Читать книгу Rachel Dahlrumple - Shea McMaster - Страница 6

Chapter 1

“I’m not coming home.”

My husband’s declaration dropped my stomach right down to my toes. Despite the oven-intense heat of the day, cold chills raced down my spine.

“Burt?”

“At least not tonight.”

My poor ticker, which had stalled, started beating again at double time.

Dizzy from the brief panic, I closed my eyes and tilted my head against the headrest. In my heart, I knew one of these days he wouldn’t add the last qualifier. I feared that day almost as much as I dreaded him coming home.

When my cellphone had started ringing a few moments earlier, I’d been engaged in backing my husband’s pickup into the ancient barn-like structure we called the garage. Somehow, half blinded from the sun reflecting off the pool, I’d gotten the truck into the bay without hitting anything, found my phone, and caught the call one ring before voice mail picked up.

“I tried the house. Where are you?”

So much for, Hello, sweetheart, I miss you and can hardly wait to be home. But after nearly twenty years of togetherness with Burton Earl Bruckmeister, I really didn’t expect anything else. The romance in my life pretty much lived only between the pages of the books I read. Leaving the windows down, I killed the engine and silence descended for the space of a breath.

“Just pulled in. Had to stop for the ice and drinks, remember? Fourth of July party tomorrow? At our house? Ring a bell? What do you mean you won’t be home tonight?”

“Of course I remember.” Ah, I’d managed to irritate him. His tone hit the exact edge that cut into me, not that I’d ever tell him how deep. Even on the phone, I’d learned to control my flinches, showing just enough for him to be satisfied I heard and obeyed.

As hot as it was outside, over ninety last I’d heard, I had a little irritation going as well. The AC in his truck refused to work and he’d taken my car, the one with the working AC, for his week-long business trip. I’d let it go because I needed the truck for our order of drinks for the party–a checklist item I’d taken care of, at the expense of adding to my irritation. The liquor store had been unusually busy, involving a forty-five minute wait for the clerk to load the supplies into the truck.

“You got everything?”

“All eight of the coolers are stuffed with ice, beer and soda, and in the truck. How long until you’re home?” Last time I’d tried to get the coolers out by myself, a hundred-quart ice chest had dropped me on my backside and landed on my ankle, putting me in a cast. That had happened six years before, and he never let me forget how stupid I’d been. “I can’t do this alone. You promised to be home no later than seven tonight.”

We’d been married seventeen years–had just celebrated our anniversary, also my thirty-ninth birthday, a few weeks prior. Nothing special. Dinner with my father and the neighbors followed by lukewarm, obligation sex. Some amethyst jewelry made by a local artist Burt patronized and a sack of iris bulbs to add to the flower beds because he couldn’t find anything more exotic. Seventeen years just didn’t trip the old romance meter, anymore, I’d thought. Then again, flowers were better than furniture, or his taste in lingerie. He got a painting I’d found at a local gallery.

“It can’t be helped, Rachel, so stop whining. You know how important these conferences are for networking. A couple of the guys from L.A. County asked me to fill out their golf party in the morning. One of their usual players can’t make it.”

“So? Why do you have to be their fourth?”

Burt heaved a sigh I could almost feel through the phone. “Rachel, they’ve had this time reserved for a year. You can’t just waltz in and out of this course. They’ve booked four, and one of their usual party went to jail last week, so they got caught short.”

“Jail!” What kind of people were these? “What did he go to jail for?”

“What does it matter? I didn’t call you for a third degree. This is business. You like the nice cushy lifestyle you live because I provide the bulk of our income, don’t you? Well, this is part of the game.” I couldn’t fight the flinch his angry bite produced. “Dammit, Rachel, we’ve been married long enough I shouldn’t have to explain myself. I’m not coming home. Deal with it.”

Not ready to let go protesting the inconvenience of his absence, I pushed a little more. “So if you back out now, can you make it home by eight?” I tried to remember exactly where he’d gone this week. With the advent of cellphones, location had become unimportant, especially if he drove to the seminars or conferences. We lived more or less between L.A. and San Francisco, so most of the large conference centers were within a three- to four-hour drive and rarely rated a plane ticket.

“You know I love you, but sometimes you try my patience.” He drew in a deep breath and put some control back in his voice. Although I thrilled to the first half of his sentence, the second half killed it. I also wondered who might be listening. Background noise provided no clue. One of those golf-playing bigwigs? “No, Rachel. I’m not backing out. I figure we’ll finish up around noon and then I’ll drive straight on from there. If I don’t stop for lunch, I might make it by two, more likely three.”

Three? The party started around four, or when people drifted back from the rodeo and the other Independence Day events in town. If I left the coolers in the truck, the ice would be completely melted by then. Outside may have been ninety, but the garage had to be closer to a hundred and twenty. Not for the first time, I considered putting air conditioning in the building. Of course, it was impractical as the garage was nothing more than the old carriage house at the back of the lot and had barely been updated with overhead doors and some basic earthquake reinforcing. Hay still littered the loft and gaps between the boards were big enough for birds to fly through.

“What am I supposed to do? I can’t leave the coolers in the truck that long.”

“Call John. Or one of the others. I’ve helped their wives often enough, one of them should be more than happy to help you. Just don’t call Miguel. He flirts too much.”

Right. The very notion was laughable. Burt, who flirted with everything in skirts, worried about thirty-year-old Miguel flirting with me? Our resident EMT who lived at the far end of the street, Miguel was so in love with his wife and brand new daughter, he talked of nothing else. As for Burt, Marge Olsen told anyone who’d listen how he’d groped her ass the year before. And he continued to insist he’d been drunk enough he’d thought it was me in the dark. Considering it had been years since Burt had groped any body part of mine in public or private, and Marge’s bra and ass were several sizes larger than mine, I didn’t buy his line.

From where I sat I could see the entire length of our street. The flash of sun glinting off silver flake paint on a low muscle car caught my attention. Only one car like that ever prowled our street. It belonged to Deputy Dan Weston, younger brother of my next door neighbor, John Weston.

My eighth grade year, John and Dan had moved in next door with their parents after their dad was assigned to the Lemoore Naval Air Station to the north of our little town on the west side of California’s San Joaquin Valley. After growing up and several years of seeing the world courtesy of Uncle Sam, John took a transfer to Lemoore himself, bought the house from his parents, and had moved home with his young family only a few years past. Dan followed a couple years later, after a wound put him on the Navy’s retirement list. He’d spend the past twelve months meandering about the county in a deputy’s uniform without a hint of the career-ending injury.

I considered John and his wife, Cyndi, close friends, but Dan, well, he and I had never gotten along well. When he showed up, I stayed away. If we bumped into each other, we’d nod and move on as quickly as possible. Stuck in the same room, we looked the other way and found someone else to talk to. Things had always been awkward between us and showed no sign of improving.

Ask the Westons to help? Not without including the man slowly rolling up their driveway in the sleek, sixty-three Corvette. I couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to drive the beast. All that muscle at my control…

“Rachel? Stop daydreaming and listen to me.”

“I’m here, I’m here. Was just looking around to see who’s home. John’s brother just drove up.” I ran one hand over my hair, smoothing back any strands that’d escaped from the chignon I wore for work. My skin was damp, but the dry air took care of the worst sweat, evaporating it almost as soon as it formed. Maybe I didn’t have visible sweat stains down my back or under my arms.

“For God’s sake don’t ask him. I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

That did it. I laughed. More of a snort, the bane of my existence, but still a laugh. “He never looks at me, much less speaks to me. No one does, Burt. Getting jealous in your old age?” His forty-ninth birthday wasn’t far off. Just a few weeks.

“I care about my wife and make note of those hitting on her.”

Not that I’d seen signs of either situation, but what the hell, I decided to go for broke. “Then come home and you hit on me. You might be surprised at the response.” I gave it my best throaty purr.

“Stop clinging. It’s not like you to be needy. I’ll call when I’m on my way. Call the admiral. One of his boys should be around to help.” Another one of our neighbors on the street, the admiral had recently retired from command at the nearby base and had grandsons hanging about for the summer.

“Yes, Burt.” Too hot and too tired to fight, I sighed as any hope of support, understanding, or attention from him drained away. “Whatever you say, Burt.” It was as close as I ever came to truly voicing any discontent. He knew how unhappy I’d become, but what Burt said amounted to Burt’s law and, as the number one resident of Burtland, if I didn’t obey, well, let’s just say he knew how to make my life miserable.

“Stop pouting. If I were still in the Navy, you wouldn’t have me home most weeks out of the year.”

“If you were still in the Navy, we wouldn’t have volunteered to host the party this year.”

“Deal with it, Rachel. You’re more than capable. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

And with that, he disconnected. So much for, I love you, or, have sweet dreams of me tonight, or, even, goodbye.

Deflated, discouraged, and irritated by the usual mid-summer heat added onto a normal Friday night weariness, I dragged myself from the truck, hauling a pizza and a salad from the local joint, along with my purse, from the cab.

If I’d known I’d be eating alone for the fifth night that week, I would have skipped the food stop altogether and made a salad from the fresh items growing on the other side of the house. Though I’d inherited the garden, I’d modified the landscaping of our large lot so flower gardens lined the circular front drive, and a vegetable garden grew on the west side of the house. More flower beds dotted the back yard, brightening the large lawn wrapped around a long lap pool and spa. The garage, set back on the east side, bumped up against the lot-line shared with the Weston’s driveway.

Juggling my dinner and grumpy mood, I stepped from the garage and heard a throat clear from the other side of the low hedge that marked the division of properties. Unable to avoid him without being supremely bitchy-rude, I turned and smiled at my childhood nemesis. “Hi, Dan.”

“Rachel.” He nodded, and late day sunlight glinted off the golden streaks in his brown hair. Why did men get the beautiful hair? Even from a half dozen feet away I could see dark lashes shading what I knew were hazel eyes. Mostly green with bits of amber. Eyes that looked me over from head to toe, and I found myself wanting to hunch over, as if I could hide from the unaccustomed appraisal. I distracted myself by looking at his new mustache. The hairs themselves were short, but the growth pattern extended down each side of his mouth. Fu manchu? Briefly I wondered what that kind of mustache, well, any mustache really, would feel like. Burt had never grown one.

“Need help?” Once more he nodded, but in the direction of the pizza box and the bag hanging from my arm, and his gaze returned to my face. Was I relieved or disappointed? Oh God, had he seen me checking him out? Honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d caught a man checking me out, maybe like I was attractive or something. It was enough to set off a nervous reaction.

“With this? No…” Oh hell. “But I do need help with the coolers. Think you and John can get them out of the truck and put them out under the trees?” At his raised brow, I rushed on. “Burt won’t make it home until tomorrow, I just got off the phone with him, and I can’t lift the coolers by myself, and if I leave them in the truck they’ll just melt four times as fast and nothing will be cold tomorrow, and I won’t have time to run out and get more ice or I’ll miss the parade, and there’s still so much I have to do tomorrow that I really can’t let it melt…” And I was babbling. I knew it and let my words fade away.

Dan had half-turned toward the house, where Cyndi most likely spied from the kitchen window. She could see not only into my house, but the back porch and a part of the yard as well. He waved and the shadow of a hand waved back.

That taken care of, he turned and strode through the break in the hedge. “Why don’t you put your dinner in the house, then come out and show us where you want them? Sure you want them out back and not up on the porch?”

“The porch would be fine, but then I’ll have to move them again, and I can’t move them by myself. I mean, I have in the past, but then…” I closed my eyes. I never spoke this much and certainly not this fast or with this much inane detail. Rachel the Cool, the Calm, the Organized. In control, Mistress of the Library, nothing ever shook me up. Well, except my husband ditching me the night before a major event. Man, that really sucked, as my younger patrons would say. Well, not the little ones, but the teens…and maybe a few of their younger siblings who’d picked up their language.

“I heard about your broken ankle when one of these fell on you.”

He had? Like a blinded owl, I blinked at him. “Uh, yes. A full one. I was trying to get it out of the back of the truck.”

“Well, we won’t risk it again. Since the porch is on the north side, let’s put the coolers there, and tomorrow I’ll help move them wherever you need them, all right?”

“What’s happening?” John asked as he approached. “When’s Burt getting home?”

“He’s not.” When John cocked a brow, exactly as his brother had done moments ago, I rushed back into babbling. “Tonight. He’s not coming home tonight, but he’ll be home tomorrow afternoon. He’s been held up by, um, business.”

“Ah,” John said, but turned an inscrutable look toward the garage. “Whatcha need, Rachel?”

Dan shoved his brother toward the open door. “The coolers need to move.”

I hurried to the house and managed to deactivate the alarm about the time they carried the first cooler up the porch steps. I dumped the pizza, salad and my purse on the kitchen island, then rushed back out to…I didn’t know, but the thought of helping had crossed my mind. It quickly became clear they didn’t need my help, especially since I was still dressed for work in a skirt and heels, albeit very low ones. In eight quick trips, they had the coolers tucked into the shadiest part of the porch, where hopefully they’d remain cold until tomorrow afternoon when the neighbors would arrive with more bags of ice. Since we were hosts, the drinks were on us, and Burt liked his beer icy on hot days.

Thankfully we didn’t have to worry too much about designated drivers because almost everyone walked, one nice part about a neighborhood party. However, we would have a few guests from town, such as my dad and pastor, who’d drive. All in all, we expected close to a hundred people. About half of those would be under twenty. And yes, our yard was big enough to accommodate them comfortably, if a bit on the cozy side.

When they finished, John invited me to join them for dinner. “You’ve been alone all week, I’m sure you’re ready for some company. We’d love to have you.”

Ignoring the sideways glance he sent toward his brother, I batted away John’s hand with a laugh when he tried to grab my elbow. “Thanks, but I still have a lot to do tonight. Really.” Backing away, I put distance between myself and the Weston brothers before I caved to temptation. “Thank you. I really appreciate the help, I do, but I can’t. Not tonight. Burt’s home next week, maybe we can do it then.”

John and Dan exchanged a look, one I wasn’t sure I wanted to interpret. “Sure. You and Cyndi work it out. We’ll see you at the parade, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Actually, without Burt, I’d already decided not to go. Who went to a parade by themselves? Where was the fun in that? Besides, without Burt I had half again as much work to do getting ready for the barbeque.