Lori Avocato - Nip, Tuck, Dead

Shauna shut the car door and opened the window. “Cameras are replaceable-”

“Glad you feel that way.” And I really was. Guilt was something inbred in me by my mother and fostered for twelve years by nuns. You haven’t lived guilt until it is nun-induced. They had my Jewish friends’ mothers beat by a mile. “You can easily pick up one of those disposable cameras at the drugstore.”

Shauna cleared her throat and in a whinny voice said, “It’s the pictures of us that can never, ever be replaced.”

Zinger to my heart. I was speechless. From the corner of my eyes I noticed Jagger-grinning.

He was enjoying this! The only thing I could do to make myself feel a bit better was to lean toward him and say, “Want a repeat of last night?”

Never in my wildest dreams would I imagine seeing fear, fear that I induced, as a matter of fact, in Jagger’s eyes.

But damn if my threat didn’t produce it and somehow make me feel a bit better.

Since Goldie was off on the town with Miles, Jagger took me to The Market for a cup of tea. The guy always did know what was best for me-but I’d die before admitting that to him.

When he set a cup of English Breakfast-decaffeinated-down in front of me, I looked up at him. “By the way, I didn’t get a chance to ask, but what the hell were you doing with the police?”

He’d set a cup of black coffee down in front of his seat and stood over the chair a few seconds, merely looking at me.

I rolled my eyes. “Never mind. I’m going to assume you’re friends with at least one of the detectives, that you were visiting while the call came in, and you probably saw my cell phone number and tagged along because you thought I needed saving.”

He grinned.

I should have been furious. I should have been embarrassed. I should have shouted for him to leave me alone-but I puffed up my shoulders and was so proud of myself for hitting that Jagger nail on the head that I wasn’t furious, shouting or embarrassed.

Nothing could make my day like a look of pride from Jagger.

After our rather silent coffee/tea break, we walked outside and got into Jagger’s SUV. Without a word he took a right out of The Market’s parking lot and didn’t turn down any side street to take us back to the lodge.

Just down the hill the ocean sprang out to the right, and although the beach was deserted at this time of the year, the surf of course continued its rhythmic crashing against the sand. Brown and white seagulls, gigantic birds, squawked from their perches on the abandoned lifeguard chairs.

Jagger turned into the lot, pulled into a space and shut off the engine. “Walk or sit here?”

Without a thought I said, “Walk,” while never taking my eyes off the water.

Ian had died in this water.

I got out and stood, holding the door handle while a gust of ocean breeze nearly knocked me over. Jagger was already standing by the cement stairs that led to the beach.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” I said more sarcastically than planned.

“Unfortunately I have to, Sherlock. I have to.” With that he bent down and took off his cowboy boots and socks.

For as much as what he’d just said had me as curious as all get out, I took my socks and shoes off too, set them on the side of the steps and walked into the amazingly warm sand. The sun had baked it all morning, causing an almost sensual feel.

Okay, watching Jagger’s back and…er…lower back-okay, lower than his back-as he walked toward the water might have warmed me down to my toes.

Seagulls swooped down on us as if we were some tasty meal. The damn scavengers were annoying. Occasionally Jagger swatted at the air until they flew off shrieking.

Several times I looked out toward Cliff Walk and as if with zoom-lens eyesight could so clearly see the collection of rocks that Ian had been killed on. I shuddered.

And Jagger’s arm was around me in seconds.

We walked silently, enjoying the ocean, the rhythmic sounds of slamming waves and the salty scent of the Atlantic. Once we reached the end of the beach area below a row of fabulous cottages, Jagger led me to an outcropping of rocks where we both sat.

The warm sun beat down on us. Despite the breeze, the air had warmed enough that my feet never got cold in the sand.

I leaned back to rest my head against the rocks, shut my eyes and let my mind wander.

Of course, with Jagger next to me, my mind headed down “Lust Lane,” but it was damn fun.

Beep. Beep.

Nearly paralyzed from pleasure, I remained still.

“That’s you, Sherlock.”

“Hm? Oh.” I opened my eyes, sat forward and took my phone from my pocket, amazed at how dreamy I felt in this atmosphere. I looked at the caller’s number. “Oh, no.”

“What? Something wrong?” He looked at me with genuine concern.

Such a guy. “I’m not sure. It’s my mother.” I flipped open the phone. “Hi, Mom.”

“Actually it’s Daddy, Pa¸czki.”

“Oh, hey, Daddy. Daddy?” I nearly dropped the phone but Jagger steadied my hand. “Daddy, what is wrong? Uncle Walt? Is something…oh, God, no…something wrong with him. Mother! Why isn’t Mom calling me, Daddy?”

Daddy wasn’t one to talk on the phone. Never had much experience with my mother around. So I could tell he was probably holding the phone wrong and could only hear part of what I was saying.

“Daddy. Why did you call?” I held my breath.

I heard him clear his throat and talk to someone in the background. When I was just about ready to scream at him to tell me what was going on, my mother came on the line, “Pauline, everything is fine. I’m all right. Really-”

“Mother! When someone says all that, there is something wrong. What happened? To whom?”

I said a silent prayer that my uncle was okay since he was the only one I hadn’t heard talking.

“Oh, it is nothing really. I broke my arm. That is all. You have a good weekend.”

“Don’t hang up!” I rolled my eyes, and Jagger stared.

He whispered, “What?”

I held my hand over my cell phone and said, “My mother broke her arm.”

“How’s she going to cook?”

I could only stare back at him. Why on earth would that be the first thing that popped into Jagger’s mind? How rude. Not even an “Is she all right?”

Then again, he heard me talking to her, so he must have figured she wasn’t too bad off. But cooking? Cooking! Oh…my…God. Cooking to Stella Sokol was like breathing.

“Mother, which arm?”

“What does it matter, Pauline? I can hardly do anything with this gigantic thing on my arm. Must weigh a thousand pounds. And who ever heard of a cast in shocking pink? I’m shocked all right. Pink. Ha!”

“Right or left?”

“My cooking arm, Pauline. My right one.”

My mouth dried. Poor Mom. Not only had she gotten hurt somehow, but she also couldn’t do her daily duty that she so loved. “What happened, Mother?”

She proceeded to tell me how she tripped on my darling Spanky! Apparently Miles couldn’t get anyone to watch him, so my mother had volunteered to take care of him-all the while, I’m sure, protesting that she didn’t like dogs.

“They smell like dog,” she’d say.

Before I could apologize, she had me volunteering to come home for the weekend since Goldie really didn’t need me-and she couldn’t cook for Daddy and Uncle Walt.

“I’ll show you how to maneuver around with a cast on, cooking and all,” was the last thing I said.

As I followed Jagger into my parents’ house, I could not believe I was back there and that he’d insisted on driving me. As if I was too upset to drive. Well, having to leave Newport was a bit upsetting, but my folks needed me and thank goodness Mother wasn’t badly injured. All in all, I told myself it wasn’t going to be a bad weekend.