Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) Read online

  “Oh, he’s a handsome boy underneath all that dirt,” Cara exclaimed, nuzzling her nose near his. “Aren’t you?”

  “Watch it,” I admonished. “He’s still terrified, and I don’t know what he’ll do.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m used to nips. It’s an occupational hazard for me, too.”

  I knew that. One of the reasons I preferred to work with Cara for grooming services was her refusal to use sedatives. “Okay,” I said, “let’s see what else we’ve got.”

  We managed to cut Lucky’s nails, clean his ears, get some antibiotic on the deep scratches we found, and bandage his pads. I still had work to do, but we’d made some progress. Looking over our handiwork, I sighed with satisfaction. “I think Mr. Zemski will be fairly pleased.”

  Cara’s eyes rounded. “This is Iggy’s dog? Since when?”

  “Since now.” I placed a hand on my jumpy stomach to calm the butterflies. She seemed so taken aback by the idea. “Why? What’s the big deal?”

  She shook her head, a grin lighting up her face. “I keep forgetting how new you are to this town.”

  “What does my arrival here have to do with Mr. Zemski?”

  “Everyone knows Iggy. He’s the town’s military hero. Injured in Iraq, and he’s got medals up the wazoo to prove it. And because he’s got all those medals and a semi-celebrity status, he’s never without a girlfriend. No one serious, though. Ever. He’s a player, but not a bad guy. He doesn’t make any promises or anything. He’s upfront and honest with everybody. None of his girlfriends have ever complained about getting a raw deal. And since we’re on the subject of raw, you’re the new meat in town. I’m guessing he’s got his eye on you now as his next target. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he arranged to get this dog here just so he could come up with a reasonable way to meet you.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s actually kind of sweet, which defines Iggy all the way. He looks like this hard, mean Marine, but inside, he’s all soft and sweet. He’s Snug Harbor’s version of a Tootsie Pop. If he wanted to meet you, he’s not going to pick you up in some bar or stalk you or anything. Rescuing a stray and bringing it to you to heal is definitely a good way to get you to notice him.” I started to argue, but Cara cut me off. “You wait. When he comes back to pick up Lucky, he’s gonna ask you out. You’ll see. Just don’t get too hooked on him. You’re not his permanent type.”

  “What makes you say that?” Not that I had any intention of dating anyone, much less Mr. Zemski, but Cara’s quick dismissal pierced my pride and piqued my curiosity.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong. You’ve got the right look, but you’re missing one main ingredient. Iggy’s looking for a Polish girl. His mom wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  Cara shrugged. “Small town life. Snug Harbor isn’t like what you’re used to. This isn’t Brooklyn where your neighbors are virtual strangers you might nod a greeting to at the beginning or end of a work day.”

  Right. Brooklyn. Cara would no doubt be surprised to learn I was more familiar with small-town gossip than she realized. For the last few years, I’d been the main topic of conversation for everyone in a small town in Ohio. I probably still was. Only now, the questions most likely revolved around where I’d flown off to with my ill-gotten gains. I wonder what all those gossips would say if they knew I’d fled the state with nothing but my DVM degree, an angry cat, and the clothes on my back. No gains at all, ill-gotten or otherwise.

  Cara ran a hand over the newly shorn dog’s shanks and sighed with all the drama of a soap opera star. “Iggy Zemski. I don’t know which is the true lucky one, you or this dog.”

  “Him,” I said as I jabbed the poor thing with another needle.

  When Mr. Zemski came back to pick up Lucky, I made myself scarce. While I finished the last of my paperwork in my tiny office in the back, Dominic got to reunite Lucky with his new owner, much to my relief.

  After leaving the day’s files with Becky, I pulled on my coat, bid the staff a fond farewell for the evening, and left through the rear exit to the parking lot. A hot, sudsy shower and a microwaved dinner of leftovers waited for me at home. Exciting, yes? The truth was, I’d had enough excitement when I was still in Ohio. Now, I craved peace, solitude, and nuked convenience food for a blustery November evening.

  “Dr. Herrera?”

  At the sound of a man calling my name, fear slammed into me, and I screamed as I whirled, poised to do…I don’t know what. Scream again? I didn’t carry a weapon. I was woefully unprepared, which, considering what I’d been through was pathetic. The only things in my pocket were my keys, but I grabbed them anyway. Whether for a quick getaway or for possible eye-gouging I didn’t know.

  “Easy.” Iggy Zemski stood at the edge of the parking lot, hands held high. Lucky stood on a leash at his side, his tail wagging and tongue lolling from his mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I just wanted to thank you for what you did for Lucky here. And for me. I know you didn’t charge me full-price for all your services. He looks great, by the way.”

  I inhaled and let the air out of my lungs slowly, allowing my heartbeat time to return to its normal rhythm. “You don’t have to thank me,” I said with the slightest quiver remaining in my voice. “Dr. Bautista sets the rates. He insists we give a discount to anyone who brings in a stray or feral animal. It’s kinda like incentive for people to do the right thing.”

  He took a step closer, and I backed up, inching closer to my car, the key fob handy and my finger dancing between the unlock and alarm buttons.

  “You took off a lot more than the standard discount Dom gives me,” he said. “Lucky’s not my first stray, you know.”

  “No, but he was the first one you opted to keep,” I replied. “That alone gave me leeway in the pricing.”

  The wind kicked up, and I shivered inside my coat. This man terrified me. His eyes, sharp and detail-oriented, missed nothing as they pierced my shields. War hero. I knew little more than that about him, and yet, my senses went on full alert whenever he came near. I’d learned to heed that inner voice, the mental alarm that suggested something or someone was not what they seemed. Too late, perhaps. But better late than never.

  “I’d like to thank you personally. Maybe, say, over dinner?”

  Holy crap, Cara was right. He was trying to play me.

  “Umm,” I said, inching closer to the driver’s side door of my Jeep. “That’s nice of you, but I can’t. I’m sorry. Thanks anyway. I have to go.” I hit the door lock on my fob, whipped open the door, and lunged behind the steering wheel.

  While he stayed in the same position watching me, I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot as calmly as my growing panic would allow. As I turned onto Main Street, I glanced into my rearview mirror. He still stood there, the dog at his side, guardians in the twilight.

  I didn’t need a guardian. I just needed to be left alone. That was why I came to Snug Harbor. To lose the past that haunted me.

  A few minutes later, I pulled onto the gravel driveway leading to my two-bedroom bungalow. The motion sensors flipped on at my approach, bathing the property in parchment light. I parked in front of the detached garage and locked my car before scaling the weathered steps to the sunporch. On the windowsill inside the dining room, Midnight stretched and meowed his usual welcome.

  “I’m coming,” I said to the cat. “Keep your fur on.” I had barely stepped into the living room before he weaved his slinky body in and around my legs. I suppose other women would’ve worried about pet hair, but not me. How could I? With the stains and various indignities my work clothes suffered on a regular basis, Midnight’s stray bit of shedding was a single thread in my typical workday quilt. I ran a hand over his coat from ears to rump. “Missed me today, huh, buddy? What’s wrong? Your food bowl empty? Can’t find the catnip mouse? Don’t worry. Whatever it is, Mama to the rescue.”

  That comment seemed to appease Mid
night, who sauntered off into the kitchen to wait for me while I finished my evening ritual. I peeled off my coat and hung it in the hall closet then kicked off my sneakers. Ahhh. Let the relaxing begin.

  I padded deeper into the living room in my stocking feet, picked up the remote control, and clicked on my favorite streaming music. A few years ago, I was a television news junkie, a habit borne out of the incessant boob tube running in the veterinary practice where I worked. But when I became one of the headlines, that part of my personality became not only painful to continue, but a solid reason for others to suspect my guilt. I quit watching the news cold turkey. Oh, I still had a television, but only for streaming movies: rom-cons, mostly, with the occasional British farce tossed in for variety. My news days, as well as the genres of mystery, suspense, and drama, were over.

  As expected, Midnight’s food bowl only had three bits of kibble left—a brewing disaster in the cat’s mind. Grabbing the canister of dry food, I filled his bowl. I had just replaced the container on the shelf when my phone rang. I glanced at the clock. Six pm.

  I picked up the receiver without even glancing at the Caller ID. “Hi, Mom.” Every Monday. Six pm. That was my mother. No matter how many times I told her to vary the schedule, she never did. She was always afraid she’d screw up and catch me at work. Writing down my hours was out of the question, for some reason I’d never understood. That was Mom—the obvious escaped her, the incidental could not be overlooked.

  “Hi, honey. How was your week?”

  “The usual. What’s going on with you?”

  Silence reigned between us for too many heartbeats, and I knew something devastating was coming next.

  “He’s dead, Jaynie. Vincent Pittman. Killed in prison.”

  My legs gave way, and I sank into the nearest chair. “Wh-what happened?”

  “I don’t have all the details. Sergeant Rosario came by to give us the news personally. He said the scoundrel was stabbed in some kind of fight in the yard. That’s all I know and all I want to know. It’s over, honey. You can come home now.”

  No. I couldn’t. And deep down, my mother knew that. I didn’t need to say it, but I did anyway. “This will only renew the scandal again,” I said with a sigh. “And I can’t make a go of a business where people don’t trust me. I’m better off staying here.”

  “I suppose.” Another pause and then, “You’re probably right. That reporter has already called, looking for you. That Cole guy.”

  Of course. Cole Abrams would never miss an opportunity to stab me in the back. Again.

  “With Pittman dead, they want to do a one-hour special focused on you. He says they want to give you a chance to finally tell your side.”

  The shivers returned, double-time, and I gripped the kitchen counter as the memories whipped through me. The swarms of people, the cameras, microphones shoved in my face, reporters shouting out questions I couldn’t answer. “Uh-huh,” I said. “We tried that already. Remember how well it went?”

  I’d lost my practice, my home, my friends, and all I held dear last time around. Now that I finally had solid ground beneath my feet again, how soon would I find myself abandoned and on the run again?

  “Maybe you should consider doing it live this time, instead of letting someone rewrite your story to skew public opinion against you.”

  “Forget it. I’m not going through that again. Not now. Not ever.”

  “But don’t you see? That’s why everybody thinks you’re guilty.”

  “Everybody?” The word caught me unawares, a knife in my back, and I retaliated with the same level of aggression. “Including you, Mom?”

  “Now, sweetheart.” Her tone grew placating, which only ramped up my resentment. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You’re not denying it, either,” I replied. My teeth clamped together before anything uglier could escape from my mouth.

  “I know you had nothing to do with what happened to David. But the fact you’ve never addressed the accusations gives everyone else room to speculate.”

  “Let them speculate. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.” Including you. I bit back the retort. Nothing could come of adding that kind of hostility to the conversation.

  “Don’t you care about your reputation? I mean, I know you’re no longer living here so you don’t have to hear the rumors or feel the staring when you walk anywhere in this town. But do you realize what this has done to your father and me? Don’t you care about us at all?”

  “I do care about you, Mom. And Dad. That’s why I asked you to consider moving when it was over.”

  “We’ve lived here most of our lives. We can’t just pull up stakes and leave.”

  Yes, they could. That was the worst part. My father had retired as an executive of a brand name tire corporation years ago. Mom had left her secretarial job around the same time, and the two loved traveling now that the kids were grown and on their own. Grandchildren had yet to arrive, leaving them plenty of time to see the world. They just refused to let the gossips win, which left them constantly bearing the finger-pointing and whispers meant for me.

  “Why don’t you at least take a vacation?” I suggested. “Go somewhere special for a few weeks ‘til this blows over. If the reporters can’t locate me and you’re out of town, they’ll find a new story to pursue.”

  “Maybeee…” She drew the last syllable out, testing the waters, considering her options.

  “My treat,” I pushed, sweetening the pot. I wasn’t exactly flush with funds, but their predicament was my fault, technically. If I hadn’t married David…well, best to not revisit that tragic mistake again. I spent way too much time beating myself up over my poor taste in men. Marrying the jerk was only one in a long list of mistakes I’d made in the past several years.

  “We’ll think about it,” Mom said, which was more than she’d given me the last several times I’d made this offer. Either I was wearing down her resistance or the gossip was finally becoming too much to bear.

  A flush of shame warmed my cheeks. It wasn’t fair that they were caught in the media net, but, short of granting them the means for an escape, there was little I could do. David’s actions had cast a big pall, and the shadow took in several innocents, me among them. “I’ll call you in a coupla days. In the meantime, talk to Dad, pick out a nice spot. Maybe a cruise around the Hawaiian islands or something. Okay?”

  “I’m not sure—”

  “It’ll be good for you,” I interjected. “Really. Ooh! I gotta go. Someone’s at the door.” The lie slipped from my lips so easily, I felt a twinge of guilt, but I couldn’t continue this conversation now. Not without a flak suit. “We’ll talk later in the week. I promise.”

  “Okay, if you say so.” She paused, but didn’t hang up. “Jayne?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We love you, sweetheart. You know that, don’t you?”

  I took a deep breath, let it out nice and slow. “I do. And I love you both, too. I’ll talk to you in a few days. Goodnight, Mom.” I hung up before she could say anything more.

  Sure, they loved me. I never doubted that. They just didn’t believe me. Along with anyone else familiar with my late husband’s murder trial.

  Chapter 3

  Terri

  By ten o’clock the next day, Gary, the crew, and I had become a well-oiled machine. We had to. The line to get into our tea shop extended out the door and around the corner. On a rainy Sunday, no less. Oh, sure, most of the patrons were local residents: half a dozen Candoleros; Dominic Bautista and his partner, Evan Rugerman; Brice and Courtney Howell; Emily and Roy Handler; Lucie and Colin Murriere with their two kids; and lots of other familiar faces. No doubt, they came to support either Gary or my aunt and uncle—who all worked their butts off bussing tables, seating patrons, cooking, and taking orders.

  “What’d I tell you?” Gary exclaimed as he pulled yet another batch of golden croissants from the oven. “We’re a hit on Day One.”

  “Let’s see if we’re still a
hit on Day Thirty-One,” I replied, grabbing up a plate of delicate, decadent pastries for Table Six. While we offered the traditional tea menu of cucumber and watercress finger sandwiches, chicken and fruit salads, and warming soups, Gary’s sweet treats were the star of every show.

  He clucked his tongue. “No negativity, ma puce. Put positive out into the universe, get positive back.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Pastry Guru.”

  Placing his oven-mitted hands together in prayer fashion, he bowed low. “Namaste,” he said. “Now get those Napoleons to Table Six while they’re still perfect.”

  As I hustled away with my serving tray, a smile quirked my lips. I had to admit, Gary the Pastry Chef wasn’t nearly as scary as Gary the Bartender. And though I’d only seen them together for a coupla hours, Gary the Dad had an easygoing style with his son, too. Funny how being sober could change my perception—or everybody else’s.

  Maybe this partnership thing could work out—if the business succeeded. We were off to a promising start, so that was something to celebrate.

  Back in the tearoom, dishes clinked, conversation hummed, and laughter rang in the cinnamon-scented air. It was so noisy I couldn’t hear the classical music piped in over the speakers, and I wondered if that was just due to the crowd today, or would I be better off ditching the musical interlude in the future? The wondering would be a habit I repeated all day long, pondering what people enjoyed versus what turned them off. I’d watch my customers’ faces for what they liked as they ate and sipped, took note of which pastries moved fastest, consulted the waiting list for anyone who’d decided to bail rather than wait to be seated. To my surprise, no one had opted to forego their turn just yet. And the crowds never seemed to dwindle, no matter how many tables were turned over.

  I supposed everyone in town wanted to be able to say they were at my place on opening day. What worried me was the thought that many of these people where here because (a.) they didn’t think the place would last, or (b.) they expected to see me nipping on booze between shifts, or (c.) both.