Unfinished Business (5 page)

Oh, relief. Nick is talking.

I stare at him for a minute because his teeth really are so nice and straight. “Huh?”

He waves his hand between Riana and him. “Tell us the limerick.”

Nice hands, too. Why haven’t I ever noticed that before? “Limerick?”

“To win the Irish dinners,” Riana says as if I’m some dolt who can’t remember bits of conversation from one piece to the next. “The contest, Hayley.”

Oh yeah.
I ask them, “Do we even want that cabbish?”

Nick opens his mouth but the voice that comes out is cheerfully musical. I didn’t know Nick could do an Irish accent.

Oh. He can’t do an accent, it’s some round, little man wearing a green cap. He has suspenders and lime green striped pants. It’s a leprechaun? Can’t be. Yet there he is, right there in the front of the bar, standing on a tiny stage.

The leprechaun keeps talking and it sounds great. The right thing to put a person in the mood for a real old-world St. Paddy’s Day. The crowd is so noisy, I can’t really make out what the little guy is saying but it doesn’t matter.
Rolling, rolling jolly words.
He laughs and his world laughs with him.
More jolly words, something else
… “Limericks.”

Nick shoots to his feet and does a weird saluting thing. There’s a warm round of applause. What nice people to clap for my friend. Maybe they like his smile too. And his arms. I bet they like his arms as much as I do. I peek at him from the corners of my eyes. His back is nice too.

While I’m giving him the once-over, Nick grabs my arm and rudely jerks me to my feet. After I totter a bit, I turn to glare at him but notice that everyone in the room is staring at me. Expectantly. Actually, I have to admit, I feel their expectation more than see it, because mostly their faces are obscured by that damn guilt cloud.

The next thing I know, the nice leprechaun is taking my hand and leading me through the tables crammed with muddy brown and bright green people. He squares me in front of a microphone and nods.

Silence greets me.

I blink, puppet-like, and frighten myself as my head pivots stiffly above my neck.

A shout comes from my table.

“Say the limerick, Hayley.”

What would I do without Nick? I understand now. I’m trying to win some cornbeffan cabbish.

Here’s a chance to do something different. Step out of my comfort zone and learn about myself. Public speaking is not in my comfort zone, that’s for damn sure. I hate it, as a matter of fact. So being at the microphone is a good thing. Right?

Appreciating this opportunity for growth, I smile at the crowd and scroll back through my brain for Frankie’s words.

“There once was a pretty young model.

Who was often drawn to the bottle.

She’d drink and she’d drink,

Till…”

The crowd leans forward, willing me to go on. Sadly, all I can remember is something about four dollar cappuccinos. That doesn’t fit. It doesn’t even rhyme.

Here’s my perfect chance to express myself, to grow as a person, to be a cool city girl, and all I can think about is overpriced coffee. A nasty, hot, liquid sensation creeps up my throat and floods my face.

“Go on, girlie,” someone shouts from the crowd.

“Pull ’er off, Rooney. Give me a go.”

The crowd has become hostile. To me!

I’m sorry I went looking for myself, because I found myself and I suck.

I didn’t want to come up here. They made me. Only seconds ago they wanted me, but now?

When the leprechaun nudges me I reluctantly accept that the little man is not a leprechaun, he’s Rooney McNamara, as in The Rooney McNamara special and Rooney McNamara owner of the pub. He cups the microphone with his pudgy hand. “Can you remember the rest, dear?”

I can’t. I shake my head.

Standing dumbstruck before a horde of drunken Midwesterners on St. Patrick’s Day is fairly degrading. I don’t recommend it.

Humiliation sweeps over me as the old man gives me a push and sends me hobbling back through the crowd. The mob starts shouting again and the noise rings in my ears as I swim between the chairs. This sort of public shaming is much too familiar.

Maybe Nick was right about us being weepy and pathetic, because I don’t feel so happy.

Riana rushes up with her arms out stretched. “Oh, honey,” she coos, taking me and guiding me back to our booth where Nick is piling our coats into his arms.

With the pall of failure hanging around us, we head outside to the parking lot. Defeated and without the prize.

“I shouldn’t have made you go up there, Hayley. I’m sorry,” Nick says as he climbs behind the wheel of his midnight blue pickup.

I scoot in from the other side and wiggle to the middle where I always sit. Riana crawls in after me. Now that we’ve left the scene of the accident, I don’t feel quite so horrible. Honestly, though, I still feel pretty crappy. Thank goodness Nick is there to steady things out.

“I really have to get a grip on my life,” I mumble.

Nick glances at me after he pulls out onto Seven Mile Road but he doesn’t say anything.

I rest my head on his shoulder, and Riana rests her head on mine. The lights of Woodward flash past as Nick drives south, toward Palmer Park. He’s a good driver, Nick is. He’s good at everything. Good, solid, Nick. Always there. Ever since he started coming into the bakery where I worked when I first got to the city.

Thinking about Nick makes me so happy I laugh. He was so cute with his coffee and notebooks and old school nerdy stuff.

He glances away from the road to me. “What?”

“Do you still do those calculator puzzles?”

He gives me a wry look. “Yes, I do. It’s why I get the scholarships.”

I stop giggling and look him over. He sees my scrutiny and turns his face back to the road but I can still feel his attention on me. And I remember the way it felt when he put his hand on my leg. I start wondering, when will he do it again?

Not if.

When.

That definitely gives me some things to think about. Starting with what I’ll do when he does. We ride along without saying any more until he pulls up in front of Riana’s apartment. She grabs my hand. “Come on in, I’ll make us some nice tea.”

“Coming?” I ask Nick.

He shrugs.

We all pile out of the truck and, because our invisible bar blankets have evaporated, retreat into our coats and hunch over like turtles. After Nick double-checks the lock on the toolbox in the bed of his pickup, we scuttle up the walk.

Palmer Park may have been a truly pleasant neighborhood once upon a time. Maybe during the fifties? The architecture of the pale brick buildings reminds me of those houses on Sesame Street. The ones where people sit out front talking and watching the world go by while neighbors lean out of windows and say hi.

Riana’s apartment is exactly like that—wide windows and squat brick steps, only it isn’t safe to sit out front and chit-chat with people who happen by. For one thing, there won’t be anybody reasonable strolling along. For another, if somebody did poke their head out and start calling hello, somebody else would call the cops. Not that they’d come.

“Stop being so negative.”

I grab the entrance door, yank it open, slant against it and frown at Nick. “I haven’t said a thing.”

“That look on your face. I can tell it’s coming.”

I lift my chin and reply in my best, most petulant, childlike voice, “I’ll be negative if I want to.”

He rolls his eyes and pushes me through the doorway.

“Teatime,” Riana trills as she sways down the hall.

I should lighten up, it is a holiday after all. So what if I made a complete fool of myself in front of those drunken Irish wannabes. To show him how wrong he is, I throw Nick a smile then skip down the hall to Riana’s door.

Only Riana is not digging for her keys or pushing her door open. She’s hugging Josie—where did she come from?—and rubbing her back, murmuring, “It’ll be okay, honey. You’ve been through it before and it’s usually not quite as bad as you think it’s going to be. Right?”

Josie sniffles and rubs her face. “I guess so.”

“Oh, no. No way. I am not doing this.” Nick is backing up and lifting his palms as though he’s warding off a trio of vampires. “I knew it was coming to this. You girls go ahead with your…your…thing.” He throws his hands in the air then flattens his fingers across his chest. “I’m going home.”

Right before he turns the corner to disappear, he spins around and points at us. “No driving. None of you. Got it?”

Riana leans between Josie and me to yell, “We’re going to have some nice tea.”

“Fine but no driving. You all sleep here,” he hollers from around the corner.

“Who made him the big boss?” I grumble.

“They’re like that,” Josie stammers. “Those kinds of people. They think they can boss everyone else around because they’re so special.” Unfortunately she’s beginning to snarl. “Those special, important, fuckheads.”

Oh dear.

Maybe I should have left with Nick. Angry Josie can be a bit scary.
Please, please don’t let her and Riana start doing that puppet thing with their heads
. I’ve sobered up enough so that I’d notice it for sure.

Riana’s cheery expression doesn’t fool me. I know for a fact that she’s frightened by angry Josie too. “In we go,” she says, smiling and patting us both on the shoulder.

After she locks and bolts the door behind us, Riana toddles to the kitchen. Josie takes a long, shaky breath then slumps on the couch and stares with smudgy makeup eyes at the blinking lights of the Seven Wood Café across the street. I wonder what to say next.

‘So Josie what’s up?’
Too wide open.

‘Besides Nick, who’s a special, important, fuckhead?’
Too sarcastic.

Riana steps into the room, and I look at her beseechingly.

“It’s her sister,” she says then ducks back out.

Oh.

My shoulders drop back into place and my fingers uncurl. Josie’s dysfunctional relationship with her sister. That I can deal with.

Because Riana’s right. We’ve been through it before and even though it usually does turn out as bad as we think.

“What’s she done now?”

“It isn’t what she has done,” Josie replies combing her bright red nails through her tangled hair. “It’s what she’s going to do.”

Riana bustles into the room with a tray of cookies and the yet-to-be-filled tea cups. The matching cream and sugar set I gave her are tucked in the corner of the tray under a pile of cloth napkins. How can she go from chugging watered-down beer in some lame ass Irish pub to this in less than thirty minutes?

“She’s going to write an article,” Riana says to me as she sets the tray on the table in front of the couch.

Josie rubs away the last smears of mascara then grabs one of the cookies and snaps it in half. “On modern dating, you know, Detroit style.”

Maybe if I ate one of those cookies I’d be able to think better. Clear my head. Chocolate chip even. Sure to bring out the best in anyone. Hopefully, that includes Josie.

I stuff one into my mouth.

Yummy. But it isn’t working yet. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”

“She started asking me all this stuff about how people hook up these days, like she has no idea—what does she live in, a convent? Anyway, I ended up telling her about my whole thing and now she wants to use it in her article.” She pops half of a cookie into her mouth and proceeds to talk around it. “Somehow, it’ll end up being her idea.”

There’s no point in denying that because there’s a good chance it’ll happen. Josie’s sister is a human sponge. The selective kind. She only soaks up excellence. Anything that will either make her look better than those around her or will make her achieve some sort of unparalleled success.

Because I can’t cheer Josie up by saying don’t worry about it, I try to shift the topic onto a different track. “I’m surprised she even has friends. Who’d want to hang around somebody like that?”

Riana returns with the pot of tea. “Other sponges. They all stick together. You know, trading pointers on the best way to use people.” She pours the tea, mumbling to herself, “That must work somehow.”

I take a tiny ladylike sip, set my cup down then dump a big spoonful of sugar into it. “Vampires have friends, don’t they?”

“Ever meet her friend Suzie?” Josie asks us over the rim of her teacup. “I can see that bitch sucking the life out of anyone who gets in her way.”

“Speaking of things that aren’t funny.” Riana turns to me. “Did you ever remember the end of that limerick?”

I’d forgotten all about
that
.

Josie perks up. “Limerick?”

Riana fills her in on The Degrading Limerick Fiasco. Including the beginning of that daft poem and our hasty exit. I’m glad I didn’t say anything about Rooney being a leprechaun, because now that the second-rate beer is wearing off, I realize it would’ve sounded really pathetic.

“So what is the end?” Josie asks.

For some reason, Riana really wants to know, too.

Suddenly, I need to know.

It’s as if remembering the end of the poem will make everything okay for us. Riana will wake up and realize Peter is not worth her time, Josie’s sister will vanish and my life will instantly have some sort of meaning.

Riana prompts me with, “She’d drink and she’d drink till…”

My brain remains stubbornly blank so she asks, “What rhymes with drink?”

“Sink!”
Why didn’t I think of that?

“She’d drink and she’d drink,

Till she puked in the sink,

Then off to next bar she’d tottle!”

Chapter Seven

Decode His Touch: Read His Mind

“Something big is brewing, Hayley.”

It’s three days later on Wednesday morning and Mr. Hastings is hanging out of his security booth at the complex’s entrance, pointing at the clubhouse. “You know that Caroline.” He peers up at the brim of his navy blue cap. “She’s a pretty gal. Not real talkative, though.”

Sure, I know that Caroline but I never thought of her as attractive. Maybe in a stiff hair sprayed, fake eye-lashed, full-figured Kim Kardashian kind of way. From a distance.