"Six months so far."
Zack looked utterly repulsed. "You're joking."
Zina shook her head. "One of the woman's friends called the shelter, and they were able to talk the woman into letting us foster-care Cassie. With any luck, we'll be able to put her up for adoption soon."
Zack got up and walked over to the door of the bedroom and stared into the darkness within. "I don't see how you can stand working there," he muttered over his shoulder to her. "I'd want to blow these people's brains out. Or mine."
Behind him Zina said simply, "If we don't help the animals, who will? Besides,
most
people aren't cruel."
"Just stupid."
"Thoughtless. They don't think, that's all."
"Give me a break, Zina!" her brother snapped. "When you leave a dog tied up too long to a parking meter while you have a few beers with your pals—that's thoughtless. Keeping a cat in a cage for half a year is cruel. Genuine, bona fide, undeniably cruel.
God
, what a bitch!"
Anyone else might have quaked in her socks at the ferocity of his outburst, but not Zina. She understood her brother well: Zack Tompkins had no use for people who didn't follow through on their commitments.
In that, she and Zack were nothing alike.
He was standing in the doorway still, staring into the darkened room, trying to see she didn't know what.
"I don't think that she'll be coming out soon," Zina volunteered. "She's probably under the bed."
"I'm sure." Zack slugged the last of his beer and turned away from the room, his face the picture of misanthropy. "I suppose," he said as he rinsed out the can, "that you're going to sleep on the couch tonight so that the cat can have a space to itself?"
She smiled. "Actually, it's a very comfortable couch."
"You'll be springing for an apartment with a guest room next," her brother said wryly.
"Are you kidding?" Zina picked up the food and water dishes and moved them into the bedroom. "Where would I find a landlord as willing to put up with my animals? No, I like it here. It's in the country, quiet, cheap, and close to the shelter. Best of all, Margie's hard of hearing. Remember last month, when that Siamese was in heat? She never heard a thing."
"There you go
, then
; the landlady from heaven. Did you lose this?" he asked, picking up a silver bracelet from the floor.
Zina was surprised—shocked—that she hadn't noticed it wasn't on her wrist. "The lock must have opened again!" she said in genuine distress. "I'm going to lose it for sure."
Zack looked at it closely and said, "The loop needs crimping, that's all. Do you have a needle-nose around?"
"A what?"
"Never mind; I'll fix this and bring it back next time. I'll add a drop of solder to keep it from opening again."
"Let me see."
He handed her the
I
D bracelet. She looked at the loop, then ran her finger lightly over the inscription on the plate:
J and
Z
Forever.
Defiantly, because her brother was watching her with wry amusement, she lifted the bracelet to her lips before handing it back.
"My good luck amulet," she said, her chin still high. "Don't keep it too long."
"Zina—"
"Don't. Just
... don't."
****
Every once in a while Jim and his office mates declared a boys' night out; Wendy had got the word earlier in the day that tonight was going to be one of them.
Jim was good about warning her, just as he was bad about holding his liquor. She appreciated both traits in him: they defined a man who kept her in the loop about his comings and goings, and who didn't drink enough to have developed a hollow leg.
At ten-thirty, Jim walked in with a weave in his step that Wendy pretty much expected to see. She was glad that they'd had a designated driver.
He gave her a loopy grin. "Betcha think I've had—guess how many I've had."
"One too many?" she said, taking his rain-spattered jacket from him before he
could throw
it over something upholstered.
"
Two too many," he answered, heading straight—more or less—for the oversized recliner that loomed large in their small living room.
"There was a lot to drink to, I can tell you," he informed her. "Plenty of stuff goin' on. Plenty." He dropped with a grunt into his easy chair.
"What kind of stuff?" Wendy asked. She was wary nowadays about the possibilities.
"You know—all kinds of stuff," he said, elaborating as best as he could. He used his right foot to pry off the loafer on his left, then fumbled through the process in reverse to get the other shoe off. The effort seemed to exhaust him; he collapsed and dropped his head back on the recliner and stared at the ceiling. "Man, I'm wasted."
"What kind of stuff?"
"Oh
... bullshit stuff. Like Phil's getting a divorce from Cindy."
"You're kidding!"
"But not because of the money. Eh, well
... maybe because of the money. Before the lottery—I have to say—the two of 'em seemed shaky. But not
that
shaky."
He sighed, then frowned. "What was I saying?"
"Phil. Cindy."
"Right. Now, all of a sudden, there's another woman in the picture. Where she came from, I don't know," he said, rolling his head back and forth at the ceiling. "Phil never said squat about her before. I think Phil, being Phil, would've said."
"It's because of the money, you can bet on it," Wendy said in grim agreement. She got up to bring her husband a cup of black coffee because she didn't want him falling asleep in his chair, the usual aftermath of a boys' night out. "Phil's always been a jerk," she said from the kitchen, dismissing him.
"On the bright side, Todd finally got engaged."
"Because of the money, by any chance?" Wendy asked dryly as she set the mug down.
"Damn right because of the money. You know how Todd is. Zero confidence."
"His winnings should be able to buy him a good supply of that."
"You would think. But—I dunno, it's weird, but—no one seems to be handling the money that well. Except me. I'm doin' all right with it. As you know. And Ed. But
some
of the other guys, their heads are pretty messed up over this. They're having real problems."
Ignoring the mug on the coaster, Jim yawned sleepily and closed his eyes. He was one step away from kicking his recliner all the way back.
"Don't you dare," Wendy warned her husband, but it was too late; he threw the lever before she could stop him.
She was surprised at how unwilling she was to let him do his post-boys thing. "Stay up, Jim. I want to know who's having problems with the winnings. What kind of problems? Stay up," she said, pushing on his ankles to get him sitting straight again.
"Cut it out, Wen," he groused. But she persisted, and he levered himself
back
into an upright position. "What do you want from me? You want me to tell you that we all decided to give our winnings back? That's not gonna happen. No one's interested in giving back a dime, sorry to disappoint you."
"I didn't expect that. I want to know what 'messed up over this' means."
Jim rolled his eyes and said, "Why did I open my mouth? This isn't something
... I don't know
... it's
... some of the guys are
... restless
... antsy
... I don't know."
"You mean, about keeping their jobs?"
His response to that was a snort. "Forget keeping their jobs; they'll all be out of there by the end of the month. And that includes me, by the way. I can do better than pushing paper around a desk all day." He added dryly, "Don't worry, though; we should be able to scrape by while I have a look around."
"We've already talked about that," she said, surprised at his tone. "You know that I agree with you. You know that I think you should be happy in what you're doing."
"Well
...
just so you know I'm not going to stay there forever."
Something in his voice, something in his green eyes, made him sound a little lost. Even him. Instantly sympathetic, Wendy came over and curled on his lap.
S
he laid her head on the back of the recliner alongside his and said softly, "This is such a huge change in our lives. In all of our lives."
"You've got
that
right," he said, idly stroking her hair. He sounded a million miles away.
"The one who's handling it best of us is
Tyler
, I think. As long as he's got what he wants in video games, he's happy. He's clueless about all the possibilities."
"Oh yeah? He clued in on a new boat fast enough."
"Well, okay, a boat," she said, smiling at the thought of the two of them poring over brochures days earlier. "That goes without saying. Still, I can see why the guys at the office are restless. They've just been handed what amounts to a second chance at life. How many people get that?"
Jim angled his head to get a better look at her. "That's exactly their situation. Exactly. They don't want to blow it."
"No one does," she said. Certainly
she
didn't. She wanted the money to be put to the best possible use, whatever that was, because she wanted to be the best person she could, whatever that was.
Her husband murmured, "I don't think you realize that most of us have already blown it. That half of our lives have already been shot to hell behind a desk. That's why everyone's looking around, trying to get it right this time. Everyone's second-guessing
... everything. Believe me."
Something hot and sharp needled its way through Wendy's insides. Before she could identify the sensation, she said, "I hope their wives are helping them try to figure it out?"
Jim shifted his weight, and Wendy found herself sinking into the void alongside him. "That's just it," he mused. "I think the guys have this
... this feeling of,
I'm
the one who bought the ticket, and the money's
my
responsibility to figure out," he said. "Except Ed, of course. Dorothy runs that show."
She tried to laugh away the unease that both of them seemed to be feeling. "Uh-oh; does this mean that from now on I have to fill out a written request to buy something?"
He gave her hair a quick yank and said, "Goof. I'm talking about the other guys, not me. Hell, I'm the one who feels like he has to fill out a form to spend any money around here."
"Because you're impulsive," she couldn't help saying. "It's the Irish in you."
"What about the Irish in
you,
Wenda Hodene?" he said in a fake but rich Irish brogue. "Ye've repressed it of late."
She sat up and turned to face him squarely. "Meaning
...?"
"Meaning it's been a while. I know things have been crazy, but
it's been a couple of weeks now."
There was no mistaking the look in his eyes. Wendy had seen the same look the day she walked into the motorcycle shop twelve years earlier, in search of a bicycle bell. The only bells around were the ones he rang that night when he kissed her. Within the month they'd gone to bed; within three months they'd become engaged. It was the O'Byrne in her that had made her do it.
She smiled at the memory but s
aid, "You're tight, James; it would
take all blessed night."
"We have all blessed night.
Tyler
, do not forget, is at a sleepover."
"His first in a month," she said, keying in on the fact. "You're right."
Jim grinned, showing straight white teeth, and Wendy thought,
I keep forgetting how good-looking the man is.
And loyal; she loved that he was loyal. His desire for her, coming hard on the heels of the news about Phil and Cindy, was a spur to passion.
And, they would be alone. All blessed night.
Motive and opportunity; Wendy had it all. "You know what, mister? I think I'll take you up on that offer."
She turned and straddled him, wedging her knees between his thighs and the arms of the recliner. Her kiss was fierce and deep, as reassuring as it was hungry for reassurance. She felt him rise instantly beneath her and realized that he might not be so drunk, after all.
He broke off the kiss and said in a raspy growl, "Let's go
screw our brains out
."
His
bluntness
jolted her out of any expectation of fuzzy, warm intercourse between a couple with more than a decade of lovemaking behind them. This would be raw; this would be basic.
This could be fun.
****
Zack Tompkins was in bed with the hottest date he'd had in months. He lay back and closed his eyes, perfectly willing to let her do most of the work. "Ah, darlin', where
did
you go to school?" he murmured. At this rate, he wouldn't last; he was going to have to think about doing his taxes or something.