I Run to You (9 page)

She laughed. “And the women in your
life?”

“You’re so like Madeline.” He gave a turn
signal. “Not subtle.”

They parked and got out, not picking up the
conversation until they were at a window side table, having
mandarin chicken salads and limewater. Brook got a kick out of
watching him flirt with the dusky skinned waitress. The woman was
curvy, with beautiful lush lips, and flirty eyes. Sitting back and
watching Sunny—who obviously came in there a lot, she was amazed
that he was still single.

Once they were served, he finally supplied,
“Just between you and me. I came close to marriage once.”

Chewing her salad, she waved her fork for him
to tell her more.

His sexy grin was half abashed. “Right out of
law school. I had a 6-year relationship with a woman.’

Gulping a drink of water, Brook stared at
him. “You did?”

He chuckled. “Um yes.”

“What happened?”

“Her family.” He took a bite and made her
wait a bit before saying, “They traced her ancestors back to the
Mayflower. You know the sort. Not even my French blood would have
been easy to swallow. Her father was a politician, who had groomed
some Harry stick-up-his ass, for her. I was brash and full of
myself, sure I was equal to any challenge.”

Brook shook her head. “You’re telling me they
disapproved?”

“That’s putting it mildly. At social
occasions, he would always let his tasteless humor get the better
of him. Make some asinine crack about Indians. We are talking New
Hampshire society here—summer in the Hamptons and all that.” He
chewed a bit then uttered with some dry humor, “Here I thought the
family pressure was what ended it for us. For many years, I would
have said so. But, the truth in it was, I was nothing more than her
rebellion. She eventually went home, married her father’s choice,
and manages to make the social pages quite often.”

What’s her name?” Brook was definitely
curious. However, when Sunny gave it, she gaped at him. “That
congressman’s wife?”

“Yes.” He sat back and nodded.

After absorbing that a moment, she snorted
indignantly, “Well, you’re too good for those people. Too good
looking for her too. And—”

He laughed and shrugged. “That was eons
ago.”

“Is it why… you’re not married?”

“I don’t think so.” He shrugged again, looked
around, sliding his empty bowl up. He asked for coffee, ordered her
one, and then said, “Aside from having a habit of filling my life
with work—I’m restless. I never actually meet women my age, who
want to get married. They are career women, independent. Like it
that way, apparently.”

“Not even to a handsome, rich, successful
lawyer slash tavern owner. They must be daft.”

When he said nothing, she teased, “What about
women—not—your age?”

He looked up from stirring his coffee so fast
it surprised her.

Before she could analyze it though he asked
her if she was going to work for him? She said yes, and then he
asked about the band. Afterwards, he threw out the name of some
clubs that would be good venues when they were ready. He had
contacts, many contacts.

By the time they were walking out to the
parking lot, he had managed to tease her about Rafael’s obvious
torch for her. That, Brook realized, was why the man was a lawyer.
He kept her talking and distracted until she was getting in her
car.

He had parked behind it, was standing by the
bumper when she had the door opened and glanced back at him. “How
did you meet Rafe?”

“Do you think that’s my story to tell?”

“No.” She winced. “Sorry.”

“You’re going to give him a shot this
time?”

“Any woman who ignores Rafe’s interest is
either stupid or dead.” She intoned dryly, “And, we also have a
history. Sort of. I don’t really need to know everything about him,
to trust him.”

“So you’re over Coy.”

“Of course.” She shrugged but used his own
tactic to cover a split second hesitation. She murmured, “Did I
sense something when I asked you about younger women?”

“No.”

Brook studied his face. He was too damn good.
“You know, Sunny. No one thinks anything about that shit. Age. It’s
irrelevant if you enjoy being with someone.”

“I’ll remember that.” His brow arched, trying
to make it seem as if he were indulging her in a subject that
was—irrelevant—to him.

Brook mused, surely, the ass hats down at the
DA’s office did not care about Sunny’s private life? Then again, it
was somewhat political. Sunny ran the tavern too. He was not like
the suits.

She murmured, “I never thought you cared a
shit what people thought.”

“This is a strange conversation.”

She laughed. “All right. Just pretend you
didn’t hesitate for a split second.” Brook grinned affectionately
at him. “For my part, I hope you’re happy. That’s all.”

He came over and kissed her brow. People were
going by in cars. “There,” he muttered amused, “That should feed
the gossip mill for the next week.”

“Probably.” She snorted, getting into the
car, she looked over as she started it and sunny stood there
watching her. “She’s a lucky woman.”

“Stop fishing, Brat.”

Brook laughed. “I’ll see you at
work—boss.”

He shook his head and ambled back to his car.
She pulled out, watching in her rear view mirror as he pulled out,
a few cars back. For all the teasing, there was something
wrong—off, and she could not put her finger on it. Despite his
grief, his loss, and she sensed he felt that absence of Mrs. Dupree
keenly. Despite all that, something was on his mind.

Brook shook her head. It was while she was in
the mini mart, later she heard that Doc Taylor had a stroke. Talk
was swirling about how at first the clinic slowed, because his wife
wanted him to retire. But, when the bigger rehab place was
done—better equipment, advanced, innovative stuff— the old doc lost
even his regular patients.

She heard some gray haired woman say that Doc
was trying to hold on, resisting retirement. His wife wanted a few
years with him, just to have tea, enjoy their garden, because he
had worked all these years. His wife was the receptionist. Brook
supposed he could not afford to hire someone else.

Still, it was depressing. She tossed a few
things in the basket and listened to the women behind her talking
about it, the both of them in their sixties or seventies.

“She’s got him down to 3 days now. Nobody
comes in but a handful. He knows there is more at the new rehab in
Brownsville. He just doesn’t know when to quit.”

“He’s forgetful, I heard, since the stroke.
Ellen said that she was afraid he’d just die right there, right in
that old run down building.”

Brook paid for her things and drove home. She
cooked a light meal later and wondered depressingly if the Doc had
hired her without his wife’s knowledge? She had sent her resume
many places, but she did not have the hands-on training she would
like to have acquired. She would just be starting out, which was
why she had thought his small clinic would be ideal. Nevertheless,
it was not the place she remembered. It was not the job he had made
it sound like.

Now, she did not know what to do.

Sitting on the back deck, lounging in a
running suit, she decided to stop by and talk to his wife. It
sounded like the writing was on the wall. No matter who ran it, it
could not compete with the new one. It sounded like—his wife wanted
him to realize that—out of love.

Well. There was the Tavern, and there were
other jobs, not many in this economy. It was not the money. She had
money. She had wanted to do something—useful. She had to think
positive. Things would work out. Something would come her way.

She hung out on the deck for the rest of the
day and sent e-mails via her laptop—and, kept her mind
distracted.

Brook did not want to think about that
encounter with Coy. If she did, she would have to admit that she
had not been the cool and composed person she’d fantasized she
would be.

~*~

In the middle of answering mail from her
friends overseas, she heard the rumble of a motorcycle pull up.
Shifting the laptop aside, Brook went to the rail, to lean over,
looking toward the front of the house.

The young woman was already parked and
heading toward her, likely seeing the backlight and hearing the
music wafting from the rear of the house. Brook had a CD playing
low in the stereo by the French doors.

Making her way up the plank deck stairs, the
woman offered her hand. “Jordan O’Quinn.”

“Oh, you work at Rafe’s?”

“Yes.”

Brook would guess her age at twenty-four or
five. She was dressed in faded denims, with leather chaps over
them, motorcycle boots, and a leather vest. Her hair was a dyed
deep sapphire blue, cut short in back. She had a tongue piercing
and a tattoo on her nape, of a beautiful butterfly. Her eyes were a
gorgeous deep green.

“Renee sent me over.”

“Great. Let me get you a soda or
something?”

“I’m good for now. Thanks.”

“So what do you play?”

“I play slide guitar. Grew up playing gospel
and blues.”

“Awesome.” Brook smiled hugely. Something was
going to work out well.

With a half skeptical smile of her own,
Jordan took a seat on the end of the teak chase, her helmet resting
beside her.

“Okay, I’ll take a beer.”

Laughing, Brook fetched lite beer for the
both of them.

As Jordan was lifting the beer for sip, Brook
saw fingerless leather gloves on her hands. Despite the appearance,
there was a bit of a guarded edge to the woman—something—more than
cautiousness.

They talked music, Brook’s band, everything
about bands for a bit, and Brook kept trying to figure out what it
was that kept the woman from relaxing.

However, it was much later, doubtless, after
Jordan assured herself she could trust Brook—or that Brook was
serious about the offer to get a band together— the woman said, “I
backpacked through Europe. Nothing like you see on TV though. I was
tangled up with a Brit. A guy who was playing in a band, in
Seattle. He talked me into going over with him—dumped me. Just left
me standing on the street. I had to work anywhere I could, just to
feed myself. Played music—wherever they’d listen.”

“How’d that happen?” Brook sensed the pain
there despite the off-handed laugh.

Jordan looked around and then fumbled in her
boot, extracting a short cigarette. She lit it and got up, walking
to the railing and looking out, toward the wooded lot. “My Daddy
was a hell-fire preacher. I grew up in Memphis” Taking a drag and
blowing the smoke out tensely, Jordan added, “I got—attacked— after
a tent revival one night, ended up pregnant. He beat the hell out
of me.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah. Called me a harlot, Jezebel—all that
shit. Didn’t believe I was raped. Anyway, I ran off. But he had me
dragged back. He and Momma decided they would raise the kid, but
after it was born, I was to leave. They said I’d corrupt it.”

“My. God.” Brook came to her feet, walking
over and laying her arm on the woman’s shoulder.

Jordan glanced at her, then away, obviously
wanting to hide her pain. “I was just a kid myself. Scared
shitless. They had friends, people who considered them upstanding
pillars of the community and all. So, when the baby was born, they
already had adoption stuff fixed up. I threw a fit, got thrown in
Juvie. By the time, I was out—nothing I could do. I was a kid,
hadn’t finished school, all that.”

“God. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. My girl, she would be ten now. After I
left, I didn’t have anything but a few changes in my backpack. I
drifted. Got that gig in Seattle—and the only reason I trusted the
guy was that I’d told him about it—that someday I was going back,
to fight for her…”

“I don’t know what to say.”

Jordan shrugged, drew, and blew smoke again.
“Nothing to say. It’s over. When I moved here, and Rafe gave me
job, great pay, I took a weekend to go there. My Momma wouldn’t
even let me in the door. Said my daughter hated me—they made sure
my kid knew I was a slut and good for nothing.”

Jordan’s throat cleared, and she rasped, “Her
name is Leigh. I…I hid out, waited for the school bus to run, so I
could get a look at her.”

Brook’s eyes burned. She wanted to say
something more, but there was nothing to help such an awful
reality.

“She looks like an angel.” The smile was
quick and pain filled. “Just— like one.”

“I’m sure when she gets older, she’ll—”

“—No. Not if they have anything to do with
it.”

Jordan took a last drag and flipped the
cigarette away. Her leather-covered palms cupped the railing.
“They’ll keep feeding her lies, and warping her mind. “

“Still. I think we all come to an age, where
we seek answers for ourselves.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ve had to live, keep going.
The hardest were the first few years, not just growing up, but
doing it, while surviving.”

Brook said, “I think you’re damn brave. I
couldn’t have gone anywhere without supportive friends,
family.”

Jordan turned her head. “Maybe.” Then
skimming Brook’s face, she uttered, “Renee told me a lot about your
family, the background.”

“It’s complicated.” Brook laughed softly.

One jet brow rose, “I’ve seen your Mom; the
Coburns, a lot, at Rafe’s. A few times, at the Tavern, when I was
waiting for Renee to get off work. “

“The Coburns are—crazy. Nice, over
protective—but loveable.”

Those green eyes met hers. “She told me about
Coy.”

“Yeah…” Brook’s smile faded. She breathed in
and out slow to release her tension, before turning, to stroll to
her seat again. Sitting down, she studied the wood planks of the
deck. “That was teenage stuff.”