Читать книгу The 39-Year-Old Virgin - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

Caleb McClain ran his fingers along the chunky shot glass sitting on the slick bar before him.

He knew he should be on his way.

Hell, he wasn’t even sure what had made him stop here at Saturday’s rather than simply going to Lucky’s, the bar located near the precinct.

Maybe it was because he wanted the excuse of going to a restaurant rather than a bar. More likely, it was because he didn’t want to run into anyone from the station. Tonight of all nights, he didn’t feel like talking. Not that anyone would expect him to be talkative. Never one to shoot the breeze, the way his partner, Mark Falkowski, did, he’d become one step removed from being a mummy in the last year.

At least that was what Falkowski maintained. Ski was the only man who would attempt to broach the subject that had so viciously scarred him and even the six-foot-six vice detective didn’t venture very far into that territory. Ski knew better. Everyone knew better. Just like everyone knew the reason why he’d withdrawn so completely into himself.

One year. One year today.

How the hell did time go by so fast when it felt like it was standing still, when every second of every day seemed to pierce him with sharpened spears?

And today was the worst of all. Today marked 365 days since it’d happened. Since Ski had come to him with a long face and sorrow in his eyes to tell him what the beat cops in East L.A. had just called in.

Getting out of bed today had been almost impossible. He’d thought of calling in sick, but where would he go, what would he do? Everywhere he went, his mind went with him.

There was no escape.

Staying in the house wasn’t the answer. Danny would be there. He didn’t want his son seeing him like this. The boy needed to be shielded, but he couldn’t pretend that he was all right. He could pull it off for short periods of time. But not today.

The mere thought of his wife had his throat threatening to close up on him. Whatever air was left in his lungs wasn’t enough.

Jane.

Jane, with her bright, eager smile, her desire to put a bandage on the whole world and somehow make it all better through sheer force of will and her infinite capacity to love.

Anger surged, channeling itself through his hand. His fingers tightened around the glass so hard, he realized that he’d wind up shattering it. Loosening his hold took effort. Effort not to go over the edge. Every day was a struggle.

If it hadn’t been for that Mother Teresa attitude of hers, her determination to boldly go where even angels had better sense than to tread, Jane would still be alive today. Alive instead of a victim of the mindless feuding of two rival gangs. She was there, about to get into her car, when the shooting started. Caught in the cross fire, she was one of several people to die that afternoon.

The only one who’d mattered to him.

A year ago. Exactly one year ago today, her young, beautiful life had been senselessly cut short because she had to go see the pregnant girl who was one of the cases she handled as a social worker. The girl was sixteen and already the mother of two. He’d told Jane she was wasting her time, but Jane had been convinced she could turn the girl around, help her get her life together.

She could be so stubborn when she wanted to be. He’d begged her to take a different job, to be reassigned, or, even better, just stay home and be Danny’s mother and his wife and make them both supremely happy. But Jane had to be Jane. She was determined to save the world, one lost soul at a time. So she went.

And instead of saving that pregnant girl, Jane had lost her life that day and he, he’d lost his main reason for living. Nothing else seemed to really matter to him, even though he kept trying to go through the motions. He continued being a cop because that was all he knew and he had to do something to pay the bills and keep a roof over Danny’s head.

He shouldn’t feel this way. Jane wouldn’t want him to be like this and it was because of Danny that he hadn’t pulled the trigger of the gun he’d cradled in his lap night after night that first week, raising it to his lips time and again, desperate for oblivion.

But that would have left Danny an orphan and he couldn’t do that to the boy. It wouldn’t have been fair to deprive him of a father after he’d lost his mother. So he’d put the gun down and stayed alive. In a manner of speaking.

Instead of killing himself, in order to survive, to deal with the huge waves of pain that would wash over him without warning, he’d gone numb. Absolutely and completely numb.

A twinge would break through, every now and then, and Caleb would tell himself that he’d try. Try to break out of his invisible prison and be emotionally available to his son. But every time he did, the pain would find him, oppressing him to the point that he was no good to anyone. So he retreated, telling Danny he’d make it up to him later. And the boy forgave him, each and every time.

I’m sorry, Danny. I really am.

Caleb looked at his near-empty glass. He debated getting another drink. The raw whiskey went down much too easily. But it made no difference. One or ten, the result was the same. Nothing really blotted out the pain and he had to drive home. Killing himself was one thing, but possibly killing someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the tragedy that haunted him, was something he wasn’t willing to risk.

Besides, Mrs. Collins had a home to go to. She’d already been there longer than agreed upon. Edna Collins was a godsend who lived in the single-story house across the street. The widowed grandmother was more than happy to watch Danny for him after school and whenever his work took him away. It gave her something to do, she’d told him. She hadn’t even wanted payment for her time, but he’d persuaded her to take it.

Tilting his glass, Caleb stared down at the bottom. The amber liquid was all gone except for what amounted to one last drop. Despite his earlier resolve, he debated getting just one more before he hit the road and went home.

Caleb really wasn’t sure just what had made him look in the direction that he did. Over at one of the tables, a woman tried to fend off the advances of some would-be Romeo who didn’t look as if he liked taking “no” for an answer. Well, what the hell did she expect, coming to a place like this?

He was about to look away, when something nudged at a vague, faraway place in his brain. A memory tried to break through.

Something about the torrent of red hair, the way she tossed her head, seemed familiar to him.

Remembering was just out of reach.

Did he know her?

Probably not. Maybe she just resembled someone he’d dealt with. God knew he came across so many people in his line of work….

Caleb looked closer.

And then he remembered.

Or thought he did. Curious, he decided it bore investigation. But for that, he needed to get closer. Setting down his glass, he tossed a tip onto the counter.

The next moment, he was striding across the crowded floor, carelessly moving aside anyone and everyone in his way with less regard than if they’d been cardboard placeholders.

The closer he got, the surer he became. And yet, it hardly seemed possible.

But it was, wasn’t it? he silently asked that part of his mind that still retained a few less damaged memories, memories that had been gathered before Jane had entered his life.

And before she’d left it.

Red hair, skin like alabaster. Green eyes. Delicate-looking.

It was Claire Santaniello.

No one else had hair quite that shade of red. Confusion snaked its way through him at the same time that a tiny microchip of warmth made its appearance.

Damn, what was she doing here in a place like this?

Assessing the situation with lightning speed, he told the other man to back away. The expression in the other man’s eyes was pure malevolence as he looked away from Claire and at him.

“You want her for yourself?” the other man growled, holding on to Claire’s wrist as firmly as a handcuff. “Tough. I was here first.”

This was absurd. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever conceived of this kind of scenario. Served her right for not standing her ground and leaving the moment she realized what sort of place the girls were bringing her to.

“Nobody was ‘first,’” Claire snapped, losing her patience. “I’m not some bone you two can scrap over. I’m not interested. In anybody,” she declared with finality just in case the man who’d just come to her so-called rescue had any ideas about the “winner getting the spoils” once he got rid of Neanderthal Man.

It was Claire, all right, Caleb thought. He was sure of it. “You heard the lady,” he said evenly. “She wants you to go.” It wasn’t a statement, it was an order.

The other man obviously saw it as more of a challenge. “You gonna make me?”

“Why don’t you step up to the plate and see?” Caleb’s voice took on a sort of deadly calm. He deliberately moved so that the other man could see the holstered gun strapped on beneath the navy sport jacket.

His eyes fastened on the weapon, Claire’s would-be lover sucked in his breath. He let loose a scathing curse before abandoning the virtual tug-of-war.

“She’s probably frigid,” he threw in with contempt. “You’re welcome to her.” With that, he turned away and melted into the crowd.

Squaring her shoulders, Claire turned around to get a good look at the man who had come to her aid. She was torn between thinking that chivalry wasn’t dead and wondering if she’d just gone from the frying pan into the fire.

Most of all, she didn’t want this new contestant in the battle of the dance floor thinking that she was some kind of defenseless weakling. She’d stood up to more dangerous men than the one who’d just left. Of course, that had been when she and God had been on speaking terms.

Was this some guardian angel He’d sent in His place? She would have liked to think so, but she had a feeling that wasn’t the case. “Thank you, but I could have handled him.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Caleb said matter-of-factly. There wasn’t a hint of amusement in his voice, but neither was there any annoyance. “He had at least a hundred pounds on you.” He paused, then added, “He’s not a little boy you can just send off to bed because it’s past his bedtime.”

The voice was deep and slightly gravelly. There was no reason for it to be familiar, and yet, the cadence managed to rustle a deep, faraway corner of her mind.

Did she know him? Was he someone she’d gone to school with? The lighting was far from good, designed more for seduction and to hide imperfections than to highlight anything. Claire squinted, studying the rugged, chiseled face, the somber yet ever so slightly amused expression beginning to emerge. Her eyes shifted to his sandy-blond hair and light blue eyes.

He didn’t look familiar, but that didn’t take away from the fact that he somehow seemed familiar. She wasn’t about to ask “Do I know you?” because even she knew that would sound like a line and it might very well open an undesirable door.

And then the familiar stranger stopped being a stranger with his very next words.

“What’s the matter, Claire?” he asked. “Don’t you remember me?”

She stood there, trapped in a memory that refused to gel even if it did produce flashes in her head. “You know my name.”

“I know a lot of things about you,” he told her, his amusement growing. “I know you used to like to watch detective shows, but that you wouldn’t if you had any homework to do. You did it first, then watched. I know you used to sing to yourself when you were studying when you thought no one was around to hear you.”

Her mouth dropped open as she stared at the tall man before her. She should know him, she realized, and yet, no name rose to her lips. “Who are you?”

Caleb had no idea why he didn’t answer her question directly, why he didn’t just tell her his name instead of choosing to prolong the mystery for her just a little longer. He nodded at the table, indicating that she take a seat, then, switching it around, he straddled a chair himself. He watched her sink down into the nearest one as if she intended to shoot up to her feet at any second.

“Who do you think I am?” he asked her.

Claire stared at him intently, her green eyes sweeping over him. When he’d stood behind her and she’d turned around, she’d noted that he was almost a foot taller than she was. The man had shoulders like a football guard and it wasn’t thanks to any padding in his jacket. She could tell by the way he moved.

“Possibly what I’d imagined my guardian angel looked like,” she answered, her mouth curving slightly, “but then if you were my guardian angel, that Neanderthal wouldn’t have been able to see you.”

For a glimmer of a moment, he was back in the past. The past where anything was possible and the blinding hurt hadn’t found him yet. Caleb decided to give her another clue.

“I became a cop because of all those detective shows you used to watch. You didn’t know it, but I used to sneak out of my room and watch them with you. I’d sit on the top step, just outside my bedroom door, and watch the show—when I wasn’t watching you,” he added. Then, for the first time in a very long time, he allowed himself a genuine smile. “I had one hell of a crush on you, Claire.”

He said her name as if they were old friends. So why couldn’t she remember him?

Who was he?

“I still don’t—” And then her eyes widened as she processed what he’d just told her. The connection came to her riding a lightning bolt. “Caleb? Caleb McClain?” she cried, not completely convinced that she was right.

But it was the only answer that made any sense, given what he’d just told her. He was the only little boy she used to babysit. Except that he wasn’t little anymore. And definitely not a boy.

My God, she felt old.

Caleb nodded. “It’s Detective McClain now.”

Even though she’d guessed right, Claire could hardly believe it. Except for the color of his eyes—electric blue—and his hair—a dark sandy-blond—he bore no resemblance to the small, wiry, semishy little boy she used to babysit on a regular basis.

“How long has it been?” she heard herself asking, raising her voice as the music grew louder again.

Caleb brought his chair in closer. “Twenty-two years. Ever since you went off to that convent in New York.”

She’d broken his heart that summer. Up until that time, he’d been nursing his crush, thinking it love, and making plans for the two of them and their future together once he gained a few inches on her. The fact that he was five years younger had never fazed him in the slightest. As an only child, he’d always felt older than he was.

Caleb frowned slightly as he regarded her. She was dressed conservatively enough, certainly not like most of the women here. In a two-piece cream-colored suit with the hint of a rose blouse peeking out, she looked more like she was on her way to a board meeting than a place where singles converged and mingled.

It didn’t make sense, her being here like this. “Do they encourage nuns to frequent places like this?” he asked. “Are you on some mission, looking for converts?”

She was seriously thinking of having cards printed up with a disclaimer written across them. It would certainly save time. “I’m not part of the Dominican Sisters anymore.”

“What happened? I heard my parents talking about your decision to join an order. My mother said you had the calling.” He didn’t add that he felt his heart was going to break that entire summer. Those were merely the thoughts of a highly impressionable twelve-year-old.

Real heartbreak, he now knew, was so much harder to survive.

Claire shrugged, falling back on the excuse she’d given her mother because it was the only simple way she could summarize what had happened. “My ‘calling’ just stopped calling.”

Outside the job, he never prodded. Everyone had a right to their privacy. Still, because this was Claire, the “woman” from his childhood, something kept him in the chair, talking. “So, are you just passing through?”

“No, I’m staying. For now.” Why she felt it was necessary to qualify her words, she wasn’t sure. Maybe because she felt so uncertain about what to do with this new life. “My mother’s ill—” a nice safe word for what was wrong, she thought “—and right now, she needs someone to be there for her.” Although, she added silently, her mother was still almost every bit as feisty as she used to be and determined to keep her independence. If she hadn’t gotten a copy of the lab report, she would never have guessed that there was anything wrong with her mother except a bout of fatigue.

He caught himself vaguely wondering what this mysterious malady was, but he left it alone. Wasn’t any of his business. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

She nodded in response to the sentiment he’d expressed. “Thank you. In the meantime, I’ve just gotten a job at an elementary school.” A job. It still felt rather odd to say that. She’d been a Dominican Sister for so long, being anything else was going to take a great deal of adjustment. But they were going to need the money, now that her mother had retired. And there might come a time when her mother would need around-the-clock care, so she needed to amass a nest egg now. “I start next week.”

He could see her as a teacher, he thought. “Which school?”

“Lakewood Elementary.” Caleb laughed shortly under his breath. It wasn’t a response she would have anticipated. “What?”

“Nothing.” But the expression on her face prodded him to elaborate. “It’s just that it’s a small world.” There were a total of six elementary schools in Bedford. It seemed ironic that she should get a job at this one. “That’s the school my son goes to.”

A son. The boy she’d babysat had a son. Sometimes she forgot that other people went on to have lives while she’d been sequestered in tiny villages where running water was considered a luxury.

Claire smiled. “You have a son.”

Her whole face still lit up when she smiled, Caleb noted. That was what had first captured his preadolescent heart, her smile. It surprised him to discover that there were some things that hadn’t changed.

“Yeah,” he finally acknowledged. “I’ve got a son.”

Obviously, he wasn’t one of those fathers who liked to brag, she thought. “What’s his name?”

“Danny.”

Definitely not in the bragging league. “Do you have a picture of him?” she coaxed.

He did, but the one he carried in his wallet was a two-year-old-photograph of both Danny and Jane. Right now, he didn’t feel up to seeing it. So he lied.

“No, not on me.” He really had to get going. And yet, somehow, he continued to remain straddling the chair, his arms crossed over the back, just looking at her. He’d never expected to see her again. “If you don’t mind my asking,” he began in his gruff detective’s voice, then tempered it as he continued, “what are you doing in a place like this?”

“I was asking myself the same question. Some of my friends talked me into coming here with them. I think this is their way of ‘breaking me in.’”

“And where are they now?”

“One, my cousin Nancy, had to leave,” she explained. “The other three—” she waved a vague hand toward the throng “—are out there somewhere on the floor.”

Presumably not alone, Caleb surmised. He rose from the chair and pushed it back toward the table. “Well, I’ve got to get going.” But his feet still weren’t moving. And he knew why. He felt as if he was deserting her, leaving her to be preyed on by the next over-sexed male. Which was why, he supposed, the next minute he heard himself asking, “You want a ride home?”

Claire popped up to her feet as if she’d been launched by a catapult, crying “Yes” with such enthusiasm and relief he found it difficult not to laugh.

Placing a hand to the small of her back, he urged, “Then c’mon.”