Whiskey on the Rocks (29 page)

“No thank you,” I said, trying to sound flattered. “I’m a joiner but not a self-helper.”

“You haven’t even heard my question.”

I began to explain that I don’t do organized religion except on major holidays and my mother’s birthday. Comprehension flashed across her face.

“I’m not recruiting you, Whitney, although, of course, you’re welcome. We’re Interfaith, so anyone who accepts Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior can join. I’m just asking if you’ll show us some real estate. This is a big organization, and I expect to do big things with it. Did I mention I’m running for President? They’ll elect me. I’m famous for my enthusiasm, and frankly I need a new cause. I’m sick of homeless shelters. Anyway, I plan to enlist thousands of women on this side of the state, so we’ll need a meeting place and office space by the end of the year.”

“In Grand Rapids,” I ventured.

“Why not Magnet Springs? It’s a resort community. And you and I both know the Holy Spirit’s here among us.”

I gave Marilee Gallagher my card and promised to call. Then my cell phone purred. It was Odette, offering to buy me dinner at Mother Tucker’s.

Odette and Walter exchanged glances. He began. “I for one am relieved to be alive, and I’m glad you’re still here, too, Whiskey. Even though your home is inclined to become a crime scene.”

“Who’s getting rich?” I said. Then I took in Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill, once again packed with tourists. “Congrats. You and Jonny must be very pleased.”

“Our very own bad boy, Richard Anderson. He fell in love with it! Offered the asking price while we were still on site. The Schlegels accepted with alacrity. We close in two weeks!”

“To the best real estate agent I know!” We three clinked glasses. “Who’s Richard Anderson?”

“Rico Anuncio! He’s no more Hispanic than you are. We knew that couldn’t be his real name. Turns out he never legally changed it. That’s his Big Secret. We’re supposed to help him keep it.”

“Or what? He’ll sue us for negligence?”

“I doubt it now that he’s into Apocalyptic art. He was entranced by the Schlegels’ paintings. You won’t believe what he paid for the lot.” She whispered an improbably high number in my ear.

“For screaming souls and open graves?”

“And other horrors. The Schlegels are moving to Sun City, Arizona, so that Mrs. Schlegel can have a prickly-pear Prayer Garden. By the way, Gil Gruen was at Shadow Play, replacing his FOR SALE sign. Drive-by geeks keep stealing it. You should have seen his face, Whiskey, when I added Under Contract to ours.”

Odette and I ate at the bar—Alaskan king crab for her, angel-hair pasta with white clam sauce for me. At some point, Walter switched us from red wine to white, and then to club soda with lime. Although I’d been tempted by the crab legs, I knew I couldn’t manage them with only one good arm. Jonny’s white clam sauce satisfied completely. Walter said he makes it with chopped littleneck clams, sweet butter, sweet onion, fresh garlic, Chardonnay, and heavy cream. I didn’t need the recipe since I never planned to cook again. But it was tasty, my first feast in days.

So I was verging on happiness as I drove home that night. The real estate business was booming, Abra was still boarding with Wells, and the bad guys I knew about were either in jail, on the lam, or dead. Then I remembered that hostile Avery Mattimoe and her ticking double-occupancy womb awaited me. I would have inhaled deeply to calm myself if I hadn’t had two broken ribs.

I heard the siren about a quarter-mile from home. Seconds later an ambulance passed me en route to the local hospital.

What were the odds that another emergency vehicle had been dispatched to Vestige? But the next sight was not encouraging. Every light in my house was on. Either Avery was scheming to bankrupt me via the electric company, or something had gone seriously awry. As I parked in my driveway in front of what used to be my garage, my porch light blinked on. It must have been the only lamp left to ignite. At least there’s no crime scene tape, I thought. Then the front door flew open and out leapt Chester. He was flailing his arms and jumping about in his signature Dance of High Drama.

“Did you see the ambulance?” he cried.

Instantly I assumed that something had happened to Cassina. Chester must have dashed over to my house screaming for help. He’d searched every room for me and finally I was here.

“I came in by the usual way to see if Abra was back. Avery freaked when she saw me.” He looked ashamed. “How could I know she’d be in the kitchen? Nobody uses that room!”

I wondered if she’d found any food, but Chester’s stricken face stopped me from asking.

“She started screaming,” he said. “I tried to calm her. Then she grabbed her big belly and yelled that she was having two babies. So I called 9-1-1. I think her water broke. There’s kind of a mess on your floor.”

That was an understatement. Gathering my cleaning supplies, I gave silent thanks that I’d missed the event. Chester assured me that Avery had “settled” once the EMTs arrived.

“They told her, ‘You’re doing great.’ It helped her relax. I offered to ride along in the ambulance, but they wouldn’t let me because I’m not related.” He sighed. “I’m hardly related to anybody.”

He was pointing at the wall-mounted kitchen television, whose drone I had ignored since entering. Two faces stared down at us: Darrin Keogh’s and Kimba Reitbauer’s.

“—the missing brother and sister,” said a newscaster. “Mrs. Reitbauer is the wife of Chicago cement baron, Robert Reitbauer. Authorities believe that Darrin Keogh witnessed Wednesday’s freak bicycle accident near the shore of Lake James, which claimed the life of international fugitive Gordon Santy. His wife Ellianna was later arrested in a condo leased by Mrs. Reitbauer. But the search continues for Keogh and his sister. Both are wanted for questioning by the FBI and local law enforcement agencies in three states. An unnamed source told Channel Six that the two may have information concerning the sudden death of world-famous artist Warren Matheney, also known as Cloud Man.”

“I’ve seen them!” Chester said again. “They were at Bake-The-Steak when I was there with Abra! The night she stole the purse with the finger in it. They were behind us in line. Everybody turned around and looked at them.”

Of course, I would set her straight. Eventually. First I wanted to envision one of those credit-card commercials where they tally the value of personal experiences.

“Messing with your mother’s mind: Priceless.”

What would Leo do? What would he want me to do?

I asked myself those questions often over the next few weeks. On my drive to Coastal Medical Center the night Avery gave birth, I could think of nothing else.

I had loved Leo more than life itself. I still loved Leo, but life was going on without him. Although I had no idea what my own life might yet hold, it seemed promising. I kept meeting memorable people, and they weren’t all criminals.

I wanted to live my life fully right through to the end; I knew Leo would want me to. But that meant living as though Leo were gone. Not as if he’d never been here; not as if he hadn’t left a mark. But as if he were truly, irrevocably gone. There was no point waiting for him. Abra and I could both watch the kitchen door forever; Leo Mattimoe would not walk back into our lives.

I was deeply conflicted about his only child. From the start, Avery and I had disliked each other. I knew enough about motherhood to predict that she wouldn’t be nicer after she’d had her babies. She’d be exhausted, protective, and suspicious of my every move. On the other hand, her children were innocents and Leo’s only biological heirs.

“So you’ll join us for Thanksgiving?” Over the phone Odette sounds more impatient than usual. I hear water running and wonder if she could be cooking. “Whiskey? Are you listening?”

I should confess that I’m not. Instead I say into my headset, “Of course. Looking forward to it. What day is that again?”

Odette huffs. “Thanksgiving! Next Thursday? You’re not listening, as usual.”

I shift the baby from my right shoulder to my left and burp her successfully. I’ve only just learned how to do this, and it’s surprisingly satisfying. For me.

“There’s something else, Whiskey. I was going to ask you at the office, but I didn’t want anyone to overhear. How would you feel if I invited Jeb?”

“As in Jeb Halloran, my ex-husband?”

“That would be the one.”

I’ve skipped ahead a little, to the middle of November. Amazing, isn’t it, how life accelerates? Before Leo, my days and nights passed at a mostly predictable pace. Then we met, fell in love, and got married, and life started zooming. We were a rocket ship. When Leo died, I clicked off the ignition. The rocket crashed, I survived, but nothing moved for months. Then along came Leaf-Peeping Season, like it does every year. This year it triggered events that reshaped my life. Now the trees are bare, Winter Sports Season is a few weeks away, and I’m still gaining momentum. I’m also healing.

When I walked into Avery’s room at Coastal Medical Center and found her holding Leo and Leah, something inside me gave way. Driving over, I’d rehearsed a speech about finding her a place to stay and paying for a part-time nurse. But as soon as I saw those babies, I knew I wanted them at Vestige. For a while.

So we struck a deal. I hired the nurse and invited Avery & Babies to stay through the holidays. Then they have to go. That’s not as harsh as it sounds. I’ll keep paying for the nurse. And I’m helping them find a house in Magnet Springs; I’ll even make the down payment. Moreover, I’ve offered to train Avery in real estate. If she inherited her father’s sales potential, she could make a million instead of suing me for it. I’m still waiting for the first sign of Leo’s charisma to shine through. Maybe she has a knack for some other real estate-related career. Like demolition.

Wells Verbelow insists I should hire an attorney. Not a paper-pusher but a protector. New house and new job aside, Wells predicts Avery will refuse to leave Vestige. My mother, on the other hand, thinks I’ll be too attached to the babies to let them leave.

I’m neither as naïve as Wells fears nor as maternal as my mother wishes. If things don’t go the way I want them to, I’ll find a way that works. I’ve learned that I can do that, and losing Leo was not my only lesson. There was also the matter of Abra in heat. She’s pregnant. Like Avery, she won’t tell us who the father is. We know it’s neither Mooney the Rott Hound nor Officer Roscoe. Wells fears it might be a Border Collie who gets loose in town a lot. If so, no one will ever contain those pups. We’ll know more soon enough; she’s due in early December. If Avery was a bitch during pregnancy, Abra is in a class of her own. She insists on eating in bed. My bed. The up side is that her extra weight has temporarily grounded her. For now, anyway, she’s not streamlined enough to slip through windows, sail over fences, or steal handbags.

After delivering the twins, Avery was still too angry at her mother to call. So I looked up Georgia’s number in Belize and told her about her grandchildren. I didn’t want her to think I was usurping her role. Silly me. Georgia’s having much too much fun with her boy-toys to envy me changing diapers.