Kiss Me If You Dare (21 page)

Puppa kept his focus on the road, somehow knowing I’d lost the mood for fun and games.

The truck slowed to take the curve at Cupids Creek.

“Tell me more about Brad,” I said. “He used to love life. What happened?”

“You died.”

“Then it makes sense he’ll be fine now that I’m not dead anymore.” Through hovering tears, farmhouses drifted past like ghosts.

“Let’s take it slow. I liked his reaction today. That’s the most life I’ve seen in him since the accident.”

“Yeah,” I said in a wry voice, “there’s nothing wrong with his lungs.”

“But, Patricia,” Puppa said, serious, “I’ll warn you right now. Don’t get your hopes up. If Brad decides not to pull out of this, you may have to accept that choice and move on.”

I shook my head in stubborn denial. “That’s not going to happen.”

Puppa turned down the drive to the lake house. “I hope not. I really hope not.”

That night, in the upstairs bedroom farthest from the stairs, I snuggled under a pink ruffled bedspread and tried to focus on the downward spiraling days of Edmond Dantès, now the vengeful Count of Monte Cristo. I scarcely felt sorry for him as he finagled an invitation to see his lovely Mercedes, now married to another man. But when the envious Count conjured up a despicable plot against Mercedes’ son, I slammed the book closed, going for my journal instead.

On paper, I relived the day’s events, wiping away tears as I wrote of Brad’s shattered life. Reading over the account, I became more determined than ever to be an instrument of change for Brad. He had done the same for me. He had loved me when I’d loathed myself. He’d had faith in me even though I acted untrustworthy. Now it was my turn to demonstrate unfaltering love.

I yawned. The words blurred in my sleep-deprived eyes. I set the journal on the bedside table and turned out the light. But my mind fought the solace of dreams, instead lingering in Brad’s bedroom at River’s Edge, tracing the lines of his face and revisiting the touch of his lips. I drifted to sleep, imagining I was safe in his arms.

25

I woke the next morning excited to talk strategy with Puppa and pin down our plans to revive Brad to the land of the living. I dressed in layers to combat the nippy temperature in the drafty old house, then raced downstairs for a cup of hot coffee.

The sun rose bright over the icy bay, splashing light the color of hope against the walls. Puppa took a sip of coffee. “Don’t forget what we talked about,” he said, caution in his voice. “I’ve been dealing with this situation a long time. We’ve tried everything. Brad may not be as happy as you think to find out you’re alive . . . and that you’ve seen him in that condition. In fact, it may just put him over the edge.”

“I know—you said that before. But that’s worst-case. He’s going to be so happy to see me. Just wait. When he realizes his physical condition doesn’t have anything to do with my love for him, he’ll work toward recovery. He’ll want to get better so we can be together.”

Puppa tapped fingers to his lips. “This isn’t some fairy tale where you kiss the prince and he magically comes back to life. It’s real. Real tragedy. Real heartache. You need to accept the fact that Brad may never recover. He may never be part of your happily ever after. I’m already sorry I brought you over there.”

I shook my head. “You’re right. Life’s not a fairy tale. It’s real. Real love. Real hope. Real miracles. Those are the facts I’m going to accept.”

“Then you’re setting yourself up for real disappointment.” “I’m willing to take that chance. I have to take that chance, because if I give up on Brad, I give up on myself. Then I’ll die too.”

Puppa stared at some distant place. Then with an abrupt humph, he stood. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I’ve been where you’re at. Love isn’t always enough to save someone.” He stomped toward the kitchen.

I shrugged it off and drank my coffee. There would be no tears, only laughter this time around for me and Brad.

Later that morning, Puppa presented me with a box of stuff salvaged from the lodge.

“Sam thought I’d want this. It’s all the stuff you left behind when you died.”

I fished through the oversized bin, which contained my purse, complete with wallet, checkbook, and credit card; the passport I’d gotten years ago for the day when I could finally take that trip to a remote beach in the Fiji Islands; an album of before-and-after shots of my various projects; a couple keepsakes from my youth; and Konrad the Clown, my seventh grade sewing project. The poor guy was showing his age, with one button-eye missing and worn patches on the tube socks that formed his legs and arms.

I raised my arms in a questioning shrug. “So where are my tax records and receipts?”

He looked at the floor. “Sam figured you couldn’t be audited if you were dead, so she shredded them.”

“Great.”

“I think you have a pretty good excuse. Don’t fret over it. Here,” he said, throwing me a set of keys.

I caught them in one hand. “What are these for?”

“Thought you might want to take the truck for a ride.”

I smiled. “I like the way you think. Thank you.”

I checked my wispy black wig in the rearview mirror as I drove toward Valentine’s Bay and my pilfered lodge. I figured I needed Sam and Joel’s support if I were ever going to wake my sleeping prince.

I slowed coming around the final corner, frowning. Cars were everywhere, cramming the drive and the extra lot that now stood where my shed used to be. What on earth?

I parked behind a yellow Volkswagen, not surprised that one of Samantha’s retro friends would drive the throwback.

I snuck between cars to the entry deck. My hand hovered a moment before I gave an insistent knock on the door. Guilt sparked when I realized I was probably about to crash a Bible study or a praise group or something.

But I stifled the feeling and reminded myself that the lodge was really mine. It wasn’t as if Sam could throw me out.

Nobody answered. I gave the handle a turn and pushed the door open a crack.

“Hello?” I called softly.

Through the slim opening, I saw Sam stirring something at the stove. Her white apron did nothing to hide the bulge in her belly, giving her the amazing glow of a mother-to-be. How could I have been so rude and unfeeling toward her yesterday? She was as much a victim as I was in the whole situation.

I pushed in and stood near the door.

A young woman came alongside me. “Hi. I’ll be right with you.” The same white apron as Sam’s draped the woman’s slim form. The tray in her hand bore an assortment of tall mugs, the kind you drink root beer from, like she’d just bussed a table at a restaurant.

The woman dropped the tray off on the counter, the noisy
clink
of glass adding to the cacophony of voices and clatter of silverware that drifted through the arch from the great room. A round of laughter floated in.

“Just one today?” the young brunette asked, returning to my side.

A group of three or four people came through the arch, smiling as they filtered past the counter toward the door behind me.

“Thank you, Sam. It was delicious again today,” one said.

“I want the recipe for that chili,” another called, moving my direction.

“Sorry, family secret,” Samantha teased, wooden spoon held high in a goodbye gesture.

They passed through the door and were gone.

“Follow me,” my hostess said with a smile.

Samantha turned back to her task, oblivious to my presence as she scooped sauce onto Coney dogs lined up on the counter.

“Order up,” Sam said as we passed.

My hackles rose—again—at the sight in my great room. I’d obviously gotten here before the lunch rush yesterday, before the folding tables and chairs, packed with talking, laughing people, crowded the area. The young woman sat me at a table for two. A dark green napkin was folded like a tent in front of me, the merry color standing out against a crisp white tablecloth. Water from a carafe was poured into a stemmed glass to my right. A menu appeared in my hand.

“Would you care for a beverage to get started?” the voice beside me asked.

I shook my head, dazed at the title on the menu.
Sam
and Joel’s on the Bay.
My house was now Samantha Walters’ latest food service establishment. Why’d she have to bring her stupid diner to the U.P.? Why didn’t she just get out of my house and go back downstate where she came from?

I opened the booklet and perused the list of selections. Lunch choices ranged from traditional coneys, to reubens on rye. For supper, guests could choose from a variety of fresh fish, prime rib, and even chicken parmigiana. Served, of course, with fresh-baked homemade rolls and spinach salad drizzled with bacon dressing. A separate insert announced the festive Christmas buffet that would be served from noon to six just two days from now. And all for just $19.99 per person.

I curled an edge of the laminated menu, ruining the seal. Right now I hated Sam. Was there anything she couldn’t do? Did she have any ideas that were lame instead of brilliant? Was there anything she owned that she hadn’t stolen from me?

I glanced through the dark tint of my sunglasses at the others in the room. I supposed she knew each of her customers by name and they were all completely taken in by her charm.

Christmas lights twinkled around the perimeter. I glared at the tree crammed in the corner, picturing the room as it had been before Sam got a hold of it: tatty furniture, dim lighting, no decorations . . . I seethed inwardly. What had she done with my stuff, anyway? The couch that once sat in the same place as this table had been a family heirloom. It was the same one I’d bounced on when I was a kid. I closed my eyes.

Boing, boing, boing.

“Patricia Louise Amble!” my mother would yell from the kitchen. “Get off that sofa!”

“Have you decided?” The woman had returned, order pad in hand.

I jerked my mind from the past. “I’ll take two Coney Deluxes to go, please.”

“Fries or chips?” she asked.

“Chili-cheese fries. Thanks.”

She was gone. I stared past the crowd to the lake. A slash of gray water ran between slabs of white ice.

If Doomsday hadn’t happened last May, how far would I have gotten on this place? I looked up at the cedar beams that crossed the ceiling. Someone had given the whole soaring room a coat of glossy polyurethane, allowing the light to gleam off each surface. That colossal project hadn’t even been in my plans. And after my excitement in Del Gloria, I was almost ready to swear off ladders. The most I would have done to improve the great room was duct tape a dust mop to an extension pole and sweep down the cobwebs. But this . . . this was awe-inspiring.

The burgundy, green, and cream accents Sam had splashed throughout the room made the space feel elegant, yet still like a woodsy lodge. And her idea to have every piece of décor for sale, tied with a tiny white price tag, made me want to retch. On the wall above me, a clock chimed the hour to the tune of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Without knowing why, I craned for a look at the tag.

A few minutes later, the waitress brought my order, bagged in paper and fastened with a red raffia bow.

She laid the bill upside down on the table. “I can take that when you’re ready.”

“How about right now? And,” I gestured at the wall clock, “I’ll take that too.”

She disappeared with the clock and a few minutes later returned it wrapped in recycled paper and tied with green ribbon. I counted out enough bills to cover the check and tip and hightailed it out of my own house.

Sam caught a glimpse of me halfway across the kitchen.

“Oh, my gosh. Tish?” She slapped a hand over her mouth and checked for spies. “I mean Sasha.”

“It’s Tasha.”

She looked at my excess baggage. “So you’re the one who bought the clock.”

I nodded, sidestepping toward the door.

“Is that a Christmas present for your grandfather?”

I shook my head, mute.

She stared at me, her eyes turning hard. “Listen. Stay away from Brad. I heard about that stunt you pulled yesterday. He’s not ready to see you. I’ll let you know when he is.”

I was sorry she couldn’t see the scorn in my eyes. With a spin, I took off out the back door.

Packages safe on the passenger seat next to me, I made the drive to Manistique. No former sister-in-law-to-be was going to scare me away from Brad.

26

Brad’s personal bodyguard opened the door.

“Hi, Austin,” I said, praying Brad hadn’t told him about the kiss yesterday.

“The crazy college chick. What do you want?” Austin kept his fit and trim physique between me and my goal as he looked into the hall behind me. “No Mr. Russo today?”

I shook my head, struggling with my box and bag. “I’m about to drop this stuff. Can you get the door for me?” “No can do. You can’t come in.”

Sighing, I put on a weary voice. “Look. I know I upset Brad yesterday. I brought him lunch to make it up.”

Austin sniffed the air. “Sam’s Coney Deluxe. That’s Mr. Walters’ favorite.”

“I know.” I took a step forward, edging into the opening. He cut me off at the pass. “Sorry, no visitors.”

“Come on. I’d like another chance to talk to Mr. Walters.” I rocked the aromatic bag of Coneys under his nose and spoke in a singsong voice. “I brought him food.”

Austin grabbed the bag off my larger package. “I’ll tell him it’s from you.” He started to close the door.

“Give that back.” I slapped at the paper, missing. “That’s my lunch too.”

“Sorry, no visitors.” The bag disappeared and the door was almost closed.

“Who’s here, Austin?” a voice boomed from the bedroom. “Hey!” I yelled through the crack. “Brad! It’s me! I brought you a Coney Deluxe.”

Austin slammed the door in my face.

I stood there, the toe of one shoe wedged against the threshold. Brad had to realize it was me, Tish, come back to life. Any moment Austin would open the door and usher me inside. I waited, listening. When Austin didn’t return, I rested the clock on one hip and stuck an ear to the door.

The rustling of a paper bag.

I jiggled the doorknob. Locked.