Believe It or Not (28 page)

“Shut up.”

Violet looked him. “I didn’t say anything.”

“What? Never mind. Where are we going?”

“Nowhere.”

“Good way to improve gas mileage.”

“Turn on the radio and pick a station.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I want to prove my theory about the music. I don’t understand it, but I know it has something to do with you making a selection, maybe something to do with both of us or—”

“Violet, this is nuts—”

“Do it!” she snapped, and Drew reached for the radio dial. He flicked it on to the buzz of static. He briefly considered the five preset buttons in front of him. It was a rental car, after all, so maybe they weren’t set to anything, but then again, Violet had been driving it for two weeks, so maybe—

“You’re thinking too much,” Violet said. “It has to be random.”

“Sorry, I forgot to read my psychic handbook.”

“Just pick something.”

Drew hit the button that said “seek.” He listened.

Violet’s face crumpled. “A vacuum-cleaner commercial?”

“I hear it’s a very good brand,” Drew offered.

“Wait, try again.”

Drew reached up and flicked the stereo off. Then he turned in his seat and looked at her. “Violet, I don’t care.”

There was a flicker of something in her eyes… pain? A plan to maim him? Drew caught her hand before she could take a swing or turn the radio back on.

“I don’t mean I don’t care about
you
,” he said. “I do. God knows I didn’t mean to, but there it is.”

“But—”

“Oh, I’m still mad about the thing with Jerry. But I’ll get over it. And I’m bummed to be losing my business, but I know that isn’t your fault. The thing is, though, I don’t want to lose
you
. That’s one thing I absolutely couldn’t handle.”

“But—”

“Let me finish.”

Violet closed her mouth and looked at him, those beautiful eyes studying him with unnerving intensity.

“What was I saying?” he asked.

“You don’t want to lose me.”

“Right. See, the thing is, I’ll get over being annoyed with you. But I know I’m not going to get over being in love with you. That’s something I figured out… well, just now. On the way up in the elevator, actually.”

Violet stared at him, stunned. She opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out. Belatedly, Drew realized he’d used the
L
-word, and maybe that wasn’t a good idea when he’d only known her two weeks and she was probably leaving town anyway and—

The
hell
with
it
.
It’s the truth, isn’t it?

Drew swallowed. “So the deal is, I don’t care about the music thing. I mean, I don’t care if it’s hogwash or there’s something to it or—”

“Wait, you’re acknowledging there might be something to it?”

Drew sighed. “There was this thing in a bar and this Coldplay song came on and… never mind. That’s not the point. The point is, I’m willing to consider the possibility that there might be things going on in the world or right next door that I don’t understand. You know?”

“I know,” Violet said, a little breathlessly. “Believe me, I know.”

“Anyway, I’m sorry, too.”

“For what?”

“For being a total fucking caveman and grabbing you right now and kissing you before you have a chance to fight me off.”

He hesitated a second anyway, giving her a chance to shove him away—he could be a gentlemanly caveman, after all—but Violet grabbed him by the front of the shirt and jerked him to her, kissing him so hard Drew forgot to breathe. He leaned into her, pressing her back against the door of the car, grateful he hadn’t bothered with his seat belt, just so damn glad to feel his hands on her again.

When he pulled back, he was breathing hard and his head was swimming a little. Violet smiled.

“What is it with us and cars?”

“I don’t know, but I think I might have to buy one without a steering wheel. It gets in the way. Hell, maybe I’ll throw in the towel on the bar and open an auto dealership filled with cars for people to make out in. I’m sure there’s a market for it.”

“It’s a nice idea, but you’ll have to keep the bar, too.”

“What?”

“The new owner isn’t closing us down. In fact, he’s got a whole list of tenant improvements he’ll be doing for both of us.”

“What?”

“I met with the new owner. Apparently, he and my mother are growing pot together and maybe having an inappropriate sexual relationship. It’s a long story.”

“I can only imagine.”

“But the short version is that we’re not getting kicked out. None of us are.”

Drew looked at her. “How plural is that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you staying in Portland?”

Violet grinned at him. “That depends.”

“On?”

“Well, first I’d have to get one of the accounting jobs I’m interviewing for next week.”

“And second?”

“What do you think my chances are of getting my hands on one of those cars without the steering wheel?”

“About the same as the chances of me getting my hands on you.”

She reached for the front of his shirt again, pulling him to her. “I’ll have to consult my Magic 8 Ball, but right now,
signs
point
to
yes
.”

“Thank God,” Drew said, and pulled her to him.

It isn’t possible to thank everyone who helped shape this book unless I walk the streets of Portland and personally express my appreciation to every odd duck and strange soul in the city. I tried that, but I got spit on a lot.

I owe the deepest debt of gratitude to my amazing critique partners, Linda Brundage, Cynthia Reese, and Linda Grimes, as well as my terrific beta readers, Larie Borden, Bridget McGinn, and Minta Powelson. Thank you for not allowing me to sound like an idiot. Much.

A million thanks to my fabulous editor, Deb Werksman, publicity goddess Danielle Jackson, and the wonderful staff at Sourcebooks for making me look much cooler than I am.

Thank you to my terrific RWA chaptermates of the Rose City Romance Writers and Mid-Willamette Valley RWA. It’s been lovely knowing I’m never in this alone and there are hundreds of you who hear the voices, too.

A huge round of applause for my incredible agent, Michelle Wolfson, for going so far beyond the call of duty that she probably can’t even hear duty anymore. (And thanks also for always laughing at my
duty/doody
jokes.)

Thank you to the very best parents on the planet (a claim I will fight to the death to defend), Dixie and David Fenske. You guys made me who I am, and I’m pretty sure you could be prosecuted for that in a court of law. Thanks also to Aaron “Russ” Fenske, who may not recognize my name on the cover of this book, because to the best of my knowledge, he’s never called me anything besides “butthead.”

And thank you to Craig for holding my hand through the lousy stuff, and for proving over and over that the best is still to come.

I said
come
.

Tawna Fenske is a third-generation Oregonian who revels in writing about the quirky little things that define her home state and its residents.

She’s the author of the romantic comedy
Making
Waves
and the popular daily blog
Don’t Pet Me, I’m Writing
. A member of Romance Writers of America, Tawna holds a degree in English lit and makes a living pretending she knows something about marketing and corporate communications.

Tawna lives in central Oregon with a menagerie of well-loved (albeit ill-behaved) pets.
Believe
It
or
Not
is her second novel.

“I’m sorry, he wants me to do what?”

Juli Flynn didn’t think to hide the incredulity in her voice. She did, however, think of hiding beneath her mother’s kitchen table. If it weren’t for the memory of her brother wiping boogers there thirty years ago, she probably would have crawled right under.

Juli stared at her mother. Tina Flynn was chopping carrots for a Jell-O salad that would, in all likelihood, hold as much culinary appeal for the funeral guests as the actual corpse.

“You know you were always Uncle Frank’s favorite,” Tina said in the same voice she’d used to suggest her children not stick lima beans up their noses. “I think you should be flattered.”

“Mom. I’d be flattered if he asked me to read a poem at the funeral or look after his cat or take his clothes to Goodwill. But this—this is just weird.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Juli.”

“Dramatic? Dramatic is making a deathbed request that your niece travel to the freakin’ Virgin Islands to dump your ashes over the edge of a boat near St. John—that’s dramatic. Why not spread them off the Oregon coast or on Mount Hood or something?”

Tina finished with the carrots and began chopping beets, her knife making neat little slivers of purple that scattered over the green countertop. Juli sighed and began hunting in the cupboard for sesame seeds to add to the Jell-O.

“Frank had fond memories of his years sailing over there,” Juli’s mother said.

“He had fond memories of the Polish hooker he traveled with while he was fleeing that federal indictment.”

Tina smiled and set her knife down. “That’s right—what was her name? Olga or Helga or something like that?”

“Oksana,” said Juli, thinking this was
so
not the point.

Juli closed her eyes, hating the fact that at age thirty-seven, she felt like a petulant toddler. She had a sudden urge to stomp her feet and bang her fists on the counter in a full-blown tantrum.

It’s not like she and Uncle Frank had been
that
close. She’d been living in Seattle for the past six years, coming home to Portland for the occasional holiday. Until last week, she hadn’t even seen Uncle Frank since her birthday party a year ago when he’d gotten drunk on a quart of vanilla extract from Tina’s baking cupboard and spent the evening pretending to be a stegosaurus. The rest of the family had been embarrassed. Juli had been delighted that, for once, she wasn’t the oddest member of the family. That common bond was the reason she and Uncle Frank had always enjoyed a special relationship.

Well, that, and the fact that advanced dementia had led him to believe his niece was Celine Dion.

“You didn’t happen to tell Uncle Frank that I’m—”

“Terrified of the ocean? No, I didn’t have the heart to mention that.”

Juli nodded and watched her mother consult her handwritten recipe before reaching for the Worcestershire sauce.

“Did Uncle Frank say when I need to complete this mission?” Juli asked, grabbing three packets of orange Jell-O and her mother’s fish-shaped Jell-O mold. “Do cremated remains have—um—a shelf life or anything?”

“He didn’t really say. He was choking on his tongue a lot there at the end, so it was hard to understand him. Could you hand me that feta cheese?”

Juli gave her the container and scooted a knife out of the way, aware of her mother’s tendency to drop sharp objects on her bare feet.

“So maybe you didn’t understand him right?” Juli asked hopefully. “Maybe instead of ‘throw my ashes off a fishing boat,’ he said, ‘roll my ass over, you stupid whore’?”

“Those bedsores were sure something! Hand me those Junior Mints?”

Juli sighed, sensing the conversation was going nowhere. Maybe she was arguing the wrong point.

“I can’t just pack up and go to St. John. I have a
life
.”

Tina beamed at her daughter. “Are you dating someone new, sweetie?”

Juli scowled. “That’s not what I meant. I haven’t dated anyone since—well, for a long time.”

“Oh. Well, you know it can be a little bit intimidating for some men to date a woman with your particular—”

“Mom, can we not talk about this now?”

“Sweetie, I don’t know why you’re always so embarrassed about your special—”

“Please, Mom,” Juli said weakly, feeling her ears flame the way they always did when someone drew attention to the fact that she was—well,
different
. She touched her fingers to her lobes, trying to cool them. “Could we just stick with the subject of Uncle Frank?” she pleaded.

“Of course, dear. Can you hand me the dill?”

Juli spun the spice rack and located the appropriate jar. “I have a job, Mom. I have a bank account that can’t exactly handle the strain of a Caribbean vacation.”

“Well, Uncle Frank left a little bit of money in his will to cover some of the cost of your travels.”

“Okay. That’s half the equation. What about my job?”

“Didn’t you say they asked for people in your department to volunteer to take a little time off? That sounds so nice.”

That sounds like a layoff
, Juli thought, biting into a carrot as she watched her mother mix the Jell-O.

Not that the idea didn’t hold some appeal. She’d worked in the marketing department of a software company for less than a year and already she was so bored her skin itched. She’d hardly bothered to hide her delight the week before when the vice president had stood at the center of their cube-farm, running his fingers through his comb-over, asking if anyone was interested in a severance package of three weeks’ salary and a scone-of-the-month club membership in exchange for “taking a little time off.
Indefinitely
.”

Later that day, Juli had flung herself onto the sofa in her therapist’s office and sighed. “I feel like my career is going nowhere,” she told Dr. Gordon.

“What makes you say that?” he’d asked, looking wise and vaguely constipated on the edge of his orange armchair.

“The fact that my boss told me yesterday, ‘Juli, your career is going nowhere.’”

“Right,” Dr. Gordon said, nodding. “And how does that make you feel?”

Juli shot him a look. “Terrific.”

Dr. Gordon was not amused. Dr. Gordon was seldom amused. Juli had fantasies about pinning him down on the carpet and tickling him until he peed.

“Juli, we’ve spoken before about the social oddities you’ve developed as a coping mechanism to deal with your self-consciousness and your lack of a sense of belonging, which is the direct result of the attention you’ve generated in the scientific community and the media for your—” He stopped and stared at her, then shook his head. “Are you covering your ears so you don’t have to listen, or are you cooling them like you always do when you’re embarrassed?”

“A little of both,” she admitted, lowering her hands.

“I see,” Dr. Gordon said, looking morose. “You’re uncomfortable with this subject. Let’s talk about your career. What did you want to be when you were a child?”

“The Bionic Woman.”

Dr. Gordon didn’t smile. “What was your first job after college?”

“I was a newspaper reporter for three months before an on-the-job injury forced me to change careers.”

“Injury?”

“I fell asleep in a City Council meeting and stabbed myself between the ribs with a pencil.” She lifted the hem of her shirt. “Check it out, five stitches right here—”

Dr. Gordon sighed and began to flip through his notes. “Let’s go back over some of the other jobs you’ve held. After you were a reporter, you spent some time as a data analyst?”

Juli lowered her shirttail and sat up straighter. “Oh. Sure, there was that. And marketing, of course. And I got my helicopter pilot license about seven years ago, and there was that stint as a pet store manager, and four months as a scout for forest fires, six months working in that hat shop, and—”

“Juli, your employment history leaves something to be desired.”

She nodded, pleased to be understood. “You’re right. I’ve never been a brain surgeon.”

“It’s very typical for someone with your IQ level to—”

“Are those new drapes? I like the little tassels.”

Dr. Gordon sighed again. “Juli, if you’re ever going to have close, intimate relationships with people, you’re going to need to work on grounding yourself a bit more.”

“My mother never believed in grounding—always thought time-out was a much more effective method of punishment.”

“Juli—”

“I know.
I know.
I was making a joke.”

He didn’t smile. “Why don’t you start by taking a step back and reevaluating your career and life choices? Gain some new perspective.”

Perspective. That’s what she needed.

She’d raced home to Portland from Seattle the day she’d heard about Uncle Frank. Now here she was, chopping steak for her mother’s Jell-O salad on the afternoon of her uncle’s funeral, wondering if a spur-of-the-moment jaunt to St. John might not be the best thing for her. Or maybe the worst.

“Honey, could you hand me those garbanzos?”

No. Not the worst. Not quite the worst.

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