Suzann Ledbetter - Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

“Of course you aren’t an invalid, Mom.” Dina eased toward her. “Far from it. But if the TV has to stay where it is, it only makes sense to bring you to it.”

“Loll around where everybody that comes to the door can see me.” Harriet snorted in disgust. “Why, I’d sooner plunk myself in Penney’s front window at the mall.”

Dina removed the heavy revolver from her mother’s hand before she dropped it and broke a foot. Staring down at it, she remembered her father making the same Penney’s window remark to a hospice volunteer. She should have known that for his widow, setting up a bed of any kind in the living room was a death knell. A small, terrifying step away from the hospital type brought in for Earl Wexler’s final months.

That time would inevitably come again. A year from now, two, five—the doctors were continually astonished by Harriet’s resiliency. When they remarked on it, she always said, “The secret to livin’s being too mean to die. God don’t want you and the devil’s scared of what you’ll do if he gets ya.”

Dina laid the gun on the dining room table, then faced her mother. “I understand about the bed. I don’t have the money to put cable in your room. Dr. Greenspan wanted you on oxygen weeks ago, but you had to get sicker before Medicare would pay for it. Telling me you won’t do this and I can’t do that isn’t getting the machine in here, where you can use it.”

She turned to Bob and Bob. “Which these very patient, very kind men will put wherever they think best.” She smiled at them, adding, “I’m not passing the buck.” A shrug, then, “Okay, I am, but now that I’ve royally screwed up and pissed off Bonnie Parker in the process, you’re in charge.”

Harriet grunted. “They should’ve been in the first place.”

“I know.” Dina cupped her elbow to guide her back to the throne. “I ought to be horsewhipped for trying too hard to make you happy.”

“You’re nothing but a bully, Dina Jeanne.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you’re gonna be sorry when I’m gone. I’m changing my will. Randy gets everything. Lock, stock and barrel.”

Dina steadied her for the awkward, off-balance descent into the chair. Her mother’s shallow, raspy breathing scared her. A glance over her shoulder at Taller Bob telegraphed, “Hurry. Please.”

Jack McPhee eyed the redhead striding into Ruby Tuesday’s dining area. So did every man at the bar and seated at tables. Their female companions’ heads turned, following their gazes, curious why conversations halted in midsentence or lunch dates suddenly forgot how to chew. To a woman, the object of such dumbstruck attention fostered death-ray glares.

Belle deHaven always had that effect on people. A teal silk, hourglass-tailored sheath contributed to it. So did an impeccable pair of mile-long legs, a flawless complexion and green sloe eyes. But it was the inner, indescribable something she projected that deeded the room to her.

Jack stood and pulled out the adjacent chair. “You’re late, as usual.” Belle kissed his cheek, then scrubbed off the evidence with her thumb. “After all these years, you’d be crushed if I was on time.”

“The shock might be fatal.”

Laughing, she sank into the chair and laid her clutch purse on the table. “Careful, McPhee. I know CPR, and it might be fun getting you in a lip lock again.” Belle hoisted the cosmopolitan he’d ordered for her and took a sip. “You were a lousy husband, but a world-class kisser.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Sounds like my replacement could use a couple of pointers.”

“Dream on, hon. Carleton is everything I ever wanted. Smart, handsome, respectable—”

“Rich.”

Belle shrugged. “That, too, but money really doesn’t buy happiness.”

You’re just now figuring that out? Jack thought.

She drank again and sighed. “Poverty wasn’t as romantic as it’s cracked up to be, either.”

“It’s not like we starved. It just took me a while to figure out what I wanted to be when I grew up.”

“As if…” Four tapered, manicured fingers grazed his jacket sleeve. A squinted visual inspection elicited a gasp. “Armani? Good God, Jack. Are you robbing banks on the side?”

Hard as he tried, he couldn’t tamp the blush creeping up his neck. A former girlfriend who managed an upscale resale shop introduced him to the concept of gently used clothing. Fleeting thoughts of recycling dead men’s wardrobes gave him the willies for a while. So did the chance of acquiring Carleton deHaven’s castoffs, until Jack realized his ex-wife’s hotshot husband was about twice his size.

Across the shoulders and trouser inseams, he allowed. Where it really mattered…well, he had no complaints and damn sure hadn’t received any.

“It’s been a good year and there’s a lot of it left.” If you’re gonna lie, sport, lie big. “Make that a great year. Business slowed down a little last month, but all in all, I thought I was due a few new threads to celebrate.”

“Threads?” Belle chuckled and leaned back as the server settled a plate of Dover sole garnished with squash and broccoli in front of her. Jack had ordered it for her, as well, timing the arrival perfectly.

“You are such a dweeb,” she said. “Fortunately, it’s one of your charms.”

“Thanks.” Jack snorted. “I think.”

After assuring the server that he wasn’t the dweeb to whom she referred and that nothing else was needed, Belle picked up her fork, then frowned at the still empty place between Jack’s elbows. “You’re not eating?”

“Can’t.” He glanced at his watch. “Got to meet Gerry Abramson at his office in about fifteen minutes.”

She forked in a bite of fish. Her expression inferred it was tasty, but nothing special. “You should’ve told me when I invited you to lunch.”

“If you hadn’t been forty-five minutes late, it wouldn’t have mattered.”

“I’m punctual in my own way.” She waved at her drink and plate. “You could have eaten something while you were waiting. Grazed at the salad bar, at least.”

Jack shook his head. “Mama raised me better than that.” He added, “And I scarfed a stack of flapjacks at the diner, before you called.”

Actually, before Gerry Abramson had called. If Belle had called earlier, Jack wouldn’t have gone next door for breakfast. The food at Al’s 24/7 Eats could torture Jack’s gut, even when it didn’t feel like a pretzel that slipped under a couch cushion last New Year’s Eve.

Jack took a drink of ice water and wished it were Chivas. A slug of liquid relaxation would take the edge off his premeeting jitters. He couldn’t care less what type of work the independent insurance agent offered. The domestic Jack expected to collect on Monday night had run sobbing from the restaurant. The heartbroken client stuck him with the dinner check, in lieu of a personal one.

By Wednesday afternoon, the office’s quietude had him clicking on the desk phone’s handset, hoping the line was dead. It wasn’t. In fact, the dial tone had an increasingly mirthful quality, as though Ma Bell were having a few laughs at his expense.

“Jack,” said the gorgeous, similarly named redhead dissecting her entrée. “Are you okay?”

He hesitated. When someone asks if you’re okay without making eye contact, it’s probable that he or she is anything but. Misery not only loves company, but it also graciously cedes the floor to yours, so his or her own appears empathetic.

Except the woman who’d been his wife for eight years and his best friend for twice that was a straight shooter. It had attracted him at the outset. After Belle dumped him for being an immature moron, her brand of honesty was what he’d missed most in subsequent relationships.