Never Been Kissed (17 page)

“That’s the idea,” Cora said. The loaves of bread she tucked into a cupboard, deciding not to worry about mice.

She found a plate, chipped but clean, and slid the veggie omelet with cheddar cheese on it. Toast was in a separate bag so it didn’t get all wilty.

“You want ketchup or anything?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.”

“Orange juice? More coffee?”

“Orange juice is in the credo, so I have to say yes.”

Credo? Cora turned on her. “You high?”

The woman nodded. “Painkiller, just kicked in.”

“Feeling good?”

“Like I’m on a pink cloud.”

“Well, thank the Lord for small favors.”

“And omelets.”

Cora laughed. “Why not?” She handed the woman the plate and set the glass on the coffee table. “What’s your name, honey? I can’t keep calling you ‘the woman’ in my head.”

“Ashley,” she answered, focused on her eggs, though the use of a knife seemed beyond her. Cora reached over and cut the eggs for her, setting the pieces on the toast, where the cheese oozed out onto the butter.

Ashley groaned while she ate, which was satisfying to Cora on a molecular level.

Considering the girl was high as a kite, small talk was totally unnecessary and Cora wasn’t one to mince words, never had been.

“So Ashley,” she said, stretching an arm across the top of the futon and pointing to the bruised half of her companion’s face. “Who did that to you? Your husband? Boyfriend? Daddy?”

“Pirate,” Ashley answered through a mouthful of spinach.

“Pardon?”

Ashley swallowed. “Pirates.” She reached for the orange juice with both hands and drank down half the glass before putting it back on the table.

Cora looked at the woman, Ashley … whatever. And was furious. Furious on Ashley’s behalf, her own behalf, on behalf of every single woman who’d been beaten and had the guts to stand up and name her attacker.

“Is that your idea of a joke?” Cora stood and put her hands on her hips. She didn’t want to be mad at the bruised, stoned little white girl, but she wasn’t a fool either. Particularly about this. “You’re sitting there with a black eye and making jokes? You know, if you’re still too scared or unsure to tell me who beat the shit out of you, fine. That’s fine. I get it, sometimes it takes time to say those words out loud, and you don’t know me from Adam, but at the least, at the very least, respect the fact that I’m asking. That I care. And don’t give me a bullshit joke answer about pirates.”

Ashley focused her big brown eyes as best she probably could. She swallowed whatever was in her mouth
and said: “Somali pirates. I was kidnapped, held for ransom for three weeks.”

Cora sat back down, her hands in her lap.

“Well. Holy shit.”

Ashley smiled, either too high or perhaps too good-natured to be angry at Cora’s soapbox tirade. “You thought I meant
Arrrgh matey
pirates?”

“I thought you were trying to be cute.”

Ashley made a non-committal humming noise in her throat as she kept eating, twining long stretches of cheese around her fork before putting it in her mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Cora said, running her finger along a thick seam in the dark gray futon mattress. This was one of the great many reasons she didn’t have any close friends. In conversation, in the casual back and forth between people, she had an unrelenting knack of making it all about her. Of letting her pride take over until there was no give and take with her. It was only give, or only take.

Mama said Cora was born righteous. Came out of the womb with her back up and her finger shaking. And Mama would know righteous.

And that was hard to be friends with.

It could be hard to live with, too.

“Don’t be,” Ashley said. “Thank you for the food. You didn’t have to do that.”

But she did. She did have to do that, because after one look at Ashley’s face, she was a kid again, in pain and betrayed. Confused and scared. And she had to do something.

So she brought food.

“Food is what I’ve got to give.” It was her language.

“Did someone hit you?” Ashley asked, and the fact that it was through a mouthful of egg and cheese took some of the loaded drama out of the question.

People around town knew; it wasn’t like she kept it a secret. Shelby Monroe was always trying to get Cora to
help teach a class at the Art Barn for kids who’d been victims or witnesses to violence, which was a great idea, but Cora wasn’t interested in digging through her ancient history.

“My dad,” she said.

“That’s awful.”

“It was. But I was pretty young and it was a long time ago.”

“He still alive?”

She shook her head. “He died in the first war in Iraq. I was in fifth grade.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cora smiled, because Ashley was, she could tell. And truth was, money from her father being killed in the war had changed her life. There were strange silver linings on every dark cloud. “Thank you. I’m sorry you got hurt.”

“Brody saved me,” Ashley said, sitting back against the cushions. She rested a hand on her belly and had the half-lidded look of a cat who’d had her fill of cream.

“He’s that kind of guy,” Cora said, picking up the plate and taking it to the sink. She knew nothing about the man, really, but she knew that.

When she turned around Ashley was gingerly scooting down on the futon.

“Here,” Cora said, pushing some pillows behind Ashley’s shoulders.

“Thank you, sorry to fall asleep on you, but the pain meds—”

“No, I understand, you need to get to sleep.”

Cora lifted a sheet that was stacked on the leather recliner in the corner and snapped it out over Ashley’s body.

Ashley reached out and touched Cora’s hand.

“Come back sometime,” she said. “When I’m not so tired.”

The friends Cora did have were casual, maybe asking her out for a drink if there was a group of women going. Shelby Monroe kept encouraging her to join her book club or some shit, but Cora didn’t have much to say about books.

Every once in a while, a man would ask her out—high on her rhubarb pie. Those men were easy enough to deflect.

Sean was harder, with his bright eyes and shit-disturbing nature. Not that he ever asked her out, or that she wanted him to. How would that work? she wondered, imagining them fighting over appetizers and one of them walking out before dinner was served.

Or maybe they’d go to a movie.

What the hell?
she thought, shaking her head. This day was messing with her head.

“I’ll come by next week,” she said, and left the apartment, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Brody was about to push away his half-full glass of beer and go upstairs to break the news to Ashley that he wouldn’t be leaving tomorrow night, when Cora breezed in the back door.

She wore a red T-shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants—a totally normal outfit, plain even, but with the earrings she wore and the scarf she had around her neck and the clogs on her feet, she managed to make it look glamorous somehow. She made Brody smile.

“What … what the hell are you doing here?” Sean asked as she stepped behind the bar. But for some reason, he didn’t sound quite as acidic as he usually did around Cora.

Which was … weird.

“Scoping out the competition,” she shot back, but it was with a smile.

Which was weirder.

Brody had to wonder what was at the root of their animosity, because it sure as hell wasn’t competition. Sean didn’t stand a chance in that fight. But he also had to wonder where the hell the animosity had gone?

“I brought you guys some food,” Cora said to Brody.

He rose from his stool. “Ashley—”

“Sit. She ate, blathered on about pirates, and then fell asleep.”

Oh. Shit. What did the woman have against keeping herself safe?

“Pirates?” Sean asked, his eyes wide. “Brody?”

He measured the pros and cons of telling them and realized he really didn’t have a choice. Not if Ashley was going to bring up pirates in idle conversation.

“The woman upstairs is Ashley Montgomery.” He kept his voice low enough that no one else could hear.

“Like … of
the
Montgomerys?” Sean asked, his voice equally low. “From Georgia?”

Brody nodded.

“Holy shit!”

“She was kidnapped by Somali pirates, held for ransom—”

“You saved her?” Sean asked and Brody looked away from the klieg light of hero worship in his brother’s eyes. “You like blew into some village and saved her?”

“I got her out of Somalia. I brought her here until she recovers. Another week at the most, while she heals.”

“What about her family?” Cora asked. “Why isn’t she with them?”

“Because she doesn’t want to be. That’s … that’s all I can say, except it’s very very important that you don’t talk about this. We’re trying to keep a low profile.”

“That’s why you’re worried about the camera crew?”

“I’m not worried about the show blurring her face out when it airs, I’m worried about all the cameras around. I
had a run-in with the guy in the Red Sox hat and a man named Darryl today at Cora’s.”

“Darryl’s bad news,” Cora said.

“That was my sense. I’ll keep my eye on him.”

“So will I,” Sean said.

“Me too,” Cora agreed and Brody nearly smiled. It was a ragtag team, but he liked it.

“Thank you,” he said to Cora. “For bringing the food; it’s appreciated.” Cora waved her hand, dismissing his thanks. “Let me buy you a beer anyway.”

Sean snorted, like the idea was preposterous.

But Cora sat down on a bar stool like a queen on her throne and said; “I’d love a beer. Whatever you’re having.”

Sean tipped his head in a mock bow, but he was smiling as he did it. Perhaps the two of them were ready to be adults, Brody thought, let go of this stupid animosity.

“Hey, Cora.” A redheaded woman with short hair came up to the bar to get another round for the table of people involved in the reality show. “How come you don’t get your liquor license? Put this dump out of business?”

“Hey!” Sean cried.

“No offense,” the redhead said in a voice that was more offensive than what she said.

“How the hell am I not going to be offended?”

“I have no interest in opening a bar,” Cora said. “Would make it real hard to wake up and make those molasses pancakes you eat every morning.”

The redhead nodded as if the thought had merit.

“Here,” Sean said, pushing the tray of drinks toward her. “Walk your own drinks over there.”

“What about catering?” the woman asked.

“She’s not interested,” Sean said, closing the subject for good, and shooed her away.

“Heck of a way to keep your customers,” Cora said into her glass.

“You want to cater for me? Let me pass your chili off as my own?”

“No.”

Sean shrugged. “Then what are we arguing about?”

“I wasn’t arguing.”

“Please, all you do is argue—”

“Kids …” Brody said. “Can’t we all just get along?”

Cora’s mouth fell open. “Was that a joke?” She looked to Sean. “Is he … is he joking?”

“Occasionally he stops brooding long enough to make a funny.”

“I’m glad I got to see it.”

“I’m glad you guys are entertained, but it’s not a bad idea,” he said.

“Comedy?” Cora said at the same time Sean said, “Catering.”

“Now who’s being funny?” Cora’s sarcasm was brutal, sharp, and Sean’s face tightened. It had been a long time since Brody had seen that expression on his brother’s face. That tiny wince, that small tell that somehow the smart-mouth shit-disturber’s feelings were hurt.

And that old instinct to protect his brother bobbed up from wherever it hid in the months between visits.

He’s smaller than you, Brody.
His father’s voice was attached like a leech to the instinct.
Weaker than you. He’s going to need all of us to take care of him, you most of all.

It had taken awhile for Brody to believe Ed. In Brody’s opinion the scales were stacked in Sean’s favor. He had the parents, the brother, the absence of memories that included fires and funerals and foster homes. Sean knew nothing but happiness, and support and family and love.

Why the hell did he need Brody?

But Sean had been little, terribly little for so long. And Sean had looked at Brody with a love so big it started to blot out the memories of the fire. Of the funerals and foster homes.

And then protecting Sean was just a habit.

And then it had become a compulsion.

And then he was just a guy looking for a fight, any fight.

The Marine Corps had helped out on that score. So had staying away from his brother and Bishop as much as he could.

“Sean,” Cora said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did.” Sean turned away from Cora, who hung her head for a minute.

“I’m not very good at being nice,” she muttered.

“You’re nice to me,” Brody said.

Cora smiled at him.

“Hey, hey, buddy!” Gary, in his Red Sox hat, yelled across the room at Sean. “Turn up the TV, would you?”

Brody looked up at the small screen in the far corner that Sean usually had tuned to ESPN, but today he had on CNN. And on the screen, larger than life, was Ashley’s friend Kate.

“I hear she’s getting a few million for her story,” Gary said.

Brody stood and stepped closer to the TV just as Sean turned it up.

“Kate McGovern was held by pirates for three weeks in Somalia,” the voice-over said as Kate’s photo was replaced by one of Ashley.

It was an ID photo and she had her brown curly hair held back by a yellow and red flowered headband. She had a sunburn across her nose, the freckles dark brown against the pink skin. The photographer’s instructions probably had been that she couldn’t smile, and she wasn’t, not really, but there wasn’t a part of her face,
not even her straight lips, that didn’t somehow give the impression of joy.

“Ashley Montgomery, daughter of Georgia Governor Ted Montgomery was with Kate McGovern. Ms. Montgomery has spent the last year working with Women in Health building a clinic in Dadaab, Kenya. The Montgomery family has released the following statement: