was moving faster than her recently damaged brain. “Uh, yeah. Kimee has half the mothers in Haddes stirred up. She’s very, uh, innovative.” Good, she congratulated herself. Nice benign comment.

“Innovative.” He laughed and rubbed at his jaw. “That’s a nice word for it. I can’t get this crap off. I can’t believe it. I’ve been away from Haddes for years and the first day after I move back, I’m walking around my hometown like a beauty queen. How’s that for embarrassing?”

Mattie frowned. That comment was a little self-depreciating. Not to mention that he used the Q word. A niggling doubt crept in, but the questions that floated through her brain were sure to make her look like a hick, or worse, intolerant. Yet she wanted to blurt out, Are you sure you’re gay? ’Cause I never thought so. Mattie bit her lip instead. She was surrounded by steaming piles of faux pas. And no matter what escape route she took, she’d be ankle deep.

So more nodding and smiling ensued.

“Listen, I was hoping maybe we could get together.” Jack’s eyes were concealed by the shades but his gaze flickered downward and, just for a moment, traveled over her body.

Mattie squirmed. She wanted to look down and see if she had a blob of mud from the hose on her tank top. That was probably it. Coming from any other man, she’d think he was checking her out. Flirting, even. Not that she got checked out much lately. But occasionally, when the moon and stars were aligned, it still happened. At least often enough that she still recognized it.

“Maybe we could have dinner. Catch up,” he continued. “And I didn’t get a chance to tell you how great you look. You still look eighteen.” He lowered his voice. “Only better.”

He was staring at her so intently that she couldn’t think of a thing to say. It was like… Her brain felt like it was sloshing around in her head, still a little pickled by tequila and a lot off balance. It was like he was coming on to her. But why would he do that? To what end? She didn’t get it. A glimmer of hope shone in the dark recesses of her brain. Maybe she’d misread the whole situation. It occurred to her that she could out-and-out ask Della, but then the jig would be up. Her feelings for Jack would be written all over her face.

She didn’t get men. Never did. Probably never would. The old Jack was gone, that much was clear. But so what? He was always a great guy. And, no matter what, he was Della’s big brother. Maybe the universe was offering him up to her as a sort of learning tool, a risk-free piece of her incomplete “man puzzle.”

They could be buddies. Mattie fought the sinking feeling that followed that thought. At the very least she could learn from him, understand what it was—or wasn’t—that made men tick. It would be like watching a football game from the safety of the press box rather than getting creamed on the playing field.

It was a consolation prize, but she’d take it. Mattie lived in a small town and that meant playing by small-town rules. Most of her friends were married, which meant they had little time left between soccer games and laundry for hanging out with her. And bonding with other women’s husbands was a recipe for disaster. So for those situations where she mingled with couples her own age, she wore her bookstore spinster status like an access badge: Harmless—no threat to marriage. Full clearance to barbecues and bar mitzvahs.

In other words, she was boring.

But Jack could change that. Suddenly the image of him as her hip gay friend was appealing in an off-center sort of way. They could hang out. Maybe he would take her to Atlanta, introduce her to the club scene. She felt a sly grin tug at the corner of her mouth as her mind drifted to the boxes of unworn shoes that lined her closet. They were hers, bought and paid for, but off-limits in some self-imposed way. Yet in the back of her mind hadn’t she’d always thought a day would come when she’d wear at least one pair? Up until now she just hadn’t been able to imagine what day that would be….

“Mattie? You okay?”

She blinked, aware that she’d been drifting on her own thoughts. “Oh, I’m sorry.” She looked up at Jack as if she were seeing him for the first time, the awkwardness suddenly gone. “Yes, I’d love that,” she answered.

“Great.” He seemed a little taken aback by her response, as if he’d expected her to say no.

“So…” Mattie took a deep breath and searched for something supportive to say. She could do this. “So have you and your partner found a house yet?”

“My partner has his condo on the market.” Jack shifted uncomfortably, as though he wanted to say more but then decided against it. “As for me, I still need to look around, check out the local real estate.”

Mattie managed to babble for a solid three minutes, offering advice as though Jack hadn’t lived here for the first twenty years of his life. All the while her brain tried to process their new relationship, stalling while she fought for balance. Her old Jack fantasy was deteriorating somewhere in a ditch. That was okay: a new friendship was budding. She swallowed hard and forced herself to stop talking.

“Thanks.” Jack nodded, an amused expression on his face. “I’ll, uh, try and remember all that.”

Humor the crazy babbling lady. She wanted to die.

“So what about dinner tomorrow night? Pick you up at seven?”

“Uh, sure.”

“Good.” He finally raised his head, looking over her shoulder. “I should go now.” He frowned. “But before I do, I have something to ask you.”

She frowned. “What’s that?”

He grasped her shoulders and gently turned her to face the Crown Vic. “Is this your car?”

“Uh, yes.” She met his eyes. “Why?”

He shook his head in mock distress. “Because I spent fifteen years of detective work developing a theory about vehicles and their drivers.”

“And?”

“And you just blew it.”

Mattie grinned, intrigued. “How’s that?”

Jack traced his thumb over his jawline. “In my opinion, most people are basically uncomfortable in their own skin.”

She felt her eyes go round with surprise. All this time Mattie had thought it was just her.

“That being the case, my theory is that people feel the need to wrap themselves in a shell. And that shell is a vehicle. People therefore choose a vehicle based on who they feel they are inside.”

Mattie looked at the Crown Vic. It was plain, ugly as sin, and its paint was crackling like the makeup of an old woman. Tears welled in her eyes.

But when she looked up at Jack, she found his gaze trailing over her bare legs. She watched in amazement as he paused at her breasts before meeting her eyes. She shivered.

“You, Mattie Harold—” he lowered his head to whisper in her ear “are not a beat-up Crown Vic.” He sighed and little shivers danced across her bare shoulders. “You’re a red Mustang. Convertible.”




CHAPTER 3


Erica felt like an alien as she pushed the buggy through the supercenter. Thousands of products were crammed from floor to ceiling, and her head ached from trying to take it all in. After working in countries where a twist tie or a hair barrette caused fascination, the commercial explosion was overwhelming. The words jumped out at her, screaming “Buy me!” in English and Español, their brand names underscored with “New!”, “Improved!” and, her favorite, “As seen on TV!” Well, guess what, oh wise advertising execs, she hadn’t watched television in about a decade.

So take that demographic and process it.

And the people. God bless America, but she wanted to run screaming from the crowd. There were people from all walks of life, from senior citizens to pierced teenagers, but the majority appeared to be exhausted-looking women with a fistful of coupons and at least five kids in tow. Was it just her, or did every kid in the place have a runny nose, a bad attitude and the tendency to stare at her as she passed by? She’d like to think it was the sight of an adult with her arm in a cast, but Erica suspected there was more. They sensed she’d never been in a supercenter, smelled her fear.

And she was scared. Back-against-the-wall, shaking-in-her-boots, boogeyman scared.

Erica took a deep breath. She’d assessed the store’s layout as she’d once assessed the danger of a guerilla-controlled village, finding the pattern, forming a safe plan of approach. If her instincts were right, she was getting close. She bypassed a little old lady who was reading the fine print on a roll of paper towels, then dodged a toddler who had stalled mid-aisle, her finger shoved up her nose. Jeez, where were all the cute kids when you needed one?

Her stomach did a little flip-flop when she spotted the feminine products at the end of an aisle. It was a bit of a contrast in needs, but she’d bet her combat boots that the pregnancy tests were stocked next to the maxi pads. She wheeled her buggy down the aisle, which was, not surprisingly, less crowded. Sure enough, boxes of douche were cozied up next to the personal lubricant, which shouldered the tampons and maxi pads. And, lo and behold, the pregnancy tests were hanging with the condoms. Well, someone clearly had a sense of humor.

She gripped the buggy handle even more tightly and fought the urge to make a U-turn. This wasn’t Greene’s Pharmacy back in Haddes. Here, no one knew who she was and couldn’t care less that she was a single woman about to buy a pregnancy test. Even better, they didn’t care that she was an almost-forty-year-old, single woman about to buy a pregnancy test.

Oh God. She was an almost-forty-year-old, single woman about to buy a pregnancy test. The air rushed from her lungs in sheer panic.

She’d driven ten miles out of the way to shop at the supercenter rather than Greene’s. It wasn’t as if the town of Haddes had formed a welcome committee to celebrate her return, but in Greene’s she would be certain to run into a familiar face or two. The supercenter was much safer. The plan was to anonymously buy the pregnancy test under the cover of the hordes of other discount shoppers, then hightail it back home and take the test. A wave of light-headedness washed over her at the thought of actually peeing on the stick. How had she gone from taking photos out the open door of a helicopter in the mountains of Afghanistan to pushing a shopping cart in a rural Georgia supercenter? And why did that scare her more?

In truth, the test shouldn’t scare her. She already knew the answer to the question. One thoroughly missed period and weeks of nausea were probably as confirming as the little plus sign on a plastic stick. But she had to know for certain. It was the responsible thing to do.

Of course, responsible should have come up six weeks ago. Condoms didn’t hold up well in hundred-degree heat. And she’d been in the desert. Do the science, Erica.

One thing she didn’t “do” was regret. She was a pro at living in the present, and had two happy decades to prove it. Looking back served no purpose. Even if, in this case, it meant forgetting John Phillips. Erica’s hand unwittingly went to her abdomen. John had been her friend and a fellow journalist for years before the two of them had given in to loneliness and desire, and become lovers. And now her friend was gone, lost in the seconds it took for the land mine to detonate. There was no bringing him back, and no amount of dwelling on the past would change either of their fates. Her arm suddenly throbbed as if reacting to the painful memory of the explosion.

“Excuse me, dear.”

Erica whirled to face the elderly woman who had been so absorbed in reading the paper towel package. Her face must have flashed ten shades of red, because the woman’s expression registered instant sympathy.

She pressed her soft hand against Erica’s arm and patted her in a grandmotherly gesture. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Oh, not at all.” Erica smiled, though uncharacteristic tears suddenly stung the backs of her eyes. The woman looked nothing like her own late grandmother, but there was something familiar about the comforting pat. It was a grandmother’s touch. “I was just a million miles away.” Literally.

“I hate to bother you,” the woman continued as she fished the paper towels from her buggy. “But I left my reading glasses at home and can’t make out the name of the manufacturing company.” She waved her hand. “Such tiny print. Could you possibly read it for me?”

“Of course.” Erica took the paper towels and turned the package to locate the print at the bottom. Jeez, no wonder, she thought. The print was tiny. She held it further away, as she struggled to focus, thinking how often she’d had to do that lately. “It says here—” she squinted “—Delcorda Paper.”

“Oh dear,” the woman exclaimed, a frown gathering the wrinkles on her face. “I was afraid of that.”

“Oh?”

“My, yes.” She took the paper towels and jammed them on a shelf next to a box of thong maxi pads.

Erica was temporarily distracted. There was such a thing as thong maxi pads? Wow. She’d been out of the States for too long.

“Delcorda Paper Company is a menace to the environment,” the woman explained. “Their lack of reforesting is shameful. Sheer arrogance.”

Erica wanted to laugh with relief. A kindred spirit. She’d been ready to dismiss the elderly woman, had judged her by her age and surroundings. But here, buried among the cat food and weight-loss pills was someone who realized there was a vast world outside their own city limits. And actually gave a damn.

“Oh.” Delcorda… Erica pondered the name. She’d done a piece that exposed irresponsible harvesting. If memory served, that particular paper manufacturer was one of the companies named. She felt a barb of guilt that they continued to get away with it—and that she’d had no idea. She’d wrongly assumed that the coverage had resolved the situation, but that had been at least seven years ago.

“Well,” the woman continued cheerfully, “back to the drawing board.” She pointed her buggy in the opposite direction and smiled warmly over her shoulder, her gaze drifting toward the pregnancy tests before returning to Erica. “Best of luck, sweetheart.”

A second round of tears threatened and Erica swallowed hard. The term of endearment made her feel young and, just for a split second, a sense of excitement had crept in. But she tamped it down without question. Her situation was what it was, and that was anything but exciting.

“Thank you,” she responded, adding a small wave.

Erica pushed her buggy forward with new determination and, after glancing at the myriad boxes that all made similar claims of 99.999-percent accuracy, chose the most expensive pregnancy test. Today she was one of those uninformed consumers that she hated, the ones who blithely assumed cost equaled excellence. She thought of the elderly woman’s determination to do the right thing and shrugged. So what? She knew when she was in over her head.

Erica looked down at the lone box sitting like a screaming conversation piece in the bottom of the buggy, and threw a box of maxi pads in with it. Then she leaned over and adjusted the larger box so that it shielded the pregnancy test from view. The paper-towel woman was as close as she intended to come to a conversation about the pregnancy test. She glanced around for more camouflage and tossed in a box of vitamins.

She didn’t waste any time leaving the Embarrassment Section of the store, and began winding her way back toward the checkout aisles as fast as her buggy’s wobbly wheels would go. But a tangle of teenage girls was buzzing about a display of bathing suits, blocking her way, and Erica was forced to detour down the candy aisle. She instantly slowed, like Dorothy in the field of poppies, smiling at the bags of candy. Only in the States, she thought. She’d missed a lot. There were new varieties she’d never before seen. What on earth were Nerds-On-A-Rope, anyway? But there were plenty of familiar faces, too. Jolly Ranchers, Lik-a-Stiks… Those had been staples at Mattie’s sleepovers when they were teenagers. She threw a triple-pack of Lik-a-Stiks in her cart for old times’ sake and picked up speed again. But just when she was about to make a clean exit, a buxom blonde came from out of nowhere and their carts rammed with knuckle-rattling force.

“Erica?”

“Della?” She felt as if every pore on her body perspired at once. “Jeez…” Her hand went to her chest, which felt like it was on fire. She wanted to look down at the contents of her buggy, make certain that the maxi pads and vitamins were still shielding the pregnancy test, but she didn’t dare call attention to the buggy.

“Wow. I—I never imagined running into you here.” Della looked every bit as flushed as Erica.

In fact, she looked not only flushed, but terrible. Erica forgot her own troubles as she took a closer look. Della’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed and she seemed at least ten pounds heavier than she had yesterday. She was dressed in a curious combination of a cleavage-baring aqua tank, sweatpants sheared just below the knee and a worn flannel shirt. A little eyeliner was smeared beneath the corner of her left eye and she wore no foundation.

Good God. Something was seriously wrong if Della wasn’t wearing makeup.

Erica resisted the urge to grill her friend for answers. “I, uh, never imagined running into you, either.” She hoped her voice sounded less alarmed than she felt. “You’re a long way from home.”

“Yeah. I just needed some stuff.” Della’s gaze darted to her buggy and Erica’s followed.

Lying in the bottom of Della’s buggy was a family-size bag of Caramellos, a pair of night-vision binoculars, a voice-activated cassette recorder, a camouflage blanket and a jar of ground white pepper. Erica frowned. “I see. Della, is everything okay?”

Della ran her hand over her hair and straightened with a challenging sniff. But rather than seeming imposing, as it had countless other times, the sniff seemed as though it belonged at the end of a long cry. “I’m fine. Everything’s just fine.” Della’s gaze darted to Erica’s buggy and her eyes went round.

Erica’s heart stopped.

“Lik-a-Stiks!” Della exclaimed.

Her heart began beating again.

“Uh-huh. Isn’t that something?” Erica pointed a trembling finger toward the shelf, which was liberally stocked with the candy. “They still make them. Right there,” she directed.

Della whirled in the direction of the candy and Erica nearly collapsed with relief.

“I picked some up out of nostalgia,” Erica continued, all the while maneuvering her buggy to one side, out of sight. She sent up a prayer of thanks that the pregnancy test had, apparently, gone unnoticed.

“Oh,” Della crooned as she squatted down to retrieve four packs. “I think I’ll get some, too.” She straightened with effort, then forced the flannel shirt down over her hips. “The kids always expect a treat.”

Erica didn’t dare point out that each pack was a three-pack. Nor did she ask why Della was shopping like she was going on a covert military assignment while looking like a department store makeup artist on a drinking binge. She couldn’t risk more conversation. She had to get herself and her pregnancy test out of the store and back home—a task that was beginning to loom like a matter of national security.

“I want us to get together again soon,” Erica lied. It wasn’t entirely a lie. She did want to see her old friends. Sort of. If things were different. Say, for instance, if it were 1984 again. And if Mattie hadn’t turned into a drunken lunatic. Oh, and if she wasn’t pregnant.

Della dragged her gaze up to meet Erica’s, looking like the weight of the world was on her shoulders. “Yeah, me, too.” She hesitated, then slumped in a defeated gesture. “You know where to reach me.”

Erica nodded, her concern growing. “Listen, I’m staying out at Mom and Dad’s place if you need me.”

“You are?” Della sounded genuinely surprised. “It’ll be nice to see some life back in your parents’ place. It’s been standing empty for too long.”

“Yeah.” Erica felt a familiar tightening in her chest at the mention of her parents. “You’re right.”

Della began to push her buggy slowly, hinting that she was anxious to make an exit. “So give me a ring at the shop or at home.” Her voice drifted as she waved over her shoulder. “We’ll get together….”

Erica watched her leave, reminding herself that whatever had caused Della to dress like a castaway was actually none of her business. She had her own set of problems.

The bubble-gum popping salesclerk didn’t make eye contact and certainly didn’t acknowledge the pregnancy test. Thank God. Erica felt like a bomb had been defused when she watched it finally drop into the plastic bag. She paid in cash, readied her keys and walked quickly through the parking lot to her waiting Jeep Cherokee. The black leather interior was like a sauna. She sighed and stale heat filled her lungs. Ugh. Georgia in June. She cranked the engine and turned on the air full blast, leaning her face toward the ineffective stream of air.

There was a certain empowerment about driving, Erica realized as she pulled out of the parking lot and onto the county highway that led back to Haddes. It was almost comical how little she’d driven her own vehicle. Though the Jeep was nearly five years old, the mileage registered less than twenty thousand. She was on assignment so much that she rarely used the vehicle or her efficiency condo in New York. Neither possession was really worth the effort, but the IRS refused to believe you were a real person unless you had an address, and her southern roots dictated that she own a set of wheels.




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