Robyn Carr - Any Day Now

“I don’t expect to need anything, Moody, but—”

“Then just check in to say hello,” he said. “It’s a good idea to have an anchor or two. Floating around without connections can be risky.”

“Okay, sure,” she said, taking the napkin, folding it in half and slipping it in the pocket of her shorts. “But I’ll probably see you around.”

“How you doing on the steps?”

“Oh, I ran through the steps. I’m spending a little extra time on number eight. And ten—seems like there’s an endless amount of accounting.”

He sipped his coffee. “Remembering more or admitting more?” he asked. When she didn’t answer immediately, he said, “Maybe we’ll have coffee after a meeting sometime. Talk about the steps?”

“I thought that might happen after the last meeting but I guess everyone was either rushing off to work...or maybe busy with that guy who was having a hard time. Mark.”

“Mark shows up sometimes. I’m always glad to see him,” Moody said. And he said nothing more. It was like a contract. These stories were shared in the meeting but nowhere else. Not everyone played by the rules, but they were expected to, nonetheless.

The bell on the door tinkled and in walked Adonis. Well, except he didn’t have that black Greek hair. His hair was brown and his eyes so blue she could see them from the door. Sierra felt her heart catch. That meant he must be a bad idea. But the sheer height of him and the girth of his shoulders was almost shattering. His T-shirt was tight over his chest and arms; there was a firefighter’s emblem on one pec. She had to concentrate to keep from sighing. She wondered, not for the first time, if absolute beauty was a requirement to be a firefighter.

His eyes twinkled at her. But he said, “Hey, Moody.” And he stretched out his hand toward Moody. “How’s the weather?”

“It’s nice,” he grumbled. “But it’s bound to turn. Connie, meet a new waitress. Sierra this is Connie. Connie this is Sierra.”

“Conrad,” he said. “Connie for short. Nice to meet you.”

That big, meaty hand swallowed up her small hand.

And she gulped.

Life is thickly sown with thorns, and I know no other remedy than to pass quickly through them. The longer we dwell on our misfortunes, the greater is their power to harm us.

—Voltaire

Chapter 4

SIERRA HAD AN unfortunate history of being involved with men who were not good for her, but a lot of that could be blamed on alcohol. Or maybe she started out with perfectly good men and destroyed the relationships with alcohol. At this point it was pretty irrelevant since there hadn’t been a man in her life in a long time. Nor alcohol. The last one, Derek, had been so toxic and dangerous she not only swore off men, she ran to rehab. No one could get to you in rehab. Just the people you put on your list as approved visitors.

She felt the calluses of Connie’s strong, large hand, looked into those blue eyes and told herself, It doesn’t really matter who he is—I’m off men. But she couldn’t deny it—there was a tingle as his hand enveloped hers.

“Nice to meet you. Do you prefer Conrad or Connie?”

“Everyone calls me Connie no matter what I might prefer. I haven’t seen you around here before.”

“I haven’t been here long.”

“And what miracle had you choose Timberlake?” he asked, smiling. Smiling like a man who thought he might get laid.

“Do you know Cal and Maggie Jones? I’m Cal’s sister.”

The big man’s smile vanished instantly. Nothing like an older brother to make a man rethink his objectives. Funny how that never went away even with age. Sierra was thirty and Cal thirty-eight. You’d think by now a guy wouldn’t be intimidated by a big brother, but it was just as well.

“How do you like it around here so far?” he asked. And there was obvious distance in his gaze. His warm blue eyes cooled way down.

“It’s great. Amazing, in fact.”

“You can’t be staying in that barn,” he said.

“You’re right, I can’t, but not because it’s an unfinished house. Because I really don’t want to live with my brother. They’re newlyweds, for one thing. And I’m crazy about Cal, but he’s my brother. I lived with him long enough growing up.”

Connie laughed. “I’ve felt that way about my brother. I’m here for an order. A big Caesar salad. You know about that?”

“Oh, that’s you? I’ll get it.”

She’d been told it would be picked up. It was ready in the kitchen. She put it in a bag and rang it up for him. He left with a casual “See you around.”

After a few moments passed Moody said, “Want to have coffee sometime when you’re not working? Talk about the program a little bit? Go over steps or something? Take each other’s pulse?”

Hers was a little amped up at the moment. She focused on Moody. “I was kind of looking for an older woman.”

“I get that. You never know. I might be good in the short term.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks.”

Sierra was off work at two and was scheduled to work at least two mornings a week, no weekends unless one of the other waitresses asked her to cover for them. The weekends, she was told, were busier in the mornings and the tips better so the waitresses who had been there before she was hired wanted those shifts, particularly the students. Her schedule wasn’t the least bit taxing; she enjoyed meeting the locals. And of course most people knew her brother and absolutely everyone knew Sully.

Sierra had plenty of time after work to do things, like stop by Cal’s to check on the progress at his place, then get back to the Crossing to see what, if anything, she could do to help Sully. Most of the time all he wanted was a little company for dinner, which he sometimes convinced Sierra to make for them. “Just bear in mind, if it ain’t bland and tasteless I can’t eat it. I have to stay heart healthy. I won’t live any longer, it’ll just seem longer.”

“You’re in good hands,” she said. “I’m very healthy.” Now, she thought. And before two weeks had passed, she had Sully nearly addicted to her stir-fry—just chicken, vegetables, broth and some seasoning. She was allowed soy sauce but he was off salt; his indulgence was one drink before bed and she could not join him, of course. It seemed a reasonable trade to her.

Two weeks, though not very long, had revealed some marvelous changes in the land and in Sierra. First of all, she did contact Moody and they did meet for coffee a couple of times. As she learned more about him, she was glad she’d let him talk her into it. Moody’s name was Arthur Moody but no one ever addressed him as anything but Moody, including his wife. He was fifty-eight years old, a biology professor at a private university in Aurora and he was admittedly a late bloomer. “I was busy in my twenties when everyone else was trying to get an education and a start in life. My start came later, in my thirties.” She could do the math—he had been sober for thirty years. That meant that until the age of twenty-eight he was busy spiraling down.

She went to that Thursday evening meeting in Timberlake. She found a nice group waiting there—small, but significant. One of them was Frank, Enid’s husband. Frank was an old-timer, a vet, a man who earned his stripes the hard way. He might’ve been surprised to see her because he beamed, putting those snazzy false teeth on display for her.

She did not tell her story yet, even though she was starting to feel at home. But she couldn’t help thinking about her story. Every day.

* * *

“What was it, Sierra?” The therapist encouraged her to be honest. “What finally sent you running to rehab?”

“Well, there was an accident. I wasn’t driving but it was my car. He was driving. He took me out of a bar, took my keys and was driving me home. He said I was drunk and he was just taking me home. I think he put something in my wine because, seriously, it wasn’t that easy for me to get wasted like that. It was still early. I knew we hit something but I didn’t see it happen. He stopped the car and looked and got back in and drove away. He said it was a cyclist and he left him there. Left him. Left him to die.