Triple Time (16 page)

Gabe looked questioningly at Devin and she nodded, swiping away tears with her forearm. They followed the woman up the steps to a large, sunlit room with a worn but clean couch, two overstuffed chairs and a TV.

“Make yourselves at home,” she said, already heading down a long hall that Devin assumed led to the bedrooms. “I'll tell Pete to give you a few minutes.”

Devin sank into one of the chairs. “So this place is...”

“A group home for autistic adults,” Gabe finished, sitting across from her on the couch.

“What about Victor's adoptive parents?”

Gabe shook his head. “Dead. But they were fairly well off. Set up a trust fund for him to make sure he was taken care of after they were gone.”

Devin closed her eyes and sagged back. She'd had so many questions for them, the chief one being did they know she existed? And if so, did they try to find her? Or let her rot in foster care without a second thought?

Then again, maybe she didn't want answers. Maybe ignorance really was bliss, or at least less painful.

“So he's got no one,” she said. “Like me.”

“Not anymore.” Gabe's voice was low, almost a whisper.

Her eyes flew open. “What if he doesn't remember me?”

“Here.” Gabe pulled a tattered stuffed animal out of a bag she hadn't even realized he'd been holding. “This might help.”

“Tex.” She blinked. “How did you get this? It was in the drawer next to my bed.”

“Remember that night we thought we ran out of condoms?” A devilish grin stretched across his face.

Oh, yeah. She remembered, all right. He'd taken to stopping by Naboombu when she was working. Then, when her shift was over, they'd go back to her place and do their best to single-handedly keep whoever manufactured Trojans in business. On the night in question, they'd found the box she kept in her lingerie drawer empty. They'd made a game of ransacking her apartment for spare condoms, in between kisses and cuddles.

“I saw it then,” he continued, snapping her back to the present. “I smuggled it out in my briefcase yesterday morning when you were in the shower.”

He held the toy out and she took it, cradling the animal's faded body to her chest.

“Thank you.” The words seemed so small, so inadequate. But she didn't have any others.

Pete cleared his throat in the doorway. “Ready to see your brother?”

Devin wiped her moist hands on her skinny jeans and stood. “As I'll ever be.”

“He's good today. Talking, making eye contact.” Pete raised a shoulder. “But I don't know how long it'll last.”

“Yeah.” She let out a slow sigh, remembering the good days, when Victor made the bus on time, got glowing reports from his teachers and even helped get dinner on the table. And the bad ones, when he'd refuse to get dressed, dump his cereal on the floor and scream and lash out at everything in his path. When nothing Devin did could reach past the invisible wall around him. “I get that.”

She began to follow Pete before she realized Gabe wasn't behind her. She turned to find Gabe still sitting on the couch, his Sperry-clad foot resting on one knee. “Aren't you coming with me?”

“No. This is your time with your brother.” He got up and walked over to her, enfolding her in his strong arms.

“But don't worry.” He spoke into her hair, his lips grazing her scalp. “I'll be right here waiting for you when you're done. No matter how long it takes.”

He gave her a gentle push and she followed Pete down the hall to a screened-in porch at the back of the house.

“Here we are.” Pete stopped at the doorway. “Just holler if you need anything. I'll be right here.”

“Thanks.”

Devin took a deep breath and stepped inside. The room was sunny and warm, with comfy, cushioned wicker chairs scattered around. In one of them sat Victor, his head bent over a hand-held computer game.

Even if Devin hadn't known he'd be waiting for her there, she'd have recognized him immediately. The mop of unruly, dark curls. The scar on his left cheek from when she'd tried to teach him to ride a bike. The way he bit his bottom lip in concentration, just like he had as a kid.

She brushed away a tear and pulled up a chair next to him, close but not so close that she'd startle him.

“Hey, buddy.” She held out Tex. “I brought something for you.”

He didn't lift his head.

“Look.” She tried again, putting the stuffed animal on his lap. “It's Tex. Remember him?”

“Tex.” Victor let the computer game fall to his side and reached out a hand to pet the armadillo. “My Tex.”

“That's right.” Her voice was thick with emotion. “Your Tex. And I'm your sister, Devin.”

He clutched the stuffed animal to his chest and looked up at her, his coal-black eyes filled with the same wonder he'd had as a child. “Devin?”

She nodded, unable to speak.

“Devin always bought me Push Ups from the ice cream truck.”

She swallowed a happy sob, remembering how she'd squirrel away change from the couch cushions to make sure Victor could have his favorite treat at least once a week in the summer. He remembered, too. “I sure did.”

“Can you get me one now?” He bounced in his seat.

Paul, who had obviously been listening on the other side of the doorway, popped his head in. “I don't know about a Push Up. But we've got some rocky road in the freezer. How about I bring you a bowl?”

“What do you say, Victor?” Devin put a tentative hand on her brother's knee. She said a silent prayer of thanks when he let it stay there.

“Okay.” His eyes met hers for an instant. “But you have to have some, too.”

“Sure, buddy.” She nodded, blinking back tears. “I'd like that.”

 

16

“Y
OU
WIN
.” G
ABE
LAID
his cue across the table. “Again.”

“Third scratch in a row.” Cade clucked his tongue. “Dude, you suck tonight. And your mood's not much better. What crawled up your butt and died?”

“Do you want to play another round or not?” Gabe started to rack up the balls.

“Not. And you didn't drive all the way up to Stockton just for me to school you at pool. Or to drink the Half Pint's watered-down beer.” Cade hung his cue up in the rack on the wall next to the jukebox that hadn't worked since disco was king of the charts. “What gives?”

“Can't a guy want to spend some time with his best friend?”

“Not when he's got a smoking hot woman waiting for him back in the city.” Cade leaned on the jukebox. “Unless you screwed that up already.”

“I did not screw it up.” Gabe left the balls where they were and hung his cue next to Cade's. “I'm giving Devin some space. She's been spending a lot of time with her brother the past couple of weeks. Reconnecting with him.”

“Space my ass.” Cade slung an arm around Gabe's shoulders and commandeered him toward the bar. “You're preparing yourself for the fall.”

“The what?”

“The fall. The letdown. The end.”

Gabe dropped onto a stool and rested his elbows on the bar. “End of what?”

“Of whatever it is you're doing with Elvira Mistress of the Dark.” Cade pulled out the stool beside him and sat.

Smacking his so-called friend in the arm, Gabe motioned for the bartender. “I told you to stop calling her that.”

Cade didn't budge. “Face it, bro. She got what she wanted. Her brother. And now you're afraid she's going to cut and run.”

“Whatever, Dr. Phil.”

“Hey, Cade.” The pretty female bartender leaned over the rail, giving them an eyeful of what looked like the world's biggest man-made breasts spilling out of her low-cut top. She flashed Cade a thousand-watt smile. “Long time no see.”

He shrugged. “I've been busy.”

Her smile dimmed for a split second before she recovered and ran a hand through her long, equally manufactured, bleach-blond hair. “What'll it be?”

“Bud for me and a...” He eyeballed Gabe.

“Black & Tan,” Gabe finished.

“Black & Tan for my lovesick friend.” Cade pulled a twenty out of his wallet and slid it across the bar.

Gabe slapped his hand down on the bill before the bartender could grab it. “I'm not lovesick. And this round's on me.”

“No way.” Cade shook his head. “My hangout. My money.”

“If I let you pay, will you stop psychoanalyzing me?”

“Fat chance.” Cade chuckled. “I'm just getting started.”

The bartender rolled her baby blues at them. “You guys can figure this out while I get your drinks.”

She moved off to the other end of the bar.

“Fine.” Gabe pushed the twenty at his friend. “Then you're paying for the next round, too.”

Cade smiled and lifted an invisible glass in a mock toast. “Let the analysis begin.”

“I've got a better idea. How about we discuss what's with you and the bartender?”

“Simple. She's interested. I'm not.”

Gabe choked back a laugh. “Blonde. Blue eyes. Big boobs. I would've thought she was just your type.”

A shadow of something Gabe couldn't quite identify crossed Cade's face. “Maybe my type's changed.”

“Yeah. And maybe Jimmy Hoffa's alive and well and living in a tent in my parents' backyard.”

“Here you go, boys.” The bartender plunked two foamy mugs down in front of them and batted her eyes at Cade. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

“I'll bet,” Cade muttered, taking a sip of his beer as she sauntered away. He eyed Gabe over his mug. “Now you. Fess up.”

“There's nothing to fess. Devin and I are hanging out. That's it.”

“So you're friends with benefits? Is that what you're saying?” Cade took another slug of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Because that's always been more my scene than yours.”

“Not my choice.”

“Man, oh, man. This chick has you tied up in knots.”

“You can say that again.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“Do?” Gabe gulped his Black & Tan, needing something to take his mind of the ridiculous conversation they were having. “Nothing.”

“When did you become such a pussy?”

“I am not a pussy.”

“What else do you call someone who's afraid to man up and tell the woman he loves how he feels about her?” Cade asked.

Gabe almost spat beer at him. “Who said anything about love?”

“You did.” Cade gestured toward the mirror on the other side of the bar. “See for yourself. The hangdog expression. The dark circles under your eyes. Your even more sour than usual disposition.”

“Shit.”

Was he that obvious? Apparently.

Cade drummed his fingers on the bar rail. “I repeat, what are you going to do about it, Casanova?”

“What can I do?” Gabe asked. “If I—as you so eloquently put it—man up, she'll freak.”

“You don't know that.”

“She's not exactly in the market for a long-term relationship. She's been burned one too many times before.”

“Give her a chance. Until you do, you're living in limbo, waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Cade swiveled on his stool to face Gabe. “Which is worse, knowing or not knowing?”

Gabe grimaced and looked away, pretending to watch whatever game was playing on the flat-screen at the end of the bar. As much as he didn't want to admit it, the guy had a point. “I thought you didn't like Devin.”

“I don't. For me. But for you...” Cade paused. When he started speaking again, all hints of joking were gone. “Weirdly enough, I can see you guys together. She's your other half. The yin to your yang. The Beyoncé to your Jay-Z.”

Gabe turned back to his friend. “Pretty strong words from a confirmed bachelor.”

“Who said I was a confirmed bachelor?” Cade pushed his empty mug across the bar and signaled for a refill. “I just haven't met the right one yet. You have. Anyway, she's a damn sight better than that ice princess you almost married.”

Jesus Christ.
How was it everyone else had seen through Kara before he did? Thank God she'd turned him down. Otherwise he might never have known what it was really like to have your ass handed to you on a platter by love.

“So what do you say?” Cade prodded him. “Are you going to step up to the plate and go for it?”

“Yeah. I am.” Gabe downed the rest of his Black & Tan and set his empty mug down next to Cade's. “But I'm warning you. You better be ready to buy me another twenty rounds if it all goes to shit.”

“I'm in. As long as there's no crying.” Cade pushed back his stool and stood. “Enough male bonding. Come on. It's time for me to school you in darts, too.”

* * *

G
ABE
STEPPED
UP
to a table under a sign that read Nonni Zaneta's Fried Dough.

“Two
zeppole
,” he said, using the traditional word his mother had taught him for the deep-fried treat. “Extra sauce.”

“Just powdered sugar on mine,” Devin corrected.

“Powdered sugar?” Gabe teased. “What kind of Italian are you?”

“The Hispanic kind.”

“Look around.” He gestured at the street, packed with people of all shapes and sizes, many dressed in the red, white and green of the Italian flag and gorging themselves on sausage and peppers, pizza and cannoli. “It's the Feast of San Gennaro. Today, everyone's Italian.”

She looked wistful. “I wish Victor could have come. He loves fried dough. But all these sights and sounds and smells would have overwhelmed him.”

“Maybe next year. And we can bring him some
zeppole
the next time we visit.”

“He'd like that.” She tapped a loose fist to her chest, making Gabe feel like a superhero for a simple suggestion.

Trying to keep his emotions in check, he reached in his pants pocket for a twenty to pay the vendor. His fingers brushed against the key he'd had made that morning and put on a ring with the Matisse family crest and the slogan “Keep Calm and Paint.”

He wasn't stupid enough to get down on one knee and propose to Devin at the festival. Way too soon for that. But he wanted her to know that he was all in, one hundred percent, for the duration. And giving her her own key to his apartment would send that message loud and clear.

“Nelson.” Thaddeus Holcomb's voice cut through the crowd like a hot knife through mozzarella. “There you are.”

Gabe handed Devin her sugared dough and put a hand on her back.

“Mr. Holcomb.” With one hand on Devin and the other laden with
zeppole
, Gabe could only nod at his boss. “I thought we weren't meeting until one.”

“Got here a little early. Looks like we had the same idea.” He waved toward Nonni Zaneta's. “Sustenance before schmoozing.”

Holcomb turned his attention to Devin. “And who's this lovely lady?”

Gabe slid his hand around her waist. “I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Devin.”

She stiffened at
girlfriend.
In truth, he didn't like the word any more than she did. It made them sound like goddamned teenagers. But it would have to do, until he could convince her to take on another title. Like fiancée. Or wife.

“It's a pleasure.” Holcomb's eyes flitted up and down Devin's frame, no doubt taking in the way her skirt hugged her thighs and her V-neck top dipped just low enough to show a hint of smooth, round cleavage, emblazoned with the bright reds, oranges and yellows on the crest of her phoenix tattoo. “I can see why you've been hiding her.”

Devin tensed again. Gabe smoothed the cotton of her blouse in what he hoped was a calming gesture. He grinned when she relaxed against him.

“So today's the big day, eh? Think you're ready to greet the populace?”

Holcomb unbuttoned his suit jacket and Gabe bit back a smile. The guy never went anywhere without a coat and tie. Gabe had briefly considered donning one of his custom Armanis, but Devin had convinced him he'd be professional but more relatable in khakis and a polo shirt.

“Yes, sir, I...”

“Oh, he's ready, all right,” Devin interrupted. “I hope you've drafted your press release endorsing him.”

Holcomb frowned. “She knows about our arrangement?”

“Of course.” Gabe barely restrained himself from breaking into a victory dance right there in front of his boss and everyone else at the damned festival. Devin might not want to admit she loved him, but the fact that she'd leaped to his defense spoke volumes. “We don't have any secrets.”

“Touching.” Holcomb nodded, an amused expression on his face. “And idealistic.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Devin asked, licking powdered sugar from her lip. Gabe thought he saw Holcomb clench his hands for a split second before releasing them.

“You'll find out soon enough,” Holcomb said. “The campaign trail can test even the strongest relationship. Speaking of which...”

He held his hand out to a middle-aged woman striding briskly toward him in a crisp, white pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a neat bun. “Here's my beautiful wife.”

“There you are.” She took her husband's hand, bestowing him with a bright smile before fixing her eyes on Gabe.

“You must be Gabe. I've heard so much about you,” she said, her voice polite but measured, like every word was calculated. The perfect political wife, a carbon copy of Kara in twenty years. “All good, of course.”

He looked at Devin in her sexy-as-hell, so-not-corporate-America clothes, her ink proudly displayed, chowing down on fried dough, then back to Holcomb's wife, standing rigidly, one hand extended for him to shake. For what seemed like the millionth time he said a silent prayer of thanks he'd dodged that bullet. Sure, he wanted to be district attorney and kick Jack's ass to the curb in the process. But not enough to change who he was. Or who he loved.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Gabe shook her hand. Before he could introduce Devin, Holcomb gave his wife a gentle push.

“What do you say we let the ladies explore on their own while we press the flesh. No need to bore them with politics.”

Now it was Gabe's turn to tense up. How was he supposed to do this without her?

“You'll be fine.” Devin stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Just like at the pub crawl. And the ballet.”

“I had you with me then,” he muttered, low enough that Holcomb wouldn't be able to hear him.

“And I'm with you today. Metaphysically speaking, that is.” She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and dropped to her heels.

“What about you?” he asked.

“I'll be fine, too.” She nudged him toward his boss. “Go. Mingle. Just remember, good communication is more about listening than talking. People want to know you care about what they have to say. And if that doesn't work, picture them in their underwear.”

“She's right. Except for the underwear part. That never works.” Holcomb checked his watch. “We'll meet back here at four. That should give us plenty of time to greet the masses.”

Devin gave him a cheery wave as his boss's wife led her down the street.

Holcomb threw an arm around Gabe's shoulder and steered him in the opposite direction. “Don't worry, my boy. You're in good hands. And so is your young lady.”

Right
, Gabe thought.
Just what I'm afraid of.