The Comeback Kiss (9 page)

Even with the midday nap, it had been a long fucking day.

After the run-ins with Tessa and Joe, Finn decided the only thing to do was hang low i
n the shack by the lake. He
’
d done what he came to town to do, and anything else would just be asking for trouble. So he
’
d hoisted his pack over his shoulder and headed for Lowery
’
s field. He
’
d found the shack pretty much the way he
’
d expected to find it
—
f
ully stocked and vacant. He
’
d made a fire, cooked some beans, and pulled the sleeping bags out from under the bed. That was the last thing he remembered.

He swung his feet over the side of the old cot and glanced at the woodstove, which was still cranking
out the heat. He looked through the window at the sky, drenched orange-pink by the sunset. It was about five-thirty, he estimated.

If he didn
’
t think of something soon, he
’
d be stuck in that shack for the foreseeable future. He
’
d already called information
and gotten three car rental places in Brattleboro; not a one was willing to drive forty-five minutes to drop a car off for him. He hadn
’
t really expected they would, but it was worth a shot. Now Babs was his only hope, and both her home phone and her cel
l
had gone straight to voice mail, pretty much cinching his suspicions that he
’
d been punk
’
d by his sixty-year-old boss.

Which, if he
’
d been thinking about anything other than getting that car back to Tessa, he should have seen coming a mile away. For Babs,
meddling was a religious experience, and Finn had no one but his own stupid self to blame. He
’
d confided in her during a moment of weakness, and he
’
d pay for it for the rest of his life.

Not that it mattered much now. Damage was done. And he may be strand
ed, but he was also resourceful. He
’
d find a way to get a car tomorrow, if he had to hitch all the way to Brattleboro to do it. Then he
’
d go to Boston, do the favor for Babs
’
s friends, and double his fee while he was at it. Babs took on these favors to st
a
ve off boredom, and always received her payment in the form of donations to charity, but Finn was a mercenary, and after all this hassle, damnit, he was going to get paid, and paid well.

Not that kissing Tessa had been exactly a hassle. Actually, that had
been something of a religious experience in itself. Being stuck in Lucy
’
s Lake, though? Big. Damn. Hassle.

He pushed himself up off the bed and grabbed the matches from the shelf to light the lantern, but stopped when he heard a noise outside the shack.

Ch
rist,
he thought, closing his eyes.
Can
’
t a guy hole up in a shack in peace?

He wasn
’
t entirely irritated, though. Part of him suspected it might be Tessa; it wouldn
’
t be unlike her to guess where he
’
d gone and come looking for him. Of course, that was the
same part of him that had him pressing Tessa up against the wall of the drugstore that morning. While he liked that part, it wasn
’
t the part he wanted doing his thinking at the moment; it had no appreciation for strategy. Still, as he walked over to the
d
oor and peeked out the small crack between the warped wood panes, Finn couldn
’
t entirely squelch the stab of disappointment that no one was there.

And there was reason #597 to get the hell out of Dodge. He turned and took a few steps toward the lantern, th
en heard it again. A soft scratching sound, followed by a whimper of some kind. Finn struck the match and lit the lantern, then walked over to the door and pulled it open.

Staring up at him was the border collie-looking mutt he
’
d chased out of the burning
pet shop that morning. The dog looked up at Finn and wagged its tail.

“
Hate to be the sugar in your gas tank,”
Finn said, “
but cute doesn
’
t work on me. The only thing I hate more than birds is dogs. Beat it.”

The dog stopped wagging its tail but didn
’
t mov
e. Finn started to shut the door, but the dog stuffed one paw under the door and gave a loud, overly dramatic screech as the door barely slid over it.

“
What the...?”
Finn pulled the door back open to see that the dog was just fine.

“
Hey,”
he said. “
Cheap t
rick.”
He raised his eyebrows. “
Nice play, though.”

Finn moved to shut the door once again, more gently this time, but the dog wouldn
’
t budge. Finn put some weight behind it and the dog dug in its heels, pushing its side and shoulder against the door.

Finn
glared down at the dog. There was no getting rid of it without hurting it, and it took less energy to let it in than to kick it.

“
Fine,”
he said as he stepped to the side of the doorway, allowing the dog passage. “
But keep your distance and if you pee on
anything, I
’
m making me a big plate of mutt flambe. We clear?”

The dog assumed an expression of victory and took its sweet time moving into the room, so Finn deliberately closed the door on a wisp of tail hair to make his point. The dog shot Finn a
What th
e hell
,
man?
look and jumped up on the bed before Finn could stop it.

Finn grabbed another can of beans and cooked them up in silence, letting the dog finish them off when he
’
d had his fill. They both sighed, sitting on the bed, staring at the door.

“
So,”
Finn said after a while, “
is Riker
’
s Island still the best place in town to hustle pool?”

The dog looked at him and shrugged.
It
’
s better than sitting around here all night.

Finn grabbed his boots, which had been getting dry and toasty by the fire for the
past few hours, and stuck one foot in.

“
Town full of dog people,”
he muttered, pulling the laces tight, “
and you had to pick me.”

Chapter Five

Babs Wiley McGregor turned up the heat under the large skillet, keeping a watchful eye on the blue flames lick
ing up underneath. Her kitchen and cookware, like everything else in her Manhattan penthouse, was of the highest quality. Surely that counted for something.

“
Okay,”
she said, breathing a sigh of relief as she reached for her glass of chilled chardonnay. “
S
tep one: success.”

She grabbed the remote and pointed it at the small TV/VCR perched in the corner of the room. The tape began to play, and the energetic female chef jumped into action, talking a mile a minute about fresh herbs as she dumped an armful of i
ngredients on the counter.

“
Goodness,”
Babs said, grabbing the remote again and pausing the tape. “
No wonder she can make meals in thirty minutes. That woman could perform a triple bypass in thirty minutes.”
She glanced down at the recipe printout she
’
d go
tten off the Internet, then poked her head into the bag of ingredients she
’
d had delivered from the market down the street. “
Now, which of you little lovelies are the shallots?”

Since none of the various bits of whatnot jumped out of the bag at her yelling
, “
We are the shallots!”
Babs grabbed the one ingredient she could immediately identify
—
the olive oil
—
and splashed some into the skillet, just like the woman on television. Filled with a sense of purpose, Babs smiled to herself as she took another sip of
w
ine.

She was cooking.

Traditionally, the women in Babs
’
s line didn
’
t cook. There seemed to be some kind of genetic anomaly that made it not only challenging but dangerous. Her great-aunt Corrine had lost the tip of her pinkie finger in a coleslaw incident
and had become a cautionary tale passed down through generations of cook-hiring and takeout-ordering women. But Babs had turned sixty last year, and the world was running short on things she hadn
’
t tried yet. If she had to risk a little bit of pinkie to m
a
intain some variety, well, damnit, she
’
d do it.

She was just about to dip back into the shopping bag when the phone rang.

“
Mom,”
Dana
’
s voice came through the line, “
I just got your message. What
’
s up?”

“
Nothing,”
Babs said. “
Just wanted to call and say he
llo, see how you were doing.”

“
We
’
re not pregnant, and we
’
re not trying right now, Mom. Leave it alone.”

Babs reached for the bag and poked her nose in. “
I
’
m offended. You
’
ve only been married for six months. I wouldn
’
t think about pressuring you for grand
children yet. But are you sure you
’
re not pregnant, darling? The women in our family are frighteningly fertile. You were a little piece of serendipity yourself, you know. Your father and I were vacationing in Lake George
—”

“
Agh, enough,”
Dana said. “
And ye
s, I
’
m sure I
’
m not pregnant.”

“
Well, be sure to take that folic acid I sent you, just in case. Which reminds me
—
do you know of any car rental companies that might deliver a car for me?”

“
How does folic acid remind you
—
?”
There was a short pause, and Babs
could practically hear the suspicious wheels in Dana
’
s mind begin to grind. Not that they didn
’
t have cause to grind; Babs was the first to admit she had a tendency to get into... scrapes. “
Mom, where are you, and are you being held at gunpoint?”

Babs sigh
ed. “
You
’
re just never going to let me live that down, are you? Anyway, it
’
s not for me. It
’
s for Finn. I seem to have inadvertently stranded him in Vermont.”

Another short pause. Their conversations tended to have quite a few of those. “
How do you inadve
rtently strand someone?”

“
It
’
s a long story,”
Babs said, “
but I did, and now I
’
m in a bit of a pinch. Do you know what shallots look like, darling? They
’
re not long and green, are they?”

“
Blind leading the blind, Mom; I have no idea. So what are you going
to do about Finn?”

Babs set the long green things aside on the counter. “
Oh, I don
’
t know. Can you believe I can
’
t find a single car rental place that will deliver a car to Lucy
’
s Lake?”

“
You
’
ve been living in Manhattan too long,”
Dana said. “
They
’
ll deli
ver the Hope Diamond in Manhattan if you know who to call. It
’
s not like that everywhere. Where is Lucy
’
s Lake?”

“
According to the last person I spoke to, it
’
s
—
and I quote
—‘
forty miles east of the Middle of Freaking Nowhere.
’
I tell you, if I had any idea
how difficult it would be to get a car to him, I would have gone in a different direction.”