Second Thoughts (2 page)

She threw the soap at his grinning face, but he moved too fast and her aim was off. She heard his laugh trailing down the hallway as she watched the soap scum ooze down the buttercup-yellow doorjamb.

He was sitting on one of the tall counter stools when she entered the kitchen. Instead of wearing her shorty kimono over her even shorter nightie, she’d borrowed Kristy’s cotton robe in strawberry pink and belted it around her waist. It was too big, but just right for entertaining unexpected—and unwelcome—ex-husbands.

He swiveled toward her. “That was fast.”

She caught a whiff of boloney and mustard as he shoved the last of his sandwich into his mouth, and then he watched her musingly as he chewed. “Too bad you were wearing all those bubbles. First time in two years I got to see you like that, and you had to be covered with a coat of soapsuds. Not fair.”

She resented the fact he looked so relaxed. He had black wavy hair, collar length, and an errant front curl that wouldn’t stay put. It was again adorning the center of his forehead. He gave her another lingering up and down look, and his gaze settled on the hem of the robe spread around her feet. “Kristy’s got two or three inches on you.”

She made no response.

“And those inches are dragging on the floor.”

“What do you want, Derek?”

He sipped from his beer, then held the can up questioningly. “Want one?”

She gave him one shake of her head. “Why are you here?”

He leaned back, resting his elbows on the counter. “Come on, Connie, what are you so uptight about? I’ve seen you in the tub before. Even shared one with you on more than one occasion.” His gaze didn’t leave hers, but his eyes took on a far away quality, as if his mind had gone back in time. To a memory he liked.

“What do you want, Derek?” She’d keep asking the same question, in the same no-nonsense, schoolteacher voice until she got an answer.

His eyes once more focused on her, and somehow he managed to turn his silence into pure suggestion. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Derek, so help me—”

“Okay, okay.” He lifted his hands in that defensive gesture again, as if she were the one being difficult. “They must not have warned you to expect me, and I’m early anyway. We’re introducing Chris to the art of fishing this weekend. Kevin and me.”

That struck a chord, and she frowned. No one had said anything, but she’d noted Derek’s name somewhere. “But they’re not here. Just the kids and me.”

“So I guessed. Like I said, I’m early. They’re not expecting me till tomorrow.”

“But they won’t be home until Thursday.”

“That’s funny.” It was his turn to frown. “I knew about the Hawaii trip,” he said absently. “Ten years. How about that.” He smiled proudly, as if it were his accomplishment.

Then he glanced at Connie, and his blue-green eyes turned rueful. “We didn’t even make five,” he said quietly, but didn’t sound accusing. She didn’t respond. After a short moment, he resumed his first thought. “Anyway, I told him I’d be here on the fourth, and he said they’d be home way before then.”

Connie walked to the calendar tacked onto the bulletin board, almost tripping on the hem of the robe. She gathered a handful of fabric and lifted it up for the last couple steps. She scanned the calendar, then tapped the fourteenth with her forefinger, where Derek’s name was printed below a penciled drawing of a fish and a pole. The artwork looked like Kristy’s. Derek apparently had forgotten whom he’d talked to.

He’d removed himself from the stool to come stand behind her. “Oops. Looks like somebody misunderstood somebody.”

He was too close for comfort. Connie took a step away, trying not to be obvious about it. “Well, that settles that. Doesn’t matter who made the error. Call next week to reschedule. And as far as tonight is concerned, you can find a motel. Now, if you don’t mind, I had a long day with the kids and—”

“A motel? What’s wrong with right here?”

“No room. I’m using the master bedroom, and there’s no other bed.”

“Don’t worry. You can keep your bed to yourself. There’s an old wooden cot I can set up in Christopher’s room. I always bunk with him.”

“But—”

“It’s somewhere in the garage.” He started to walk around her.

“No.”

He stopped, turned back to face her. “No?”

“You can’t stay here. I don’t want you here.” Her tone was flat, no apology in it.

His gaze held hers for a long moment. He said evenly, “Well, that’s certainly plain enough. Never did have a problem speaking your mind, did you?”

She said nothing.

“Well, you’re not winning this one.” He continued his move toward the door leading into the garage. “It’s late, I’m tired, and I’m going to find the cot and set it up in Christopher’s room. You do what you want to do. Goodnight, Connie.”

She was left alone in the kitchen, staring coldly at the door he’d left ajar. As she listened to him mumbling while he searched for the cot, she considered locking him in there. It’d serve him right to have to spend the night in the garage. But he had a key in his pocket.

As usual, he’d left her no options. If a disagreement couldn’t be settled his way, then he did what he wanted anyway, often leaving her steaming. She liked that fact no better now than when she’d been married to him.

Gathering robe fabric in both hands to lift it off the floor, she stomped to the master bedroom. She couldn’t even slam the door like she wanted to because it’d wake up the kids.

* * *

Connie awoke to early morning daylight and a quiet house. She wondered how long the silence would last, then a shriek from Christopher broke through the stillness and made her jump.

“Unca Dare!”

She settled down again, giving in to a grudging smile. She might not be ecstatic about her ex-husband’s presence, but Christopher certainly was. Her smile broadened as she remembered how much Derek enjoyed sleeping in on his days off. Served him right.

A muffled response from Derek was interrupted by a horrendous crash that had Connie bounding out of bed. But before she reached her door she realized what had happened, came to an abrupt stop and burst into laughter.

Christopher had jumped on top of his uncle and the cot had collapsed.

What a rude awakening, she thought with glee, and laughed harder.

But someone could be hurt, and that possibility got her moving again. The bits of conversation she picked up when she opened her door, however, assured her there was more emotional frustration at the other side of the house than injury.

The scrambling chaos finally ceased, and two sets of bare feet padded toward her room. The heavier footfalls sounded like they were limping. The twins simultaneously announced they were awake. Connie grabbed the pink robe, wrapped it around her, and tried to compose herself.

Uncle and nephew arrived at her door and stood side by side.

“I broke Unca Dare’s bed,” an apologetic Christopher said to the floor.

“You’re laughing,” Derek said to Connie. He was holding his elbow, but it was clearly his dignity that was fractured. “It’s not funny.”

One twin hollered something, and the other one answered.

Derek wore a white t-shirt, sleeper boxer shorts in a red and white diamond pattern, and black socks. His legs looked even more bowed and hairy than she remembered. She also remembered that sulky frown. She was working extra hard to keep her own face straight, yet knew she was failing miserably.

“It’s not funny,” he repeated. The frown cut lines into his forehead.

“Good morning,” she managed, then doubled over with giggles. Giving up, she backed into her room, closed the door, collapsed on the bed and let go. She’d almost forgotten how great a really good belly laugh felt.

At 6:55 a.m., the same moment Connie was enjoying her belly laugh, a security camera was hard at work at a convenience market located two and a half miles away.

It filmed a man entering the store who stood about six-four and appeared to weigh somewhere between two-fifty and two-eighty. He was bearded and wore overalls, but his features and age were indiscernible because he also wore a stocking mask. A run in the stocking, from nose to hairline, made his face appear scarred as well as distorted.

His two companions entered behind him, also wearing nylons, but without runs in them. They weren’t bearded, were about five or six inches shorter and maybe a hundred pounds lighter. One wore a jean jacket, and the other one had on a gray sweatshirt with a blue-plaid shirt collar sticking out of the neck. They were a bit overdressed for Southern California in August, but because of the early hour, they were able to get away with the extra layers of clothing.

The three masked men and the man at the cash register were the only people inside the store. The clerk was too involved in his magazine to look up at first. Using both hands, he spread the centerfold across the counter top and gave it an admiring up-and-down, side-to-side look.

Overalls and Jean Jacket had guns in their hands. They went to the counter and demanded money. The clerk finally looked up, the magazine slid to the floor, and he must have wet his pants because a growing stain discolored his khakis.

Gray Sweatshirt remained at the door with his hands empty as he looked nervously around the store. Jean Jacket stepped back and whispered something in his ear. Nothing happened, and Jean Jacket put his elbow into the belly of the sweatshirt. Gray Sweatshirt reached beneath the pullover, fumbled at his belt, then pulled out a gun. He juggled it, lost it, and it hit the floor with a loud clank.

The clerk jerked around, knocking over a display of sunglasses. With his eyes wide and his glance flitting everywhere, he gripped the counter as if for support. Overalls stepped away, pushing bills in his pocket and wrinkling his nose as if he’d just caught a bad smell, maybe something stronger than urine.

“It’s okay,” he assured the man. His gentle tone was incongruous with his masked countenance and cold-looking, steel-colored gun. “You’re all right. Everything’s okay.” He picked up the magazine and replaced it on the counter. He even found the man’s page for him.

Gray Sweatshirt appeared to be more scared than the clerk. The instant the gun had hit the floor, he’d ducked as if to dodge a bullet. Still crouched, he looked at the floor, at Jean Jacket, at the counter, and then, frowning, he straightened and delicately sniffed the air.

Jean Jacket remained still, his gaze traveling between the gun on the floor and his companion. Overalls swooped up the weapon, pushed Jean Jacket out the door, and grabbed Gray Sweatshirt’s arm. Then all three men were gone.

The clerk stood frozen in place for several seconds with his mouth agape and his unblinking stare on the empty doorway. Then finally he must have remembered the alarm button. Of course it was in the same place it always had been, but the man’s mind had apparently drawn a blank. He turned in a circle, as if looking for it, then his gaze settled on something beneath the cash register. Holding his right wrist in his left hand to keep it steady, he pointed his forefinger at the button and managed to press it.

The camera caught it all on tape, complete with sound. Not high quality sound, but words were discernible. And the same camera had filmed the same three men robbing the same store last night. But it was a different clerk this morning. Though last night’s counter tender had also been unnerved, he’d come through the ordeal with a clean pair of pants.

“Just for you,” Connie said, and gave each baby a teething biscuit and a rattle. She hoped that would keep them happy until she got herself fed. Their breakfast had been smooth for a change, and faster, thanks to Derek’s help. At least he didn’t hesitate to jump in where he was needed.

Neither did he hesitate to push himself in where he wasn’t wanted.

Christopher was on his second glass of apple juice, sitting next to his aunt at the table and waiting patiently for his breakfast. Derek was in the shower. He’d gotten as much cereal on him as he’d gotten into the baby. Whichever one he’d fed.

She squinted, studying each child in turn. They still looked alike, too young yet for gender to make its mark. She’d just changed their diapers, but they were each wearing yellow sleepers, and she’d forgotten which child she’d placed in which chair.

One of them dropped its rattle. Christopher picked it up. “Here you go, Abbie.” She thanked him by beating it on the tray as if trying to dig a posthole with it.

“Uh, Chris, how did you know that was Abbie? How do you tell them apart?”

He looked at each child, as intently as his aunt. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Then he added, “Maybe it’s her nose. It’s different from Andy’s.”

“It is? Oh, I see. It turns up on the end. Andy’s got a button nose.”

He heard his name and looked up. “Baw, baw, baw.”

“Oh, yeah? Tell me more.” He dropped his rattle, too. Hoping this wasn’t a new game they were learning, she retrieved it for him. When she bent over, she paused, and then angled her neck in order to get a better look at Christopher’s feet beneath the table. Yes, the right sneaker was black and the left one navy blue.

“And their hair is different,” Chris continued. “See how hers is straight, and he has that little curl right there, just like Unca Dare.”