Amy Maxwell's 6th Sense (10 page)

He rolls his eyes as he replies, “Bar nuts. Those are cashews.”

I wrinkle up my nose. I don’t like cashews. I don't really like peanuts either, unless they’re encased in chocolate.

“Do you have any peanut M&Ms?”

“What?”

“Peanut M&Ms,” I repeat, pointing to the bowl. “These are gross.”

The bartender takes the bowl, detaching each and every one of my fingers, one at a time. He cocks his head to the side, wearing an expression of concern now. “You seem like you might have the munchies. Were you smoking something on the beach? You shouldn’t buy anything from the guys selling stuff on the beach, you know.”

I wave my hand in front of my face. It’s actually quite blurry and leaves a trail in its wake. “Of course not!” Although, I do recall Roger talking to a man on the beach. I don’t remember money changing hands, but I’m pretty sure Roger wouldn’t risk his career for a cheap thrill on vacation. Then again, maybe I’m wrong. Because I was pretty certain Roger wouldn’t risk his marriage for a cheap thrill in the form of
Victoria.

“I think you should eat something. Like real food,” a voice close to my right ear announces. I freeze, completely rooted to the bar stool. I know that voice. Slowly, I turn my head. The owner of the voice offers me a grin.

“I’d buy you the next round, but me thinks you may have had more than enough already.” He winks and I nearly fall off the barstool.

Oh dear God...why are you doing this to me? Isn’t Roger’s betrayal enough for me to handle in one day?

I must stare at the newcomer for what seems like eons before he finally speaks again. “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? You’ve got nothing to say to me?”

I open my mouth and squeak out, “Hello, Jason.”

~Eleven~
 

“You seem flabbergasted, Amy. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to be at a loss for words.” Jason leans his arm on the back of the barstool, twirling a toothpick rapidly between his fingers. He wears an amused expression.

“Why are you here?” I manage to hiss, practically choking on an ice cube from my glass. “I’m on vacation, you know. With my
family
.” I lower my eyes as if saying the word
family
cheapens the exchange between Jason and me.

“I’m here for a law enforcement convention,” Jason retorts, throwing a peanut in the air and catching it in his mouth.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Oh really? That seems awfully suspicious. It’s quite coincidental that out of all the islands in the Caribbean, this is the one you happened to have a ‘law enforcement convention’ on. The very one that I am staying with my
family.
” I reiterate the word family once more, mostly for my own benefit. As it is, Jason usually reduces me to a quivering puddle of over-stimulated hormonal urges. Add two scotches and a cheating husband in there? I’m pretty sure I need to be reminded of my priorities right now.

“And since when are there law enforcement conventions on tropical islands? That’s sounds mighty far-fetched.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you following me, Agent Collins?”

Jason scoffs. “Oh please, aren’t you a little bit full of yourself right now, Amy? Why would I follow you?”

I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t know. Why would you have your nephew tail me at college? Why would you hide me in a cabin in the woods? You do a lot of weird things, Jason,” I point out, proud of myself for uttering all those words in a row, coherently and without stuttering.

Jason rolls his eyes and taps the bar to get the bartender’s attention. The kid, who is drying glasses, turns his head at the sound. “River is my cousin, Amy,” Jason reminds me.

“Whatever,” I say, waving my hand in the air. “He’s young, you’re old…”

“What can I get you, sir?” the bartender asks when he reaches Jason. He places a cocktail napkin in front of him.

I see Jason cringe at the word
sir
. I quietly laugh to myself and watch Jason run his hand over his forehead, examining the grooves that have deepened since I met him two years ago. For some reason, I can tell it bothers him, this getting old, being called sir.
I guess he’s handling his midlife crisis just as well as I am.

Then I remember that
I’m
not actually the one having a midlife crisis. I’m at the bar because my husband cheated on me, and I’m drowning my sorrows in alcohol. It’s the only logical thing to do.

“I’ll have a Manhattan on the rocks. Canadian club whiskey,” Jason says, adjusting the corners of the cocktail napkin so that they line up with the edges of the bar. I stare, a smirk forming on my lips.
Mr. Perfect has OCD
.

The bartender nods and sets to work on the drink. I wait until it is set in front of Jason to say, “That’s what my father drinks.”

Jason’s expression remains impassive as he jerks his head toward my now empty glass. “What are you drinking?”

“Scotch on the rocks,” I mumble, playing with my own cocktail napkin.

Jason purses his lips. “That’s what my
grandfather
used to drink,’ he says.

“Liar,” I reply. “They didn’t have alcohol during Prohibition.”

I see a smile creep onto his lips. “Okay, so
maybe
it was my father’s drink.”

I lift the glass and gaze into it, marveling at its lack of contents. While examining the bottom of the tumbler, I muse, “I guess it is an old man’s drink.”

“It really was my father’s drink of choice,” Jason tells me as I lower the glass back down on the cocktail napkin.

“Yeah?” I glance at him. He’s staring off into the darkened night, his head cocked to the side, as if he is remembering something. “You never talk about your father.”

Jason purses his lips again, his eyes stormy. “He wasn’t a great example of what a father should be. At least, not when I was growing up. He was constantly absent. I mean, that was partly because of his job, of course.”

“Was he a DEA agent like your mom?”

“No. Cop. Detective actually. He was constantly being called away—for work related things. Or so we thought…” Jason trails off, folding the corners of his napkin.

I lower my eyes, concentrating on ripping my own napkin to shreds. I can see where this train of thought is headed, and it’s hitting a little too close to home for me today. Obviously, Jason’s dad had cheated on his mother. I decide to drop the subject and instead stare off into the distance at the bottles on the back of the bar, hoping Jason will start talking about something else.

“He had a whole other family that we didn’t know about,” Jason finally says.

My head whips around.
What?!?!?

Jason sensing my shock, shakes his head. “Yeah you wouldn’t think that a small town cop...excuse me,
detective
, would be able to pull something like that off.” He chuckles and reaches for another nut. “It’s like a far-fetched storyline in a soap opera. But he pulled it off—man, did he ever—I have two half-sisters that are one and two years older than me. I went to high school with them and never even knew we were related.”

I don’t say anything; instead, I let out a low whistle.

“My mother found out at the beauty parlor, of all places. She was getting her hair done because she was going to surprise my dad with a party for his fiftieth birthday. Low and behold, his other wife was there, too.
She
was getting her hair done because she was taking him out for dinner for his fiftieth birthday. The two were seated next to each other at the driers, and they started talking about their hubbies who were both named Murray. They started comparing notes, and wouldn’t you know, the secret came out. Turns out he was financing two families, both his “wives” working because he allegedly didn’t make enough money, when in reality, he had two homes. Since my mother was the one he had “married” second, their marriage was a sham. We were actually the family on the side, if you think about it. My mother nearly died of shock.”

Holy crap! Poor Mary!

“But she vowed revenge on the old man. She was going to go ahead with the party anyway. She invited Betty, his other wife, and the two girls. They all were there when my father walked in, not expecting a party, and certainly not expecting to see both his families there. When he came in and we all yelled surprise…” Jason cocked his head to the side again, but this time, like he was recalling a memory he wasn’t so fond of. “He dropped to the floor. He had a stroke.”

I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand.

Jason nods. “Bastard didn’t die though. Even after rehab, he couldn’t use his right arm anymore and dragged his leg when he walked. Both my mother and Betty refused to take care of him. He died in a nursing home about twelve years later.”

Jason is silent as he motions for the bartender to refill the glass he has emptied in the course of telling his story.

I don’t know what to say. But I feel such a kindred spirited-ness toward Mary, the neighbor I only knew briefly when she was on an assignment, posing as one half of an innocent elderly couple with another DEA agent. Well, Roger doesn’t have another family...that I know of, but he’s done a pretty shitty thing. I think.

At this point, I realize I don’t actually have any concrete proof that Roger cheated on or continues to cheat in me. All I have are some overheard conversations and some pretty squirrelly actions by my husband. In my gut though, I know he must be up to something—I have a bit of a sixth sense about these things.

Go ahead, laugh at me, but I tend to get a feeling when something bad is going to happen. The night my grandmother died when I was seven, I had a dream that she was choking. Low and behold, she passed away that night from lung cancer, five hundred miles away. When I was ten, my dad lost his job briefly. The day before, I had a dream that we were standing on the street corners begging for change. The next day, he got canned.

Sure, sure, you can say I overheard adults talking and that’s why I dreamt those things that were symbolic of what was actually going on in my life; that my subconscious took over and gave me those dreams. But how ‘bout these apples? The week before we were set to go on this trip, I had a nightmare. In the dream, Roger and I were at the base of a volcano, tied up, sort of like Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in
Joe Versus the Volcano.
(That's one of my all-time favorite movies by the way—anything with Tom Hanks is my favorite—he was so fabulous in
Toy Story.
Can you tell I haven’t seen anything that wasn’t animated in the last fifteen years?) You know, Roger would actually look like Tom Hanks if he wasn't so heavy. Roger, not Tom Hanks.
I
look nothing like Meg Ryan, but now that I think about it,
Victoria
kind of resembles her.
Hmmmm, maybe the dream was telling me I should throw Victoria into a volcano?

Anyway, I digress. I told Roger about the dream and he pointed out the fact I’ve been complaining about a Caribbean vacation for years and I should just appreciate that we were going. I suggested I go by myself and actually get some real R and R. I told him I could spend a few days alone, working on my blog. As much as I love my blog and the fact that it gives me a lot of creative freedom (and seriously, who can beat “working” in your pajamas?), I’ve been struggling with writer’s block lately. I’ve felt like I’ve been stuck in a rut, writing the same old complaining mom stories. I thought being alone and relaxed, I’d be able to think. But Roger nixed that idea, chastising me for wanting to be away from my family. Which is why I am now sitting at a bar drowning my sorrows in cheap blended whiskey, with the guy I fantasize about on a weekly basis because he has saved my life on two separate occasions.

Wait a minute! If I’m not having fun with my family on this trip, who says I can’t have fun with my friend?

Feeling rejuvenated. I snatch the cherry from Jason’s drink and pop it in my mouth. Startled by my sudden movement, he looks at me. I grab his hand and jump to my feet.

“Come on,” I say, tugging him toward the beach. “Charge it to room 420,” I tell the bartender over my shoulder.

“It’s all-inclusive,” he reminds me.

"Whatever!" I call back, pulling a reluctant Jason behind me.

“Where are we going?” he asks when our feet hit the sand.

“You’ll see!” I reply, kicking my flip flops off.

“Well, can I at least take off my shoes?” Jason asks as I pull him behind me like a kite. He seems to be dragging his feet. “Amy, seriously. I hate sand. And I really hate it in my shoes.”

“Why are you at the beach, then?” I ask.

“I told you already. I’m here for a convention. I didn’t chose the location.” He says it so convincingly that I’m certain he believes it himself.
Oh please, Amy! Do you really think that he traveled almost 3,000 miles just to stalk you? Get a grip!

“Fine,” I grumble, stopping and dropping his hand.

“Thank you so much,” he replies sarcastically and bends forward to remove his inappropriate beach footwear. He looks up when he starts to pull off his socks, cheeks turning red. “Can you look away?”

“What?” Confused by his sudden embarrassment, I visually inspect him.
Nope, his fly isn’t down...

“I don’t like people to look at my feet,” Jason explains when he sees my eyes roaming.

Okie dokie...here comes the weirdness express...one rider please!

“Um, sure,’ I reply, turning my back.
Whatever.

“Okay, we’re good now,” Jason says, seconds later. I jokingly cover my eyes as I turn around.

“Are you sure it’s okay? I would hate to see you undressing your little piggies.” I smirk, peeking through my fingers.

“Very funny, Amy,” Jason says, obviously not thinking it’s funny at all. He has his feet buried in the sand.

“Seriously, Jason. It’s dark. I really can’t see your misshapen feet.”

Jason shakes his head. “They’re not...
misshapen.
”

I raise my eyebrow is mock disbelief. “Oh no? You sure you don’t have a hammertoe? Or a bunion? Or…” I lower my voice in a teasing whisper, “foot fungus?”

“No, no and ewww, no.”

“So what are you hiding, Agent Jason Collins?” I bend down to sweep the sand off of his foot and he jumps back in surprise.

“Hey! No! Don’t!” Jason yelps, hopping all over the sand in attempts to avoid my prying eyes.

“Oh no, I’m going to look at your feet!” I challenge as I chase him around on the sand.

“Not if you can’t catch me,” Jason says, and he takes off running down the beach, his feet spraying sand in every direction.

“Oh you’re not as fast as you think you are, old man!” I laugh, simultaneously chasing him and spitting sand out of my mouth.

“I’m faster than you, and that’s all that counts,” Jason shouts back at me. He’s right. But I’m gaining on him. He takes note of that fact and speeds up. Still, I’m not letting him get away that easily. I pump my stubby little legs as fast as they will go.