Jackpot (Frank Renzi mystery series) (12 page)

She reeled back as if he’d hit her, her expression stricken.

He took a deep breath, puffed his cheeks and blew air. He’d never hit a woman in his life, never yelled at one either, except for a few times on the job. But telling Maureen about Gina was a low blow, a deliberate act intended to harm their relationship. What if he’d said:
It’s not my fault your mother turned into a nun after we got married.
He wouldn’t, of course.

Maureen might be a freshman in college, but he had no intention of discussing the problems he and Evelyn had, in bed or out. Not now, not ever.

“Will you be okay, staying here by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said tersely. “Just go.”

He slung the sleeping bag over his shoulder and towed his suitcase out of the house.

Gina set aside the article she was trying to read and checked her watch. 9:35. Where the hell was Ryan? Now that she’d made her decision she wanted to tell him and get it over with. She tried to imagine his reaction. He’d be contrite and try to sweet-talk her. Bullshit. He’d be furious.

Earlier, she’d cooked his favorite meal, Fettuccini Alfredo, but he just gulped it down and left. Three of his buddies had invited him to play golf at their exclusive club in Milton. Tee-time was 3:00. It pissed her off. If he’d told her last night, she wouldn’t have bothered cooking.

Franco lived in Milton, not that Ryan would run into him.

Franco hated golf.

But nobody played golf in the dark. They were probably talking business in the club house, Ryan nursing a bottle of near-beer, while his buddies belted down cocktails.

Ryan never drank alcohol, something she didn’t know when they met.

One Thanksgiving her two brothers had dragged her to the high school football game, the big rivalry between East Boston and Southie. At halftime she bought a coffee at the hotdog stand. Ryan was next in line and bumped her arm, spilling her coffee. He apologized and asked if she’d been a cheerleader for Eastie, she was pretty enough. Not a cheerleader, she said, editor of the school newspaper, co-editor of the yearbook. He said he’d played fullback for Southie, ogling her boobs.

A portent of things to come. If only she’d known.

Looming over her, six-three and built like a boxer, he asked for a date, acting like he’d be shocked if she turned him down. Six months later, she invited him home to meet her folks. Ryan declined a glass of wine, saying he never drank alcohol. Her father raised an eyebrow and her brothers exchanged looks. Having a glass of wine with dinner was normal in the Bevilaqua household.

Her mother thought Ryan was great, a handsome young man with a college degree. But Ryan’s father was an alcoholic.

“His name’s perfect,” Ryan had said when he’d told her, his eyes cold, his mouth set in an angry line. “Tom Collins, get it?”

A few years ago she’d told Franco that Ryan didn’t drink, not even wine with dinner. Franco’s take? “Sounds like a dry-drunk. Doesn’t touch a drop, thinks about it every minute of every day.”

Franco didn’t know the half of it.

She heard Ryan’s Porsche rumble into the driveway. Her hands dampened with sweat and her mouth went dry.

A minute later he strolled into the living room. “Sorry I’m late, but one of the guys gave me a lead on this belly-up company in Delaware.”

Damn. If Ryan was hot on a business deal he’d be distracted, and she wanted his full attention. Maybe she wouldn’t tell him.

Grousing as usual, he said, “I got stuck in traffic on the way to the golf course. Big accident on Route 128. I was late. The guys were waiting for me.” He sat beside her on the couch, put his arm around her and stroked her hair, as if she were his pet. “You said you wanted to talk to me about something.”

The moment of truth. Her heart fluttered, a ragged tattoo beating her chest. She took a deep breath and set her wine glass on the coffee table. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”

Eyeing her nearly-empty wineglass, he said, “About what?”

“About us.”

He gazed at her, an icy stare, his eyes cold. “Yeah? You been talking to Orchid? Your pal with the purple hair, so full of angst she’s gotta talk to some highbrow Cambridge shrink twice a week.”

“Maybe you should see one,” she snapped, “and figure out why you’re so touchy about my friends.”

“Hey, that’s my blue-collar roots, first one in my family to go to college, and a cheap state school at that. You went to a big-name university. I don’t know why you waste your time writing touchy-feely articles for shit money. You should do television news. You’re ten times better looking than Jane Pauley and way sexier.”

A dull ache throbbed behind her eyes. The only time Ryan ever complimented her was during an argument, a bone he threw to distract her.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not interested in doing television.” She tried to remember if she’d hidden any cigarettes in the kitchen. She rarely smoked, but sometimes in a crisis, a nicotine hit calmed her nerves. She picked up her wineglass and drained it.

Ryan snapped his fingers. “Let’s play shrink. Did you tell Mama Bevilaqua about your first kiss?”

She glared at him. Forget discussing serious issues with Ryan. All he did was parry them with jokes or idiotic comments. She started to get up, but Ryan grabbed her arm and pulled her closer.

“Come on, tell me. You know I love you.” He stroked her cheek. “Big brown eyes, luscious lips, boobs bigger than Pamela Anderson. Man, you were
hot
last night!”

She clenched her teeth. His love-making revolted her, calling her names—cunt, bitch, whore—to get himself off. She pulled away and retrieved her empty wineglass. Why didn’t she just tell him?

A lump formed in her throat and tears misted her eyes. Because Ryan had a temper and if anyone crossed him . . .

“Let’s watch the ten o’clock news.” He grabbed the clicker and turned on the television.

She stared at him, incredulous. “Damn it, Ryan, we need to talk.”

“We can talk during the commercials.”

The news jingle blared, then a three-story tease: a hit-and-run in Cambridge, a drug bust on Cape Cod, a Megabucks winner. Oblivious to her, Ryan gazed at the screen. She took her wineglass in the kitchen and filled it to the brim. Ryan didn’t give a damn about her. All he cared about was impressing his boss at the oh-so-prestigious financial firm he worked for and making big bucks. She searched the drawers for a stray cigarette. Didn’t find one. In the living room, the newscast droned on.

She went back and perched on the sofa. Ryan gestured at the screen. “This guy couldn’t report his way out of a paper bag. Interviews some cop about a drug bust and all he gets is a two-second sound bite.”

As Ryan continued his derogatory comments, she sipped her wine. Before the commercial break, another tease ran about a big lottery win. When the commercial came on, Ryan hit the mute button and turned to her.

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Another time, Ryan.”

“Come on, babe. Don’t tease me.” He took a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger.

She pushed his hand away. “You’re the one that wanted to watch the news.”

“Hey, you’re the news junkie, always looking for stories to write for that cheap tabloid.”

Baiting her. Ryan wanted to argue. Sometimes she thought he did it to get himself sexually excited. Well, he’d better not try that tonight. Tomorrow, he’d be in Texas.

The news came back on and the anchorwoman, clearly excited, said Wednesday’s Megabucks drawing had produced one winner, but no one had come forward to claim the prize. The winning ticket, purchased at Marie’s Variety in Boston’s North End, was worth a cool twelve million dollars.

Who was the winner, Gina wondered. The winning ticket had been sold in the North End, an Italian enclave she knew well. Her grandparents had lived there. Suddenly telling Ryan she wanted a trial separation didn’t seem that important.

“Maybe I’ll interview the winner and do a series on gambling.”

Ryan turned on her, his face a mask of anger. “Jesus! All you think about is that stupid job. I’m gone all week, come home and I gotta beg you for sex. I’m the one that makes the bucks to pay for this house. You care more about your job than you do about me.”

That’s right, Ryan. I care about Franco. Franco loves me and he’s twice the man that you are.

“Who gives a shit about this house? It’s cold and sterile, just like you.”

“What did you say?” He rose from the couch and stood over her, fists clenched.

She should never have said that. Sterile was a touchy subject with Ryan. Lately he kept saying, “All these years we’ve been married, how come you’re not pregnant? Must be your fault, Gina. I’ve got plenty of lead in my pencil.”

He flicked his fist at her face, like a boxer jabbing at an opponent.

She flinched and pulled away from him.

“Why can’t you ditch that stupid job, have a baby and stay home like a normal woman?”

A haze of anger clouded her vision. “Fuck you, Ryan. Go sleep with your goddam checkbook!”

His face turned crimson. She knew what that meant.

Her heart slammed her chest. She ran in the kitchen, grabbed her car keys and took out her cell phone, her hands shaking.

He came after her, fists clenched, snarling, “Ditch the keys, Gina. We’re going to bed.”

Heart pounding, she waved her cell phone at him. “Ryan, last year when you hit me, I told you never again or I’d call 9-1-1 and get the cops over here. I don’t think your boss will like that.” Her boss wouldn’t either, but she was too terrified to worry about it.

Ryan stood there, glaring at her. “You’re a pig, Gina. A fat pig. Who’d want to sleep with you?”

She opened the back door and left, her eyes brimming with tears.

____

Nigel asked the Back Bay Inn desk clerk to order a taxi and rushed up to his room. With frantic haste, he took off his tux, put on slacks and a polo shirt, and grabbed the bottle of champagne. When he reached the lobby, a cab was waiting. Ten minutes later he arrived at Vicky’s apartment. He tipped the driver extravagantly and went to the door. When he rang the bell, the curtain on a first-floor window parted slightly.

Vicky’s voice came over the intercom: “Nigel?”

“Right-o, luv.” The buzzer sounded. He opened the door and dashed upstairs. Vicky stood in the doorway in a mauve top and black stretch pants. Ringlets of dark curly hair framed her smiling face. She looked gorgeous. He stepped inside, shut the door and hugged her.

“What a great concert,” she said. “Two solo bows for the
Rhapsody
!”

“And one for you, for your marvelous clarinet solo.” He held out the champagne. “Time to celebrate.”

Vicky took fluted glasses from a cupboard and set them on the counter. He popped the cork, poured the foaming champagne, and they went in the living room. Vicky’s music stand stood in the corner, and stacks of music filled the bookcase beside it. A table lamp cast a soft glow over the room.

Perfect. But his heart was pounding, ten times worse than when he went onstage to play a solo. They sat on the loveseat. He put his arm around her and raised his glass. “Here’s to us, Vicky.”

Her eyes sparkled. They clinked glasses and sipped champagne. He set his glass on the coffee table and fumbled in his pocket. His palms dampened with sweat. What if she said no?

He took out a small white box, tied with a delicate pink ribbon. “Time for my other surprise.”

Her velvety-brown eyes widened behind her glasses.

“I bought it in Iowa. Not as nice as I’d hoped, but if you don’t like it, we’ll get you another. Open it.”

She untied the ribbon and opened the box. Her mouth formed a large round O.

“You’re the greatest girl in the world, Vicky. Let’s get married. No more sneaking around.” He took her hand and kissed it. “I love you, Vicky. More than you know.”

Her eyes misted. “Oh, Nigel.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “It’s a yes then? Please say yes.”

“Yes!” She threw her arms around him. “Yes, yes, yes!”

His heart soared. “Try it on! See if it fits.” He poured more champagne as she slid the ring onto her finger. The diamond sparkled. She held out her hand, admiring it, face aglow. “Oh, Nigel. It’s beautiful.”

“I’m so pleased you like it.” That was true. He loved her madly and he wanted to marry her, but now came the tricky part. “We need to figure out what to do about the Megabucks ticket.”

Her smile faded.

He took her face in his hands. “Vicky, there’s something I need to tell you. Remember those, ah, those debts I told you about, back when I was gambling? I wanted to be honest, not start off on the wrong foot so to speak.” She nodded, gazing at him. “I didn’t ask you to marry me before, because, well, the debts are a bit steep. I wanted to clear them up so we could have a proper start. But winning the Megabucks solves that.”

She nodded slowly and looked down at the ring on her finger.

“The problem is, if I claim the prize . . . ”

“You want me to do it,” she said quietly.

He took her hands and stroked her fingers, felt the thorny callous on her thumb from years of clarinet playing. “We’ll split it fifty-fifty. I mean it! Separate bank accounts, half for you, half for me.”

“But—”

“After the publicity dies down, we’ll announce the engagement and you can wear the ring and—”

“Not till then?”

“What’s a couple of weeks? After we cash the check, I’ll buy you a nicer one.”

She sighed. “I don’t know.”

“Think of the money. Twelve million dollars!”

Vicky rolled her lips together and shook her head. “It’s not the money, Nigel. I just—”