Not Since You (8 page)

There. She'd said it. And boy, didn't it sound stupid?

Zack turned his head, not taking his eyes from the road. "I never stopped—"

"I know, Zack. And that's what makes it worse. It's like you were cheating on her all that time, with me."

"But I wasn't." He shook his head. "I wasn't anywhere near you, Carrie."

"Yet, you said that all that time you were her husband, you were thinking about me. So how is that really any different, Zack?" She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Zack. I can't." She swallowed a lump in her throat.

Right. You keep telling yourself that,
she thought.
I'm not going to cry again.
"Just…please. I'm not saying we'll never see each other again. I'm just saying—give me some time, okay?"
Time to make peace with myself. And with Sarah.

Peace would be good. Then a small voice in the back of her head—Nana's voice—piped up.
Peace
is
good,
it said.
But sex? That's better
.

Chapter Seven

The doorbell rang. Carrie ran down the stairs with Ellie walking carefully and close behind, the veterinarian's plastic after-surgery cone on her head clonking,
chonkchonkchonk
on each step. She was surprised the dog hadn’t worked her way out of the thing; she could escape from every other thing and place.

The bell rang again.
Please be Zack,
she thought.

True to his word, Zack had stayed away, and after three long days and even longer nights, she'd had enough time to herself. She hadn't come to any decisions, but her heart ached with longing for him. She couldn't stand it anymore.

"Zack!" She flung the door open. But it wasn't him. It was…Sarah? Standing in the doorway, flinging Carrie back eighteen years.
A summer morning, Sarah on the porch in her bathing suit and a pair of cutoffs. "Let's go to the beach! I want to watch the hotties."

Carrie halted, her heart in her mouth. First a Houdini hound, and now a visit from a dead friend?

              "Sarah?" she whispered.

              "No, it's me. Samantha. Sarah's daughter."

              Carrie's head cleared; of course, it wasn't Sarah. It was her daughter, wearing cutoff shorts and a bikini top. The hotties? Only a memory. "Samantha? What…is everything okay? Come on in." She opened the door and the girl stepped inside. Ellie jumped up and put her paws on the girl's shoulders, her tail waving gently. She reached outside of her cone to draw her tongue over Samantha's cheek in a doggie welcome. Or else she was tasting her. Carrie started to push the dog down, but Sam neatly stepped aside. "Down," she said firmly, putting her hand out flat, palm down. And—to Carrie's surprise—the dog got down. In fact, she
lay
down, watching Samantha, with an expression of
You goddess. I love you
, clearly written on her face.

              "Wow. How did you do that?"

              The girl shrugged. "Dad taught me. I help him at the community center, sometimes. I teach little kids how to train their dogs."

              "You mean, you train kids." Carrie smiled.

              Samantha's eyebrows arched as she smiled—another Sarah trait. Carrie's heart clenched again.
Sarah. It has to be you.
It was like being given a second chance.

              But she couldn't say a word, couldn't explain. She couldn't say
I'm sorry
or
I miss you
, or even
I'm such a bitch
,
because no matter how much Samantha looked like her mother, she wasn't her. Sometimes, there were no second chances, Carrie realized.

All she could do now was wait and see why the girl was here.

Sam smiled. "I hadn't thought about the training that way, but I guess you're right. I train the kids—they teach their dogs." She paused, then gestured to the house. "It looks like you've been busy. Dad said you were trying to fix it up to sell it. You're from Texas?"

              "Originally, I'm from here. I mean, Rhode Island. Can I—would you like a drink or something?" Carrie invited Samantha in, leading her to the kitchen, where she sat down at the Formica-topped table. The dog followed, plopping down beside the girl, resting her coned head on her sandaled foot in supplication. "Diet Coke? Water? I don't suppose you're old enough for a beer…"

              "I'll have a Diet Coke, please." Samantha smiled and quirked her eyebrows again. "I might as well get right to the point, since I suppose you're wondering why I'm here."

             
Astute child
. "A little bit. I'm assuming it's got something to do with Ja—your dad." Carrie handed her a can of soda and sat across from her with a cola of her own. "God, you look so much like your mom."
So much so, I could cry.

              "I know. Everyone tells me that." Samantha shrugged. "Dad said you were Mom's friend too."

              "He did?" Carrie stopped the soda midway to her mouth. "What did he tell you?"

              "That you were best friends. Which made me start to wonder…there's something between you and Dad. I mean…" She trailed off and looked away. "This is going to sound awful. But I have to ask." She looked back. "You came here out of nowhere, and ever since, Dad's been acting weird. I mean…he's just…I've never seen him like this."

              "Weird? Like, how?"

              "Well, he's humming, for one thing." Samantha took a sip of her Coke.

              "He doesn't normally hum?" Carrie bit back a laugh.

              "Not like this." Samantha frowned. "And the day you came over—the day the dog ate your phone. He looked at you and I could see it. He—he
loves
you. Not only loves, but…he
adores
you. I swear, if I hadn't been there, he would have jumped your bones in about two seconds."

              More than astute, Samantha was practically psychic. "Oh. Well…maybe it just looked that way, but—"

              "But if you were Mom's best friend in high school, and he loves you like that after all this time, even when you show up out of nowhere, then…well…all I can think of is, this is something he's felt for a long time. But he married Mom right out of high school, which kind of makes me think I was the reason they got married in the first place." She picked at the tab of her soda can, studying it as if it held the answers she sought.
Plink, plink, plink.
"I tried asking him, but he won't talk. So I thought…I was wondering…"

              Carrie shook her head. She'd promised Zack she wouldn't spill the beans about Samantha's conception, and now that she'd decided to let him back into her life—more or less—there was no way she'd breathe a word of anything to her.

              Even though she knew exactly how Samantha felt. "I lost my mom when I was eleven, too," she said. "And my dad."

              The tab on the soda can broke off in the girl's fingers.
Plink.
"I didn't know that."

              "It's true." Carrie nodded. "In an accident." She sighed, remembering. "I was so scared, my first day of school here. I felt awkward, you know? Like a freak. An orphan freak who lived with her Nana." Even now, a lump rose in Carrie's throat.

              Samantha nodded. "People treated me differently."

              "Exactly. Adults did. They were too nice because they felt bad for you. But kids…"             

              "They treated you like there was something wrong with you."

              "And there was. I was
different
. I didn't have a mom
or
a dad."

              "At least I have my dad." Samantha's eyes locked with Carrie's. They were on common ground. "I don't mean to be nosy or anything, Carrie. Really. I just—don't want him to get hurt. You know. Like, you're going to be leaving again, once you sell this place, and he'll be all alone. I'm going away to college in the fall… I'm just afraid for him."

              "He's a strong guy. I'm sure you don't have to worry, Samantha."

              "I know he is." She sighed. "I think you hurt him before, when you left, and I just don't want it to happen again. I mean, last time you left, he had my mom. Then she died, and he had me. Now
I'm
leaving and…" Samantha shook her head. "I bet you think I'm an idiot."

              "I think—I think you not only look like your mom, I think you act like her, too." Carrie reached out and touched the girl's hand. "She was always sensitive to other people's feelings, too. She was the first person to be my friend when I moved here, the first one who treated me like I didn't have a disease they'd catch."

              "Dad says I'm just a pushover." Samantha dropped the tab onto the table and lifted the can to her mouth.

              "And he's not?" Carrie laughed. "He thinks he has to solve everyone's problems."

              "Yeah. I guess so." Samantha nodded, then lowered her brows over her eyes. "I guess I'm doing that, too."

              It was Carrie's turn to quirk her brows. "You're right." She grinned. "There you go, then. You're just a sympathetic worrywart who feels like she needs to solve everyone's problems. Just like your dad."

              "Great." The girl rolled her eyes. "No wonder I'm going to major in social work."

              They looked at each other and laughed. Carrie reached over and touched Samantha's hand again. "Listen, worrywart. Feel like giving an old lady a hand with some wallpaper? I tried to do the upstairs hall yesterday, and the paper kept rolling over my head and getting stuck in my hair."

              "Sure. But on one condition."

              "What's that?" Carrie pushed her chair back and stood.
Anything but telling you about your conception.

              "Tell me about Dad when he was younger."              Samantha got to her feet. The dog leapt up and waited, tail wagging. "Was he a hottie?"

              Carrie couldn't help the laugh that bubbled from her chest.
Ah, the apple really
doesn't
fall far from the tree…

*****

              Four hours later, the upstairs hall was papered and Carrie's sides ached. She hadn't laughed so hard since she was seventeen herself. With Sarah.

              Wise girl that Samantha was, she didn't push for any more information about the odd triangle Carrie kept with her parents. It was as if she knew Carrie wasn't ready to talk. Or not able. And Carrie wasn't going to—not until she'd cleared the topic with Zack, knew what to say and how to say it. But at the same time, Samantha wasn't about to give up on her other task: hooking Zack up with the woman he appeared to love.

As they walked down the stairs with
El Beast
on their heels, Samantha said, "You have to come over tonight. It's pizza night."

              Carrie felt a twinge of anxiety. She wasn't ready to make herself a part of Mahoney family traditions. Not yet, and maybe not ever. She was moving back to Texas. She didn't want to break Zack's heart again, any more than she wanted to break her own. "I don't know, Sam…"

              "Oh, come on. Dad will freak. Picture it. Big jock, Captain Zack, wearing a frilly apron over his uniform—how can you refuse?" Samantha grinned. "You can bring
El Beast
. Maybe she'll dig in the garden and you can watch Dad have a coronary over his tomatoes."

              "Samantha! That's not nice!" Carrie felt another round of giggles starting deep in her belly. She tried to quell them, tightening her mouth. "Don't tell me you deliberately try to get a rise out of him." Carrie bit her lip.

              "All. The. Time. It's the most fun I'm allowed to have. Come on, Carrie. Please. For me. Come over and eat pizza with us. I won't tell him—he'll get all flustered." She paused at the bottom of the stairs and tilted her head. "You should wear those shorts."

              Carrie looked down at the ragged-bottomed cutoffs. "These?"

              "Uh-huh. They're super short. All you need is the right shirt." The girl turned on her heel and pounded back up the stairs.

Carrie followed. "I didn't even say I would… Samantha? Where are you going?"

              The girl poked her head over the railing and peered down at her, flinging Carrie back in time once more. "We are getting you dressed—"

*****

"—to knock Zack Mahoney's socks off," Sarah said, and grinned.

              Carrie's heart skidded to a halt, banged on the wall of her chest and flew up into her throat, where it resumed beating. Hard. "Sarah! I—I can't!"

              "What do you mean, you can't? He likes you, you like him—so what's the problem?" Sarah called over her shoulder as she moved into Carrie's bedroom.

              "He's going with Tiffany, for one thing." Carrie followed, dragging her feet.

              "He is not. You know that. Not after last week, he's not." Sarah dug through her bureau drawers, shaking out shirts, holding them up, then tossing them over her shoulder onto the bed. "We have got to go shopping, girl. Your ensemble is pathetique."

             
So am I.
"Oui," Carrie agreed. "Pathetique." She paused. "Is that even a word in French?"

             
"I dunno. I take Italian. This is cute. Here. Try this on." Sarah held out a gauzy-looking black tank top. "We'll steal some of your Nana's rosary beads, and if we put your hair in a banana clip, you'll look just like Madonna. Put on that big belt and those black patent leather spikes with your new jeans. He'll want to jump you."

              "I don't—" Carrie bit her lip and took the tank top. "Never mind." When Sarah got an idea in her head, it was impossible to stop her.

*****

Apparently, her daughter was the same way. "I don't know, Samantha. Do you really think I should wear that shirt? It's practically see-through."