Christmas On Nutcracker Court (16 page)

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Authors: Judy Duarte

BOOK: Christmas On Nutcracker Court
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She followed behind, watching as he pulled out his key and inserted it into the lock, jiggling it a little so it would slip into place and work properly.
Once inside, he turned on the light.
Yet it still didn't feel like home to Rosa. All she could see were the tired walls begging for a fresh coat of paint and the old shag carpet with matted-down traffic areas.
And for some reason, she just couldn't seem to let the subject drop.
“I know you don't like changes, and making a move like that is a big one, but really, Carlos, I'm just trying to look out for you.”
“How's that?”
“You're overdoing it, honey. You're not as young as you used to be. And neither am I. It's time we really retired, but it seems as though we're working harder now than ever.”
He shed his jacket and hung it on the hook near the door. Then he offered her a weary smile. “When something happens to me, you can sell the house and do anything you want. You won't be locked into that condominium with all your cash tied up in equity.”
There he went again, implying that he didn't have long to live. “What makes you think you'll be the first to go?”
He grunted again.
Rosa knew he'd made up his mind and that he probably wouldn't budge.
What had happened to that handsome young man who'd asked Daddy for her hand in marriage, the man who'd sworn he'd do everything to make her happy? The guy who'd actually done just that until about five years ago?
She had no idea how he'd morphed into an old man hell-bent on helping as many people as he could before he dropped in his tracks. Or, more likely, before
she
did. But she knew when she was barking up the wrong tree. So she placed her purse on the bottom step of the stairs, then started the long, painful climb to the bedroom.
“Just think,” he said, as he followed her up to their room. “You can take as many cruises as you want to when I'm gone.”
She stopped and turned to face him. Then she lifted her finger and pointed it at him in a downward direction, thanks to the extra height two stair steps gave her. “Listen here, Carlos. I'm not going on a cruise without you.”
He smiled, resembling that young man she'd fallen in love with nearly forty years ago. Then he reached up and cupped her cheek. “Okay, who knows? Maybe we can take a cruise together, but I have some things I need to do first.”
“Like what?”
“Just
things
.”
He could be so cryptic when he wanted to. So she let out a sigh, clicked her tongue, and threw up her hands in submission. Then she turned and continued her climb upstairs.
When she reached the landing, and he was only a step behind her, she gave it one last shot and said, “Did you ever take a look at that brochure I showed you?”
“The one that advertised the Caribbean cruise you wanted to take?” He smiled. “Yes, I did. And it looks nice, honey, but it's pretty expensive.”
And he'd probably rather spend their money on charity or give it to the church.
Goodness. Did that make her selfish? She hoped not. A lot of people believed in tithing 10 percent, but Carlos gave above and beyond that.
Was there something wrong with her wanting them to spend a little of their savings on themselves? Couldn't they consider it an investment in their marriage?
Rosa blew out another sigh, one that was wearier than the last, then entered the bedroom and turned down the quilt.
“I'm getting tired,” she told him. “And I'm not so sure how much time I have left, either. I'd like to make the best of it. Wouldn't you?”
“So which is it you want to have the most?” he asked. “A new condo or a cruise? You can't have it all.”
The way he looked at her, with his hands on his hips and his head cocked to the side as though she were a spoiled, errant child, made her feel like a whining nag, and the feeling didn't sit well with her. So she let the subject drop—for now, anyway.
While he undressed, she took her flannel nightgown into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, and got ready for bed.
When she returned to their room, Carlos was standing by the nightstand in his Jockey shorts. His back was to her, and he was running his hand up and down the length of his left arm.
“What's the matter?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Is your arm bothering you?”
“A little bit. It's probably just some tendinitis. It happens sometimes.”
“Maybe you ought to see a doctor.”
“I might do that.” He gave her a no-worries smile, then padded into the bathroom.
While he was gone, she climbed under the covers and reached for the pillow she tucked between her knees at night, something that seemed to help ease the aches and pains she usually woke up having in the morning.
Moments later, Carlos returned carrying a glass of water and a bottle of antacids. He placed them both on the nightstand next to his side of the bed.
“Is your stomach bothering you?” she asked.
“Yeah. I've got some heartburn. I think you were right. Eating that chili cheeseburger wasn't a good idea.”
He'd insisted upon having fast food for dinner tonight, which had been a relief in one sense. It had saved her from cooking dinner and cleaning up the kitchen when she was already exhausted. But he should have chosen that grilled chicken burger on a wheat bun, like she'd suggested.
She clicked her tongue. Sometimes Carlos could be
so
set in his ways.
He turned off the light, then joined her in bed. Instead of cuddling, like they used to do in the early years, he rolled to the side, letting his back face her.
While the clock on the bureau
tick-tocked
louder than she remembered it ever doing before, she did her best to block out the annoying sound, as well as the thoughts that tumbled through her brain.
But she couldn't seem to quell the resentment that had begun to root in her heart.
 
 
Carly had turned out the lights and climbed into bed, just as Mikey started coughing again. She'd noticed his cold symptoms at dinner this evening, and they seemed to be getting worse. So she threw off the covers and went into the room the boys shared, since Mikey had fewer nightmares when he slept near his brother.
She didn't normally go to bed while the kids were still awake, but she hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. Too much to stress about, she supposed.
When she entered the room, Josh was sitting on the floor near the toy box, thumbing through a
National Geographic Kids
magazine, a subscription Sharon Garvey had paid for before she'd moved away.
Carly missed her neighbor and friend at times like this—when she was out of children's cold medication and needed to make an evening run to purchase some. One call to Sharon, and Carly would have someone to look after the boys for a couple of minutes.
But she no longer had that option.
Mikey, who was curled up in bed already, sat up and grimaced. “My throat hurts, Mommy.”
Carly crossed the room and took a seat on the edge of his mattress, then she placed a hand on his forehead. He didn't feel particularly warm, but that didn't mean anything. The child clearly wasn't feeling well.
“Can I sleep on the sofa?” Josh asked. “I don't want Mikey to get me sick.”
“No, you stay in the room. Mikey can sleep with me.”
“Can I bring my teddy, too?” her youngest son asked.
“Yes. You can go now, but you'll need to wait for me a few minutes. I need to run to the store and pick up something for your cough.” The pharmacy was probably closed by now, but the market stayed open until eleven.
“But don't buy any of the red stuff,” Mikey said, as he threw off the covers and climbed out of his bed. “I hate that one.”
“I'll see what I can do.” Carly glanced at Josh, who was still thumbing through the magazine. “I'm going to have to leave for a few minutes. Will you watch your brother? It won't take me very long.”
“Sure.” Clearly focused on a colorful photo of tree frogs, he didn't look up.
“And if anyone calls . . .” she began.
“I know the rules. You're taking a shower. If they give me their phone number, you'll call them as soon as you get dried off.”
“Good.”
After Mikey left the room, Carly watched her oldest son for a moment, taking note of how much he'd grown and being both pleased by his maturity and uneasy at the thought of all the changes the teen years were sure to bring.
But she didn't have time for maternal musing. “I'll have my cell phone with me, Josh. And it's fully charged. Call me if you have any trouble whatsoever. I'm only a few blocks away.”
“Got it.” He finally looked up and caught her eye. “Don't worry about us. Just go do what you have to do.”
“I'll lock the door when I leave, but bolt it after I go, okay?”
He frowned, clearly miffed by her instructions. “Come on, Mom. I know the routine. I'm not a kid anymore, okay?”
No, it wasn't okay. He was in that in-between stage, neither child nor teenager. And she wasn't sure what effect his age was having on their mother/son relationship.
“I love you,” she added, leaving all her other concerns behind.
“I know.”
What? No “I love you” back?
She told herself that he was growing older, that kissing his mother good-bye and saying “I love you” was probably too mushy for him. But that didn't mean it didn't worry her to think his feelings for her were changing, too.
Again, she shook off her concern—or at least she tried to—and went back to her room, where she slipped out of her pajamas, threw on the clothes she'd been wearing earlier, and put on a pair of sneakers.
Next she grabbed her jacket and purse, taking a moment to count her cash. Convinced that she had enough money to make the purchase without using the credit card that was already stretched to the max, she left the house, making sure the door was locked.
Once in her car, she made the quick drive to the market.
She didn't like leaving the kids alone during the day, but she hated doing so in the evening, when any number of things could go wrong. Still, the store was only a couple of blocks away.
And she would hurry back.
Chapter 10
With a little arm twisting, Chuck Lassiter had spilled his guts, but Logan wasn't any closer to an arrest.
So he'd met his partner for a drink at Rayburn's, a trendy bar near the marina, where they discussed the case for an hour or so. Then they'd spent the rest of the time shooting the breeze and having a few laughs. Logan probably ought to call home, but Priscilla knew his job came first.
It was almost nine when he finally called it a day, but what else was new? He rarely returned home before dark.
Upon entering the living room, he'd expected to catch a whiff of whatever Priscilla had made for dinner and was keeping warm in the oven for him.
Instead, he spotted her suitcase near the fireplace.
“Baby?” he called.
She didn't respond, but when she entered the room, he nodded toward her bag. “What's that?”
“I'm leaving, Logan.”
She'd made it sound like it was for good.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home. To Texas.”
There hadn't been anything for her in that Podunk town, at least, that's what she'd told him when they'd met three years ago.
The question rolled off his tongue before he could stop it. “When are you coming back?”
“I'm not.”
Her words held a chill and a finality that he'd never heard before, and his gut clenched at the thought that she might mean what she said.
But Logan didn't like being backed into a corner. So, he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
 
 
Max reread the beginning of the scene that had almost written itself. He hadn't planned for it to unfold like that. Up until this point, Priscilla had only had a walk-on part in his novel. But while he'd sat at the keyboard, typing out the pages, the dialogue had just taken off.
And that was the problem. He hadn't expected Priscilla to walk out on Logan, although he liked the way her departure had left his protagonist a little unbalanced. That would come in handy during the next scene. But Max didn't know where to go from here.
Something was out of whack, although he couldn't figure out what it was. Then again, maybe it wasn't.
Either way, Max seemed to be suffering from a little writer's block tonight. He also had a nagging headache, a byproduct of scrunching his shoulders for hours on end and stressing about a scene that wouldn't play out. But there wasn't any need to beat himself up about something out of his control.
Maybe a change of activity would help—not to mention a couple of aspirin.
He pushed back his desk chair, got to his feet, and went into the bathroom, where he opened the medicine cabinet. He shuffled around the Band-Aids, toothpaste, dental floss, and his extra razor cartridges.
Where in the world was the aspirin? He could have sworn he had a bottle in here somewhere. But apparently he didn't.
After closing the mirrored door a little harder than necessary, he went into the kitchen. Sometimes a snack or a bite to eat helped, but it wasn't a bowl of chili or something hearty he was craving. He wanted something sweet.
Trouble was, when he opened up the pantry, he found it miserably empty.
Okay, so he had plenty of stuff inside—canned goods mostly, a can of coffee, a jar of gherkins, a new bottle of Tabasco, various condiments . . . But there wasn't anything in there that he wanted to munch on this evening.
Sometimes eating junk food helped him deal with a temporary case of writer's block. Not that he was blocked, exactly. It was just that something was off, and since he couldn't figure out what wasn't working, he couldn't very well fix it. So that made it impossible for him to go on.
He reached for a bag of half-eaten Cheetos he'd left on the middle shelf a while back, opened it up, and popped one into his mouth. Instead of the cheesy crunch he'd been expecting, his teeth bit into gummy, bland air. He guessed they'd been in there longer than he'd remembered.
Next to the Cheetos he spotted a package of raw almonds, but he left it on the shelf. That wasn't going to do the trick tonight—too healthy.
It seemed as though his pantry could compete with Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard this evening. And her financial outlook was probably better than his at this moment, too. If he didn't score ink soon, he'd be back working nine-to-five at the probation department.
He couldn't very well complain about that, though. It was a solid job with great benefits. Besides, he was good at what he did. He could spot a liar a mile away or sense a violation in the works. But somewhere along the line, it had become . . . well, just a job, and he'd wanted something new and different.
Actually, he'd needed it. And a book contract with a major New York publisher would certainly fill the bill. Besides, he'd put too much time into this manuscript to call it quits now.
He kneaded his temples, then rolled his head from side to side, hoping it would make the ache go away. Then he crossed the room and swung open the refrigerator door.
There wasn't much in there, either—particularly milk, which he was going to need in the morning. Of course, he wasn't about to make this a full-on shopping trip at this time of night, but a run to the market was in order.
“You wait here,” he told Hemingway, who was snoozing by the hearth and didn't seem to give a squat either way. “I'll be back before you can say Purina Puppy Chow.”
Five minutes later, Max entered the supermarket on the corner of Park and First Street. He'd made out a grocery list while he'd been in the parking lot, which he didn't do very often, but he was actually out of quite a few things.
So he grabbed a cart and started down the aisles, heading straight for the section that provided his favorite junk food. Then he went in search of the other items he needed, as well as some he didn't.
Okay, so he was an impulse shopper.
He moved up one aisle and down the next, stopping when he came to the breakfast cereal. He probably ought to choose something healthy, with plenty of bran and fiber, but he opted for sweet and tasty instead. He wasn't in the mood for health food this week.
Next he headed for the pet supplies, thinking he'd get Hemingway a different brand of food than the stuff he had at home—maybe something canned, moist, and meaty, rather than dry.
Would that make the mutt happier and more content? And more likely to stay in the yard and not run off?
If the gourmet dog chow didn't work, then maybe Max should turn Hemingway in to the pound himself. After all, if he wasn't happy living with a single guy like him and preferred a family, then so be it.
Max had copped a similar attitude when his wife had told him that she wasn't happy being married to him and that she was leaving.
He could have groveled, he supposed, but that wouldn't have helped. Instead, he'd stood by and watched her move out. And two weeks later, he'd found out she was dating a guy he'd once played golf with, a guy he'd thought of as a friend.
She'd told him that the new relationship had started after their split, but Max hadn't believed her. And he'd pretended that he didn't care either way.
It was weird, though. For some reason, he was doing more to save the relationship with his dog than he'd been willing to put into his marriage. But that was probably because he hadn't been so happy, either.
Grabbing two cans of the most expensive dog food he could find, Max put them in the cart, then continued to the area of the store where he could find the aspirin. His headache had eased once he'd gone out into the night air, but it wasn't completely gone.
As he turned down the pharmaceutical aisle, he nearly froze in his tracks when he saw Carly Westbrook scanning the shelves. She had on a pair of running shoes, black slacks, and a dark jacket, nothing very stylish. And she wasn't wearing any makeup to speak of. Still she was an attractive woman, the kind who could make a man block traffic in a grocery store by parking himself in an aisle just to look at her.
He continued to study her a moment, the way she furrowed her brow and nibbled on her bottom lip. The way those glossy, chocolate-colored strands curled softly around her shoulders. She hadn't run a comb through her hair in a while, but it didn't seem to matter.
Finally, Max cleared his voice and said, “Fancy meeting you here.”
She looked up, and when recognition crossed her face, her cheeks flushed and her lips parted. “Oh. Hi.”
He couldn't expect more than that from her, he supposed. Not after that last awkward confrontation they'd had. But he wasn't ready to move on just yet, so he asked, “Did you get your boy's new glasses?”
“I . . . uh . . . placed an order, but they won't be in for a week or two.” She smoothed her hair with her hand, as though she knew she'd left home in a hurry and wished she hadn't. Or maybe it had just been a nervous gesture on her part. Max had probably been the last man in the world she'd expected to see tonight.
He certainly hadn't expected to see her here, either.
She bit down on her bottom lip, in a move that was actually kind of cute—and more alluring than it should be. Then she said, “I'm sorry for . . . the other night.”
Did she mean that she was sorry for jumping to conclusions, blaming his dog for an innocent mishap, and demanding that he pay for her son's glasses?
Part of him wanted to pop off with a snappy retort, something snide or cynical, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. For some reason the pretty single mom had a way of disarming his spiteful side.
For lack of anything better to start a conversation, he found himself asking, “Are you ready for Christmas yet?”
It was a lame thing to bring up, especially coming from a guy who'd grown tired of hearing that particular question repeated ad nauseam and whose own answer was always the same.
“There's not much to get ready for this year,” she said. “I plan to pick up a couple of small gifts for the boys at the dollar store, but like I said the other night, we won't be having a tree.” She shrugged, then straightened her shoulders and shoved her hands in her jacket pockets. “But that doesn't mean we won't try to make the day special. We'll go to church in the morning, have frozen turkey potpies for dinner, and read the Christmas story before opening packages.”
“I'm sure your sons will enjoy that.”
“I hope you're right. Mikey will, I know. But Josh . . .” She paused, and he watched as uncertainty clouded her brow. She tried to break free of it, but even when she gave another shrug, he could see that worry still weighed heavy in her eyes. “I'm not so sure what to expect from him these days.”
“Has that bully been bothering him again?”
She stiffened, and when she caught his eye, her gaze snaked around his with a death grip. “Do you think that could be the problem? Could he be terrorized by that bully? I'd thought it was just something he was going through, like the aging process or male hormones or something. But if he's feeling frightened or threatened. . . Well, I'd better call the school and see what I can do to stop it.”
Max had no way of knowing what was going on with her son, and while he wasn't about to assume that he did, he hated to see her worry. “I'm sure it's nothing to stress about. He's probably just trying to exert his independence. There comes a time in a boy's life when he doesn't want his mother to know everything he's thinking.”
“I hope you're right.”
So did Max.
“Well,” she said, removing her hands from her pockets and probably intending to go on her way. “Thanks for sharing the male perspective. I'm afraid I'm lost when it comes to things like that. I was a real girly-girl growing up.”
Weren't most women?
She must have read the curiosity in his eyes, the interest, because she said, “Oh, you know. I liked to play with my dolls, and I loved wearing dresses and shopping for new party shoes.”
A smile stretched across his face. Even tonight, when she'd clearly dashed off to the store without giving her appearance any thought, she still had a distinctly feminine aura, and he couldn't help wondering what she'd look like if she was going to a party and wearing a fancy dress and heels.
“In fact,” she added, “as far as my friends and I were concerned, we thought all boys had cooties.”
Those were the little girls who were fun to chase in school, whether a boy's threat was a toad in his hand or puckered lips.
“So I take it you didn't have any brothers,” he said.

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