The Set Up (69 page)

“When is Whitney showing it to him?”

“I guess he’s off with the family for Labor Day Weekend.”

“Hank’s lake house,” I mutter. That fucking house he loves with his wife, son and his wife and child, daughter, dog, and cabin cruiser. The thing missing—my mother.

“Is Whitney going to alert him?” Charlotte asks, sitting up and crossing her legs.

The limo feels warm and the rain is pounding harder and harder on the roof. “No,” Will says, “she’s going to leave it alone, not draw any attention to it, which should give us time to hopefully get in front of it. She’s the one who gave me the name of the firm in LA.”

Pissed. Irritated. And a little out of my league here, I put my arms behind my head. Now this, this, is completely out of my control. “Fuck! We just can’t catch a break.”

“You’re not kidding,” sighs Drew.

I indicate Jake. “He’s not going to take any of this well, especially with the state of mind he’s in.”

“He’ll be okay,” Charlotte whispers. “He has you guys to help him through it.”

Will throws her a warm gaze. “How about we drop you and Jasper off, and Drew and I get to work on sobering this guy up.” He points to a snoring Jake, who has drool leaking out the side of his mouth.

Instead of answering right away, she looks at me with those eyes I’d say yes to before even knowing what she is asking. “How about you guys drop me off and I’ll get your things together so you can help with Jake. Just send the driver back to pick them up.”

Contemplation can be added to the long list of things I’m struggling with right now.

A slow, sad smile curves her perfect mouth. “It will save you a lot of time.”

Half a second is all it takes for me to lean over and brush my lips against the fullness, kiss the girl who has somehow tempered me, and changed my world. “You sure?” I whisper over her lips.

“With you, I’m always sure.”

My chest tightens, and the way I feel for her drums wildly in every beat of my heart.

Innocent.

Sweet.

Perfect.

That kitten who dares to show me she can be a tiger.

“Thank you,” I whisper and then hold her tight.

When we pull up in front of the my building, I put my hand on her knee. “You sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

The driver gets out and comes around with an umbrella.

“I’ll have my mother take you to the doctor tomorrow,” I tell her.

She puts her hand over mine. “You don’t have to do that.”

“It will make me feel better if she does.”

That warm smile is the concession I need to feel better about this.

The door opens and the driver has an umbrella tented. Charlotte kisses me. “I’ll see you soon.”

As soon as she gets out, I have this overwhelming need to hold her again. “Charlotte, wait,” I call before she goes through the lobby door.

She turns and I find myself staring into her eyes. Conveying a message. A secret language that only we share. Everything is going to be okay, I’m telling her. I have you, and no matter what I want out of life, if all I have left is you, I’ll be fine.

I know her body well. Every curve, every line, every dip and hollow. I know what her legs look like, the shape of her knees, the size of her ankles, but what I don’t know, as I take her in my arms and hold her, is what her message back to me is.

“Come on Jasper, we have to hurry,” Will calls.

One last look.

No time to ask.

I’ll figure it out.

CROSSROADS

Charlotte

DETROIT PROPER GETS
a bad rap.

And for good reason—the crime, the poverty, the dysfunction.

Yet, as I drive northwest to one of its outer suburbs, I can’t help but feel I’m somewhere else. With average home prices hitting nearly seven figures, unemployment lower than any other suburb, and no gridlock, it doesn’t feel like Detroit at all.

It was exactly twenty-nine minutes to get to Mrs. Storm’s house in Bloomfield Hills, and it should only take another fifteen minutes to get to the orthopedic office that Shannon had recommended in Bloomfield Township.

The rain is gone, replaced by bright sunshine. Through the orchard of apple trees, I can see a small pond shimmering in the distance.

I’m sitting in my Honda Civic, which is running like a dream. Even though he fixed it, Jasper really dislikes my car and wants to get me something safer. Not a Storm, of course, they’re too fast, he says.

Mrs. Storm turns to me. “It’s pretty up here.”

“It is,” I answer.

“It would be so great if you and Jasper decide to move here.”

Taken aback, I find myself flushing. “Oh, Mrs. Storm, we’re not . . . I mean, we . . .” I don’t know what I mean. One way I know to freak Jasper out though is talk about the future.

She looks out the window. “I know what you are,” she grins.

Changing the subject seems best. “We’re almost there, and more than an hour early.”

“Let’s grab some lunch; there’s a little place right up here that serves the best sushi. I think you told me you loved sushi, right?”

The thought of raw fish makes my stomach turn. “I do, but I haven’t had breakfast, maybe a deli would be better.” I smile.

“I know just the place.”

Ten minutes later we’re seated across from each other at a white iron table, with a red plaid tablecloth covering it, in the cutest café, looking over our menus.

Unfolding her napkin, Mrs. Storm blurts out, “Hank and I have broken up. I haven’t told Jasper yet.”

Shocked, I stare with my mouth wide open. “Why?”

“It’s been coming for awhile.”

The waitress approaches, flips open her pad, and asks if we’re ready.

“Yes, I think we are,” Mrs. Storm says cheerily. “I’ll have the tuna sandwich, plain, on white bread, please, and a lemonade.”

The waitress looks at me. The word tuna makes my stomach turn—again.
I think I’m still hung over.
“I’ll have the BLT, minus the bacon, no mayonnaise please, on whole wheat.”

“Anything to drink?”

“Water, with lemon would be great.”

The waitress nods, asks if that’s all, then turns on her heels to go.

“Are you not feeling well?”

I brush the hair off my face. “I’m fine. Just had too much to drink last night.”

She gives me a knowing glance.

“Finish your story,” I prompt.

The waitress brings our drinks though, before she can.

Mrs. Storm takes a sip of her lemonade. “I want so much that I don’t have. I want to be a part of my son’s life. I want him to be proud to be seen with me. I want to feel like I earned the right to be called mom. I want him to love me.”

I squeeze my lemon into my glass. “Oh, Mrs. Storm, he does love you.”

She shakes her head. “No, not the way he would have if Luke was still alive.”

I put the lemon on the plate beside my water. “Things happen in life, and we all adjust.”

“That’s true. But I’m the woman who let him down over and over. I don’t want to be that woman anymore.”

“I can understand that, but you need to do what is best for you, not Jasper. He’s an adult now.”

She pauses for a moment before speaking. “I think I should clarify something. I didn’t break up with Hank for him. I did it for me. In fact, the day of your attack, Hank and I met with an attorney. He’s deeded me the house free and clear. After twelve years of hiding our relationship, I think I deserve that. And I got a job, here in Bloomfield Township managing the nursery downtown. It’s a full-time job. I start next week.”

Tears haze my vision and I lean across the table and grab her hands. “I’m so happy for you.”

She laughs. “I’m proud of myself too. I also haven’t had a drink in more than six months. Although Jasper thinks I’m an alcoholic, I never really drank as much as he thought I did, but still I quit.”

“That’s great news, too.”

The waitress sets our plates in front of us.

The smell of the tuna wafting in my direction causes another turn of my stomach. I stand up. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Mrs. Storm, “I just want to wash my hands,” and then I dart toward the restroom.

Once I can breathe again, I make my way back out to the table.

Mrs. Storm raises a brow. “You sure you aren’t sick?”

“No, I told you, we went out last night, that’s all.”

After she takes a bite of her sandwich, she wipes her mouth and looks around the café.

I try to eat, nibble a little at the crust, drink my water. “So,” I say, “will you work during the winter months?”

She sips her lemonade. “Yes, the nursery is open year round. It offers indoor plants, Christmas trees, and garden supplies.”

We spend the rest of our lunch talking about flowers until it is time to head to my appointment.

The doctor’s office is decorated with pictures of limbs—arms and legs mostly in movement, and the racks overflow with magazines with the words running and fitness on them.

“Miss Lane?”

I look up from what I am reading.

The nurse smiles and gestures. “We’re ready for you.”

I grab my purse and look at Mrs. Storm. “It shouldn’t take too long to remove this.” I raise my casted arm.

She looks at me above her reading glasses. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go back with you?”

“I’ll be fine,” I smile.

She closes her magazine. “I’ll be right here if you change your mind.”

Seconds later, I’m following the nurse down a tranquil blue hallway with more photos of runners decorating the walls, and into an exam room.

“You don’t have to undress, but we do need a urine sample. You’re not pregnant, are you?”

I shake my head no. And then again to make sure she understands.

She points to a door. “Just leave it on the counter. We just need to be certain before taking an x-ray of your arm.”

“Sure, I understand.”

Once I complete my task, I’m back in the exam room.

Waiting.

Thinking.

Wondering how Jake took the news.

How things are going for Jasper.

We spoke earlier after he had landed, but the guys were close by and he couldn’t really talk.

A sharp knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

The doctor looks to be in his mid-forties, tall, handsome, with a beard and glasses. “So how are you today, Miss Lane?”

“Call me Charlotte. And I’m fine.” I sit up a little straighter.

“Good, good.” His nurse bustles around the room while he sits on the stool in front of me. “How about I take a look?”

I hand him my left arm.

“Have you had any trouble?”

The stick figures of a boy and a girl on bikes that Jasper drew on my cast when he saw it, is the first thing I see when I look down, and that makes me smile. “No, other than it constantly itches, it really hasn’t been a problem.”

“Good, good,” he repeats.

“Here you go, doctor.” The nurse hands him a pair of medical scissors.

He takes them. “This isn’t going to hurt at all.”

I nod, feeling a little nervous.

He snips.

The nurse then hands him a saw of some kind and my eyes grow wide.

The doctor pats my arm. “This isn’t going to hurt either, Charlotte. It will cut through the plaster only, I promise.”

With the mask pulled over his face, he turns the tool on.

It sounds just like a real saw and sweat coats my brow. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the way my nerves jump with every whirl of the blade.

“So,” he says, “how does it feel?”

I draw in a breath and look down. My cast is gone. My skin a little whiter than the rest of my arm where it was, a little more shriveled, but otherwise it feels almost the same. “Good,” I answer.

“Good,” he says.

The nurse takes the tool from him and he rolls back a little on his stool. “Now let’s check the movement, shall we?”

He moves it up, down, left, right, flexes it, has me squeeze a ball, wave, make a fist. “That looks really good. The nurse will help you wash it with a special soap that should remove all the stickiness, and then I’ll meet you in my office.

The soap really does work and although my wrist feels a little strange, it almost feels like nothing ever happened to it.