Black Ember (9 page)

“We don’t, you know, obsess about our feelings and so forth.”

“Okay.” She spoke slowly, with exaggerated patience. “You don’t have to tell me about your feelings. Or his. Just a few details about his life would be great. I mean, I don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Well, he’s…kind of average, I guess. Maybe around fifty or so—”

Fifty-six
, Caryn amended automatically in her mind; his age was one of the few details Georgia had ever shared with her. He was a year older when they met.

“—average height and build, still has most of his hair.”

“What color?”

“Oh, you know, kind of brown.”

Caryn sighed. This wasn’t going anywhere. “Did you pay this much attention when you were a lawyer?”

Zane blinked. “How did you know I used to be a lawyer?”

“Deneen and I talked. You know, like normal people.” The truth was that Deneen had volunteered everything she knew about Zane over a cup of coffee. “And I have to say I was surprised. Because, and I’m just saying, I thought attorneys had to be good with details.”

“Spot on, genius, you just figured me out,” Zane said. “Fired for incompetence. I couldn’t even remember my clients’ names.”

He was joking with her, but Caryn thought she detected an edge to his humor. Maybe he
had
been fired, but she doubted it had to do with incompetence. Zane wasn’t much good at crafts, but he had a confidence about him that didn’t mesh with the idea of failure. He was a man who was used to being good at what he did.

Maybe he’d been fired for doing something illegal. That would make sense. Why else run so far away from where he grew up, to land a job that had nothing to do with what he trained for?

“I’ll tell you what I know about Buddy,” Zane finally relented. “He was in the military. Did a couple of tours in Iraq. You know that bartender, Turk?”

“Yes…”

“They served together. Turk came back carrying some PTSD with him. He was struggling for a while, in and out of the hospital. When Buddy found out, he offered him a job at the bar, and a place to stay until he got back on his feet.”

Caryn raised an eyebrow. This was certainly new information, something else her mother had never told her. Of course, maybe Georgia hadn’t known: during the Iraq war, she had been busy caring for a small child and looking for a husband.

But Buddy’s service in the war would also explain some of the gaps when he hadn’t tried to reach her.

Careful, she cautioned herself. Softening toward Buddy was the last thing she wanted to do. She hadn’t even met the man, and he was still a deadbeat dad, as far as she was concerned.

“They live together?”
 “Just for a while, until Turk got his own place. I really don’t know much more than that. Other than Turk’s been working there the last few years, which gave Buddy a chance to cut back on his own hours.” Zane shrugged. “Course, that all happened before I moved up here, so take what I’m saying with a grain of salt. But Buddy apparently used to work around the clock. The bar was all he had, and he put all his savings and time into making it work. You probably couldn’t tell from just one night there, but a lot of the people who are regulars at the bar grew up around here. And one thing I’ll say for North Dakotans: they respect anyone who’ll pull their weight and work hard.”

Something else that didn’t jibe with what Georgia had said. “He couldn’t be bothered,” was her most common refrain when detailing Buddy’s failures. Couldn’t be bothered to care for his child, to marry the mother, to keep a steady job.

“So he cut back on his hours,” Caryn said, knowing she was heading into uncertain territory. “Does that have anything to do with, um, his health?”

“Why do you ask? Trying to take over the place already?”

“No, just—you know, he’s getting older.”

“Aren’t we all.” Zane shot her a rueful grin. “Back in high school I could bench more weight than anyone but Jimmy. I could eat a whole combo pizza by myself, and get by on four hours sleep. Now I’m just a pale shadow of my former self.”

Caryn couldn’t help but smile. She had burned the midnight oil in high school herself a few times, though in her case it was usually because she was up all night studying for her AP classes. Georgia and Randall had never insisted that she make top grades, but deep down Caryn somehow knew that her stepfather wasn’t really hers, not like other dads. Excelling was, she now understood, her way of trying to impress him enough that he’d stay forever. It hadn’t worked.

“I just meant that a man in his fifties might not be cut out for the long hours and harsh environment of working in a bar.”

“Turk seems to do okay,” Zane pointed out.

“I’ll give you that,” Caryn conceded. It had been hard to miss the trim torso under the faded beer-logo shirt, the hard muscles beneath the tattoos winding up and down Turk’s forearms. And he’d barely paused for breath the whole evening, making two drinks at once, filling Opal and Caryn’s orders while keeping up a steady patter with the patrons at the bar. “He seems exceptionally fit, though.”

“Yeah. Buddy’s gone a little soft around the middle, I guess. But that’s probably due to Melanie more than anything. He spends every weekend with her, and I think he sees her during the week sometimes, too.”

Caryn wasn’t prepared for the pang she felt at hearing the woman’s name again. Whoever this Melanie was, she had been able to capture Buddy’s heart in a way that Georgia never had. And Georgia had been a beautiful woman, back in the day. She still was, though nowadays she favored tailored suits and lacquered hair rather than the tight skirts and high heels Caryn remembered from when she was younger.

Georgia could be overbearing and judgmental, and some would question the relentless way she’d pursued a better life for herself and her daughter. But Caryn knew that underneath the tough exterior was a warm and caring woman, whose intelligence and bravery had opened doors for the two of them. What man wouldn’t want a woman like that by his side?

Well…at least two of them. Buddy had left Georgia when Caryn was still a baby. Randall had lasted almost a decade, but in the end he too had left, for someone younger and still beautiful, someone who wasn’t saddled with a child from a previous relationship.

The faint undertone of insecurity pushed insistently at her. Caryn was her mother’s child in so many ways—determined, perfectionist, ambitious. Was she doomed to drive men away the same way her mother had?

“You look like you’re thinking a thousand thoughts at once,” Zane said.

Caryn snapped back to attention. Obviously Zane didn’t know anything more about Buddy’s health, which might or might not mean anything. Caryn would have to find someone who knew the man better. Possibly Opal, if she could find some time during today’s shift.

“Do I?” She forced a smile. “I was actually thinking about my mom. She, um, is about Buddy’s age and she takes really good care of herself.” The understatement of the year: Georgia employed a whole team of trainers, estheticians, and dieticians to keep her toned and lean and fit. Carbs rarely passed her lips, and she drank no caffeine or alcohol.

“No kidding?” Zane looked doubtful, which reminded Caryn that she was still in disguise. She had sifted through the box of clothes that Deneen said she and Jayne had earmarked for charity, choosing items that seemed suited to “Carrie.” She was wearing a pair of denim cutoffs that were shorter than any shorts she’d ever worn in her life, and under the T-shirt she’d borrowed from Zane was a sleeveless mesh top knotted at her waist, which did little to conceal the hot pink bra underneath. She had washed her hair in the shower, dismayed to see the water turning a murky shade of gray as it swirled down the drain, but at least when it dried it wasn’t quite as shockingly dark. At this rate, it would be back to a shade found in nature in a matter of weeks. She hadn’t bothered with any of the faux piercings, but she was wearing a pair of dangling silver earrings with tiny faux dice on the ends—at $2.99 in the discount store, they were a far cry from the pieces Caryn designed for her line, but she kind of liked them anyway. They were lightweight and they brushed against her neck when she moved.

Regarding herself in the mirror this morning, Caryn had realized that the tough-chick-on-the-run persona had already slipped off her like a too-large coat. But what was left behind wasn’t who she used to be, either. It wasn’t just the hair and makeup and clothes that were serving as a disguise, but something more than skin deep. She’d been in North Dakota less than one day, and already she was changing.

To Zane, she must not seem like the kind of woman who could have a sane, pulled-together, fashionable mother. He probably had thought her mother was a crack addict who had abandoned her to the streets. She wondered what other conclusions he’d drawn about her.

And then she wondered why it mattered. Just as soon as she met Buddy, and maybe spent a day or two around him, working at her pretend waitressing job, she would be ready to go back to her old life, closing the book on that chapter of her past once and for all. After all, she had Randall—he might not be perfect, but he was more of a father than lots of people had. And now she had Harry too. Didn’t two stepdads make up for not having a real one?

Zane was looking at her—scrutinizing her—in a way that made Caryn uncomfortable. Was he beginning to suspect who she really was? Could he have recognized her from TMZ and
People
and all the other media outlets that stole your privacy when you led a public life?

“I need to be getting to work soon,” Caryn said as she straightened the last place setting. The table, at least, would look beautiful for the rehearsal dinner. She was surprised by her wistfulness, thinking of the people she had met—Jayne and Matthew and Deneen and Jimmy and Cal and Chase. “I hate to ask, but is there any way you’d consider driving me? I know I can walk, but…well, these are the only shoes I have now, and I think I’m getting a blister.”

“You can borrow some of mine,” Deneen said as she swept into the room carrying a pair of floral centerpieces for the table—wildflowers and curly branches in rustic tin pots. “And of course Zane will drive you. Zane, you may be excused from helping me to take her to work.”

“Did I black out last night and sign on as your assistant?” Zane demanded. “Because that really doesn’t seem like something I would do.”

“All hands on deck,” Deneen said breezily. “I just know you want your friends to have the nicest possible wedding. After all, someday it will be you up there on the altar, and they’ll do the same for you.”

“I’m never getting married,” Zane said, an expression of horror on his face, as though Deneen had suggested he go swimming in an alligator pond.

“Oh, really?” Deneen’s smile grew bigger. “That’s so funny—my sister once said the same thing. Right before my Barbie married her Ken doll in a ceremony attended by every stuffed animal in our house. But you know what happened—true love, that’s what. When it comes along, there’s nothing you can do but take a deep breath and enjoy the ride.”

Jimmy had wandered into the room, carrying two more of the arrangements for the other end of the table. As Deneen took them from his hands and set them in place, she laid a hand on his cheek. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You were powerless to resist me.”

Jimmy gave Zane an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid it’s true. Contrary to everything I know about physics, human nature, and probably a half dozen other natural laws, she’s right.”

“Come on,” Deneen said, hooking an arm through his. “Help me set up the drinks table and then we need to pick up Aunt Ida at the hotel, and run by the caterer’s. Carrie, there’s a few pairs of flats and sneakers in my closet—take whatever you like. And we’ll see you whenever you get back from work.”

Caryn watched them go. When they were safely out of the room, she shook her head and said “Wow” —at the very same moment Zane said the same thing. They both broke out in laughter.

“If you’d known Jimmy before,” Zane said. “That’s the oddest couple in history. I never would have put the two of them together.”

“I was just amazed at how organized she is. She’s got sixteen people coming for dinner, and she doesn't have a hair out of place. And this place looks perfect. When I try to throw a dinner party—”

Oops. Carrie-Barracuda didn’t throw dinner parties. Carrie’s idea of a fancy meal was eating at a table in the burrito shop rather than sitting on the curb outside.

But it was too late to take her comment back. Zane was looking at her with that high-powered scrutiny that must have made witnesses squirm back when he worked the courtroom. “You were saying? When you try to throw dinner parties—”

“No, I just meant that
if
I ever did, I wouldn’t know where to start. What fork goes where, how to give a toast, I’d be hopeless.”

She had the feeling Zane wasn’t buying a word of it.

“You seemed to do fine setting this table,” he said, pointing out the gleaming flatware, the glasses in their precise places and the dessert spoons resting perfectly straight above each plate.

“All those HGTV shows, who knew they would come in handy?” Caryn turned her back on him, aware that she was blushing down to her badly-dyed roots, and headed for the hall. “I’m just getting those shoes, and we can be on our way.”

“I’ll bring the truck around, Barracuda.”

“You don’t need to,” Caryn said. “Not if I can find a pair of shoes that isn’t going to kill me. The walk will do me good.”

“You’ll be on your feet for the next ten hours,” Zane argued, getting up. He brushed against the table, knocking the closest place setting slightly askew, and Caryn resisted the urge to straighten it. “Might as well let me take you now, so you’ve got enough energy later to make it home.”

“If you insist,” Caryn said, her heart unaccountably lighter.

“You know, you don’t really seem like the waitress type,” Zane said.

They were sitting in the truck in a corner of the dirt parking lot. It was five minutes before two o’clock, Buddy’s official opening time, and there wasn’t another car in the lot. Since Carrie didn’t have a key, he’d decided to wait with her, and turned off the ignition and rolled down the windows. As a means of killing time, it wasn’t half bad: a cross breeze blew through the custom Silverado, mixed with her scent and accented with the nervous drumming of her fingers on the console.