Homecoming in November (The Calendar Girls Book 3) (7 page)

For God’s sake, how could I get him to understand I wasn’t the dating type. Maybe, once he saw the flock of hornets following me, and got wind of why I was suddenly a celebrity, he’d lose interest. Nothing cooled a man’s interest in a woman faster that a murder allegation.

He strode to the driver’s side of my Jeep and waited for me to climb out. I stared at him, this fierce protector who focused on his prize, totally oblivious to the blustery wind or the reporters clambering out of their news van behind me.

Didn’t the man ever wear a jacket? The temps had dipped last night, and the morning’s misty start had left me frigid. But not G.I. Joe—or in this case, G.I. Iggy. His biceps bulged in his olive-covered tee, which was stuffed into khaki pants, creating the ultimate off-duty uniform of a hero. He stood there patiently, never giving the slightest indication I was holding him up or dawdling on purpose—which I was. Once I’d grabbed my purse, he opened my door, took my hand to help me out onto the gravel, and then wrapped me inside his bulky body, covering me from the camera’s unwavering gaze.

“Iggy? What are you doing?” I murmured against his chest.

“I’m part of the contingency plan,” he replied as he hustled me toward the back entrance.

“Oh.” Speech abandoned me, as did my brain’s ability to form a coherent thought.
I’m wearing an Iggy cloak
. My senses swam in this man. His scent, his warmth, the beat of his heart all surrounded me like a comforting security blanket. No wonder he didn’t bother to put on anything heavier than a t-shirt. Iggy Zemski gave off more heat than a furnace.

“Dr. Herrera.” This time, I recognized her voice. She was the same reporter from yesterday’s phone call. Tanya Carter. “Jayne, just a few words. Please? We’ve come all this way to talk to you.” When I didn’t say anything, not even my standard “No comment,” the woman added, “We won’t be the only ones to come here, Jayne. We’re just the first. Why not share your story with us and get it over with, once and for all? Unless you have something to hide…”

I stiffened at the innuendo. Iggy pulled me tighter to him, burying my face in his chiseled pecs. The man was a series of contradictions: gruff but protective, rock-hard but soft-hearted.

“Jayne?” the reporter called again. “Five minutes. That’s all we need. Then it’ll be all over for you.”

“Don’t answer them,” Iggy grumbled.

As if I would. No matter how much time I gave them, they’d demand more until they found something they could use to convict me in court. I’d already been convicted in the court of public opinion. I wasn’t stupid enough to lower my shields and risk prison time.

We scaled the few steps, and the back door swung open with a screech of rusty hinges—a common problem in a seaside community—and, on a burst of warm air, I was rushed into the kitchen area. Once the door closed and locked behind us, Iggy let me go and stood alone in the corner, arms folded over his chest, his eyes glinting with steel as he stared at me. I missed his protection the second I lost it. But I supposed I should get used to it.

Without his bulk as a buffer, I stood tall and faced half a dozen accusatory faces on my own. A few of my coworkers sat around the oblong table, their expressions ranging from shell-shocked to confused. Miranda and Becky had positioned themselves on either side of the doorway leading toward the front of the business, their hands planted on their hips, their mouths set in grim lines. Angry bookends. Dom, his back tilted toward the refrigerator door next to the taped sign that proclaimed the appliance was for food and not biologic specimens, offered a tepid smile.

“Is it true?” Miranda asked, her tone flat.

“Is what true?” I wouldn’t answer the question until I knew exactly what she wanted to know. Never assume. A lesson I learned a few years back, thanks to my attorney.

“You were accused of killing your husband,” Becky chimed in.

Okay, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty. They apparently didn’t want the sugar-coated version. I would appease. “No. I wasn’t. My husband was found shot to death in his car in a dicey neighborhood he had no business being in. When Mr. Pittman was arrested on suspicion of the murder, he implicated me. The defense ran with that tale, claiming David planned his own death with my help, and that I hoped to capitalize on his life insurance payout. In the end, the ploy didn’t work, and Mr. Pittman went to prison where he was serving a sentence of ten to fifteen years until he was murdered by another inmate this past week. There was never any proof I was involved in the crime, and no charges were ever filed against me.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t have something to do with it.”

“Miranda!” Dom shot her a how-dare-you-look.

I knew how she dared, the same way all my old friends and neighbors—the same way my parents—dared. In these circumstances, morbid curiosity trumped manners. I faced Dom and held up a hand. “It’s okay. They’re entitled to ask.”

I turned to the table of coworkers first, found an encouraging nod from our other vet tech, Patrick, and used that mute support to level my steady gaze at Miranda.

“I was married to David for four years. In that time, he went from a fun, sweet, loving man to a brooding, angry stranger. He closed himself off from me, and I didn’t understand why. I probably should have pushed more, found out what troubled him, but I didn’t. I was working hard to establish my own veterinary practice and I focused all my attention there. That’s an error in judgment I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Dom interjected.

I nodded my gratitude, although I knew better. “Rather than confiding in me, David chose to make a dangerous decision. He found Mr. Pittman in some alley and convinced the man to kill him while making it look like a botched carjacking. I like to believe he did so, thinking he was protecting me. In the long run, though, his actions only placed a shadow of doubt over me that I will never climb out from under.” I paused, took a deep breath, allowed my gaze to scan the room, finding supporters and condemners in the mix. “You all are entitled to your opinions. I won’t entertain anyone with more details about ‘my side.’ I will never speak to any reporters about what happened, regardless of what they threaten or promise. And for this, I apologize to you. Because for the next several weeks, you can expect to be pestered every time you come and go from this office. They’ll ask for your theories regarding my guilt or innocence, hope you’ll share tidbits of what I’ve said or done, look for dirt wherever they think they might find it. Let me assure you that if no one tosses them any red meat, they’ll get bored and leave soon enough.”

“What if we want to talk to the press?” Valerie asked, her expression sharp and lupine.

I stared down at my hands, twisting them round each other. “I can’t tell you not to,” I began.

“I can,” Dom interrupted pushing off the wall to stand up straight and glare at Valerie
and
Miranda. “As of this moment, no one speaks to the press about Dr. Herrera. Understood?”

The circle of employees nodded, a few of them grudgingly.

“And how much business will we lose in the meantime?” Valerie asked.

Dom placed his hand on my shoulder, a visible sign of where his loyalties lay. “The only one who really needs to be concerned about that is me. And I’m willing to bet our clients will see past the mudslinging and realize Dr. Herrera is the same person we’ve come to know and trust.”

Becky and Miranda exchanged cool glances while Valerie remarked, “Let’s hope so.”

I looked around the kitchen, gauging the expressions from all my coworkers. Fifty-fifty. The battle lines were drawn.

“Okay, gang,” Dom said. “Let’s go to work. Our first patient is due in fifteen minutes.” While everyone else filed out, he squeezed my shoulder and murmured in my ear, “It’s gonna be okay. You’ll see.”

To be honest, I agreed with the naysayers. I’d lost my practice back home when my clients refused to have their beloved pets cared for by a murder suspect. Those were people who’d known me a lot longer than anyone here. I bit back a sigh, realizing I would have to prepare myself for the day Dom asked me to leave. Thank God, I’d insisted on a month-to-month rental agreement on my house. If experience was any indication, I could be gone from this town before Christmas.

While I pondered my dubious future, Dom strode to the only other person remaining in the room and clasped his hand. “Iggy, thanks for looking out for Jayne. I appreciate your help this morning.”

“I’m staying with her.”

My jaw dropped. “I’m sorry. What?”

Did he just say what I thought he did?

“As long as
they’re
out there,” he said, thrusting an arm toward the back door, “I’m staying with you.”

Oh, no.
Hell
, no. “That’s very nice, but I’ll be fine. Believe me, I’m used to dealing with the vultures.”

“And I’m used to taking care of the people I care about.”

Panic stole my voice, and I glanced at Dom for support, only to receive a non-committal shrug. “I think it’s an excellent idea. You couldn’t ask for a better bodyguard than Iggy.”

I didn’t need a bodyguard. Oh, sure, it was nice having him to hide behind to get from the parking lot to the building, but that didn’t mean I needed him hovering over me twenty-four/seven. I swallowed hard to dig up some mode of speech. “Mr. Zemski, I—”

“Iggy. Might as well get used to calling me by my first name. I’m gonna be with you for a while.”

I glanced between the two men, a pair of matching machismo. Neither would budge. Whether I wanted him or not, Iggy Zemski had become my champion. And there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to dissuade him.

Awesome.

Terri

A rush of adrenaline surged in my veins as I unlocked the door to the tea shop with Max on my heels. I hadn’t felt this kind of covert excitement since my first nips of brandy from Uncle Larry’s liquor stash when I was twelve. At this stage of my recovery, so much euphoria could
not
be good for me. Still, we slipped inside like two hormone-induced teens looking for a place to be alone, and I quickly relocked the door behind us before turning on the lights.

“Nice,” Max said as he took in the surroundings.

I, meanwhile, took in
him
. He was prettier in person, if that were possible. Taller, too. Dark hair skimmed his shoulders, framing a perfectly sculpted face with just a bit of rugged-looking stubble, beer bottle green eyes, and lush lips made to kiss a woman senseless. He looked at me then, caught me staring, and my cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

“Cozy,” he said, apparently used to strange women ogling him with their tongues lolling. “Very Jane Austen. Or Henry James.”

“Thanks.” To regain composure, I shrugged out of my coat, hung it on a hook behind the register, and dropped my purse on the counter. “What can I get you? I’ve got thirty different blends of tea, ten types of coffee, water, and orange juice. You can look at one of the menus to pick your poison.”

“No need. Orange juice sounds good.”

Of course it did. OJ was the quick sugar fix some alcoholics needed when the cravings got too bad. I preferred a banana, but like my counselor always said, whatever worked.

“Okay, orange juice it is. I’ll be right back.” I gestured to the hook where my coat hung. “Take off your jacket and make yourself comfortable.” Sweeping my arm to indicate the various groupings of furniture, I added, “Pick a chair, any chair.” With a carefree smirk, I sailed into the kitchen.

I was alone with Max Trayham.
Bizarro-land, party of one, your table’s ready
. After a quick celebratory shimmy and a muffled, “Squee!” I pulled a pitcher of orange juice out of the fridge and poured two tall glasses. There wasn’t much left in the line of pastries from the day’s offerings, but I did find half a dozen iced cookies and arranged them on a plate with some orange slices and a decorative sprig of cranberries. At least it was colorful.

Would an Emmy-winner be satisfied with this meager offering? I was about to find out. On a deep, fortifying breath, I picked up the tray and sauntered into the main room. “Here we are.” I stopped short.

He’d chosen one of the loveseats, his arm flung across the back, the epitome of sin on cabbage rose upholstery. He sat on the left, leaving room for someone—me?—to cuddle up beside him. Removing any doubt, he patted the cushion, a sexy smile on his lips.

If this was a dream, I’d like to remain in a coma for the rest of my life, thankyouverymuch. I sat next to him, stiff and as distant as the divan would allow without my sitting on the arm, placing the tray on the table in front of us. “I…umm…brought out some cookies, too.”

“Very sweet,” he said.

All of a sudden, I realized how stupid it was. Cookies. No better than the Oreos served at the meeting. “Sorry. I could make a salad, if you want.” Provided we had stuff in the fridge. I had no idea.

“What I want is for you to relax and spend some time with me.”

“Why?” Yes, my mouth often ran faster than my brain, thanks for asking.

To his credit, Max just laughed. How about that? I made Max Trayham laugh.

“Do you know why I sat next to you at the meeting?”

This time, I sipped my juice before answering. “Now that you mention it, umm, no. Why did you?”

“Because, right now, I need a friend. And out of everyone in that room, you looked like the one person I could trust.”

“I did?”

“Yes. And I sensed you could use a friend, too. You had this air of desperation about you that called to me.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“I don’t mean that the way it sounded. We’re all freakin’ desperate at those meetings. I saw you race inside, and I felt this need around you, like you were hoping something or someone could fix whatever sent you there. And I realized I was in the exact same situation. Then I thought, ‘what if she and I could fix each other?’ I’m new to the program, new to this town, but I wonder if you and I might become ‘sober buddies.’ Not a sponsor relationship. I’m too much of a rebel when it comes to authority figures. We would be two people, two
equals
, who help each other stay straight. No judgment, just support, encouragement, and a sympathetic ear. You know what I mean?”

Throughout his speech, I gaped at him, sure this was some colossal joke my friends were playing on me. This wasn’t the real Max Trayham, but a celebrity lookalike. Any minute now, Siobhan and Pan would jump out of the kitchen and shout, “Gotcha!” But no one did. And he really did look like the real Max Trayham, a Max Trayham waiting for my answer.

“I think so. But here’s the thing.” There went my mouth again, leapfrogging over my brain. I drained the last of my juice to buy time for my gray matter to catch up, but when it did, it agreed with my mouth. I owed Max the truth. No matter how crushing the fallout would be. “I’m only forty-nine days sober myself.”

I expected him to realize he’d misjudged me. And when he leaned forward, I prepared for his speech about how he suddenly had an appointment he’d forgotten about. I even had my no-big-deal face ready to slip on. But, instead, he reached for his glass and sat back to sip, completely at ease. “That’s perfect, actually. You and I can find our way together. We’ll keep each other honest and on the straight and narrow. What do you think?”

What did I think? That he was either insane, or I was. My mind couldn’t get past the idea this television star wanted to be “sober buddies” with
me
: boring, small-town, ne’er-do-well Terri O’Mara.

“Don’t you have close friends or family you’d rather spend time with?” Curse my wicked mouth and empty juice glass.

“Honestly?” He offered me a wry grin, the one his television character wore whenever he was about to outwit a business rival. “That’s part of my problem. All my friends are what dragged me down. I need to find
new
friends—people outside the spotlight who can help me stay sober. People like you, who are also struggling and understand what I’m going through. People with their priorities in order. People who aren’t caught up in the Hollywood game. People who are down-to-earth, grounded, and fighting some of the same demons I’m facing—without the glitter. People who won’t sell me out to the tabloids for a quick buck. What do you say? You feel like doing me a solid?”

“So…we’d…like…call each other and stuff?”

“Absolutely. Any time. You get that itch in the back of your throat—you know the one I’m talking about—at three in the morning and don’t think you can fight it off, you call me. And I’d be able to call you in the reverse situation.”

“You’re going to call
me
. And
I
can call
you
.” I knew I sounded like an echo chamber or some robot on repeat, but I couldn’t fathom how I’d managed to get a television star to want to be my new buddy. Believe it or not, this kinda stuff didn’t happen to me on a regular basis. Still, there was only one answer I could give him. “Deal!”

♥♥♥♥

Jayne

True to his word, Iggy remained at the animal hospital throughout my shift. He didn’t get in my way, staying mainly in the employee kitchen area, and only poking his head out once every hour or so to make sure no one in the waiting room looked like they didn’t belong. At the end of the workday, when I returned to the kitchen area to retrieve my coat, he got to his feet, prepared to follow me.

“You got a spare bedroom, or am I bunking on the couch?”

I stopped dead, one arm in a sleeve, one still out. “I’m sorry?” I couldn’t possibly have heard him correctly.

“Where am I sleeping?”

“At your own place, or someone else’s if that’s your thing.
Not
at my house.”

He shrugged and strode toward the back door, as if ending the conversation. “Okay, fine. I’ll sleep in the car in your driveway.”

“You’ll freeze to death!”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

For the love of… Was this a game to him? Some kind of bizarre dating ritual? “You don’t have to hover over me, you know. I’ve been dealing with these vultures for a while now. I know what I’m doing.”

“So do I. Dom asked me to stay with you ‘til this blows over. That means I
stay
with you.”

Oh, for the love of… “Who died and made you my bodyguard?”

“Apparently, your husband.”

I sucked in a breath, stunned he would dare, but before I could fire back a retort, Dom entered the kitchen, clapping with slow deliberation. “That’ll do, kids. You’re scaring the boa constrictor in the exam room. Jaynie, don’t argue. Iggy will take good care of you and keep the mongrels at bay.”

“I don’t need—”

“Non-negotiable,” Dom cut in, and in a softer tone, added, “Have some faith. You’re in very capable hands—the best hands in town.”

“What about Lucky? Don’t you have to get home to your dog?”

“Lucky’s also in very good hands. Ever since I brought him home, my mother’s taken him into her care. She even cooks for him. She’s determined to get him healthy again.” Iggy folded his arms over his chest and grinned. “Face it, Doc. You’re out of excuses.”

He had me there. I finished slipping into my coat, zipped up, and surrendered with a barely perceptible nod.

“I promise,” Iggy said as he opened the door and placed a hand on my back to usher me out, “you’ll hardly know I’m around.”

That was already a lie. Even through my thick down jacket, his touch seemed too intimate, and his presence too overpowering to ignore. Iggy Zemski was a universe, and I the poor, lost comet drawn in by some inarguable force.

“You’ll have to sleep on the couch. I don’t have a lot of furniture,” I said through gritted teeth as I stepped onto the back stoop.

“That’s fine. I can make do.”

“And I hope you’re not allergic to cats.”

“I love cats.”

Of course he did. Because Iggy Zemski was everything I once thought David was: strong, compassionate, intelligent, and too damned attractive for my own good. A dozen years ago, I would have fallen head-over-heels for a guy like Iggy. If I had, would he have masterminded his own death, making it look like a carjacking, leaving me to deal with all the fallout alone? An icy wind rattled the leaves on the ground and whipped my face, causing a ripple of shivers to race through me.

The door barely shut behind Iggy and me when Tanya Carter popped up again with her trusty cameraman. “Jayne, any truth to the rumor you were having an affair with Vincent Pittman prior to your husband’s murder?”

I gasped, too startled to stifle my reaction to the vicious innuendo.

“Let’s go,” Iggy growled and pulled me out of there. Fast.

As we neared my car, he held out his hand. “Give me your keys.”

“I can drive,” I insisted, but I still turned over the keys.

“I know. I’ve seen you. But you’re upset right now—with good reason. So until they’re gone, I’m your designated driver. The last thing I’m gonna let happen is a bunch of yahoos intimidate you into driving off the road.” With a quick click and beep, he unlocked the Jeep, then opened the passenger door for me. “It’s not a knock on you, Doc, so don’t be offended. I’ve been trained to handle combat situations.”

Any argument I’d planned died on my lips. He’d uttered the statement with such banality, as if discussing the weather. I immediately sensed the subject meant a lot more than he let on. I wouldn’t ask for details. Those of us with secrets we wanted to keep close didn’t dare probe someone else’s skeletons.

I slid into the car, wordless, and allowed him to close the door. I stared out the window at the news crew barreling toward us. “Hurry, please.” My heart punched me in the chest from the inside, and my mouth dried to desert sand.

The Jeep’s interior, after sitting in the parking lot all day, was colder than the outdoors. Every exhale I made created a cloudy puff of breath, an ethereal Rorshach of my growing panic.

Iggy strode around and opened the driver’s door. “I’m sorry if I’m coming off like a caveman.”

“No, it’s okay. I get it. I’m sorry if I’m coming off like I don’t appreciate the help.”

With a nod, he started the engine and put the car in drive. “Watch. This oughta make you smile.”

He jerked the steering wheel hard, hitting the edge of the walkway. The spinning tires kicked up white gravel, spraying their pursuers with the sharp bits and sending them into hasty retreat.

I enjoyed my first laugh of the day, maybe of the week.

We reached the road, and Iggy turned left. “You’re on Sailfish, right?”

“Right.” And I squirmed at the realization he knew where I lived. “Twenty-seven.”

“Dr. Bautista told me,” he said.