Sandra Hill - [Jinx] (20 page)

Chapter
20

THE INSANITY WEDDING

He was in Monaco for an international poker tournament. She, coincidentally, was in nearby Nice, basking in a South of France vacation with a few of her friends. They met up in the posh restaurant of the Riviera Hotel, which overlooked the Mediterranean Sea.

He was dressed up for the occasion . . . well, dressed up for him. A navy blue blazer, light blue Oxford collar shirt, a tie, and khaki slacks with loafers. But she was
really
dressed up, in a backless, short, black silk dress and rhinestone-studded black high heels. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head in one of those loose styles meant to convey that the woman had just crawled out of bed after getting laid. Pearl earrings were her only jewelry.

It had been one year since their last divorce, since the last time he’d seen her, and almost nine years from their first Sappy Wedding, but it could have been yesterday, as far as he was concerned. His heart constricted, and blood rushed to all the important places in his body. With a sigh, he made his way to her table; he couldn’t help himself.

“Ronnie,” he said, coming up behind her.

She jumped in her seat, then turned. “Jake. Ohmigod, Jake! What are you doing here?” She was not happy to see him, but then he understood because she had to be feeling the same adrenaline rush he was experiencing.

After introductions to her friends, who had knowing smiles on their faces—he’d met two of them before—and after making some forgettable chitchat about why each of them was there and what they’d seen, he took Ronnie by the arm and led her outside to the terrace so they could talk in private.
Big mistake!

They stood facing each other, neither knowing what to say. Maybe it was time for some honesty.

“I can’t breathe when I look at you,” he said, and that was the truth.

“Me, too.”

“Have you missed me as much as I’ve missed you?”

“I can’t tell you how many times I picked up the phone to tell you something, little things, like a case I’d just won, an interesting woman I met at a shelter, the cat that keeps trying to adopt me, a new Thai recipe I found.”

“I’ve drunk-dialed you more times than I can count. Sometimes I even waited till you picked up just to hear your voice before hanging up. How juvenile is that?”

“But then I remember that you’re not mine to call anytime I want.”

“I’m always yours . . . for whatever reason.”

She was looking at him like a weary traveler in the middle of the desert dying of thirst, and he was the tempting oasis. Heady stuff, that.

Suddenly, she flung herself at him. He caught her in his arms. What happened next was raw, hard-core sex, no embellishments . . . well, unless you call crazy-in-love an embellishment.

In hindsight, they shouldn’t have gone behind that mass of potted plants at the end of the terrace, beyond the lights. In hindsight, she shouldn’t have caressed his lower back, just above his butt, his special erotic spot. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have said, “I want to screw your brains out for all the pain you’ve caused me.” In hindsight, she shouldn’t have said, “Ditto.” In hindsight, he shouldn’t have banged her silly against the hotel wall with her dress hiked to her waist and his pants around his ankles. In hindsight, it probably hadn’t been a good idea to nail her again in the storage room on the way to the elevators. By morning, he had banged her so many times his cock felt like a drill.

Bang, nail, screw, drill? I’m turning into a bloody carpenter,
he joked with himself.

Her mouth was kiss-swollen, and there were chafe marks on practically her whole body. He had a few bite marks he would have liked to freeze in place to remind him later how wild she’d been.

They’d said the words “I love you” so many times, they became a litany. Their lovemaking had a frantic nature to it, as if they had to do it all, every which way they could, as well as they could, in case they never got another chance.

All that banging had probably affected his mind, and hers, too, because by the next evening they were married again. The Insanity Marriage.

Unfortunately, the insanity ended three months later.

Chapter
21

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. . . .

Veronica was having a wonderful time, more fun than she recalled having in a long, long time.

She and Brenda had done their laundry this afternoon, after running through the rain to a nearby Laundromat. They’d both basked in long hot showers and indulged in late-afternoon naps in the motel’s two double beds. Afterward, they came to Dirty Doug’s, where they dined on fresh beer-batter haddock with angel hair pasta au gratin and a luscious balsamic vinaigrette salad. Brenda had dropped her diet for the evening.

Over the years, Veronica had maintained friendships with a few of her old college roommates, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually seen or talked to any of them. Their interests had changed, being more into country clubs, children, and subjects that did not interest Veronica. Her life didn’t interest them, either. So it was refreshing to have girl-to-girl time with Brenda, whose sense of humor kept her smiling.

“Are you really going to your class reunion with John?”

“Yep, assuming I lose those twenty pounds. I’ve already lost twelve, but I’ll probably gain two tonight.”

“Why is it so important to you? Do you still love your ex?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. He is such a prick, really. He let celebrity go to his head years ago and is still basking in the glow of mass female adoration. He wasn’t always like that. I’ve known Lance since we were kids back in Perth Amboy, driving our tricycles up and down the sidewalk in front of our houses. Lance, ever the speed freak, managed to get his tricycle to go twice as fast as mine.”

“It’s hard to break old . . .” Veronica was about to say “loves” but instead said, “habits.”

“Tell me about it. And, hey, I get back at the jerk every chance I get. Everyone I meet gets to hear me say that his family jewels are more like peanuts and his dick hasn’t grown since he was two years old. It gets back to him, too.” She grinned mischievously.

“Does he see his daughter . . . Patti?”

“Oh, yeah. I can’t criticize him in that department. He has regular visitation. I live with my mother in Perth Amboy, but Patti spends a lot of time with Lance in the off season at his home outside Houston. Last winter he took her to Disney World. I manage to be out of sight every time he comes for her, though. I’m afraid my rancor will show in front of Patti.”

At least Jake and I didn’t have kids to subject our misery to.
Somehow, that fact didn’t make her feel better.

Caleb and Adam showed up then, and she thought she saw John over by the bar, but the place was so packed, with the rain pounding down on the metal roof, that it was hard to tell. But, yes, there he was out on the dance floor doing his thing with the same blonde who had been here last time.

Veronica went to the ladies’ room, and on the way back, a guy asked her to dance. The fact that she was surprised was an indication of how sparse her social life was these days. She hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

It was sort of a slow, fast dance—“Hit Me with Your Best Shot.” He didn’t do any fancy steps that would make him look ridiculous or embarrass her. Over the music and loud conversation, he yelled, “Ethan . . . Ethan Dale.”

“Veronica . . . Ronnie . . . Jinkowski,” she said when the dance steps moved her closer to him.

“What do you do?”

For one second, she thought about telling him that she was a treasure hunter. But instead, she said, “Lawyer.”

He nodded and pointed at himself. “State trooper.”

She smiled. He looked like a trooper. Tall, short hair, good build, sort of stoic demeanor.

Adam and Brenda came out and danced next to them. Then John and the girl, who was named—surprise, surprise—Tiffany, a student at Monmouth College. John, who wore a shirt that proclaimed “Your Castle or Mine,” was trying to teach them all the Cajun two-step to that song “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.” By the time three more songs went by, they were all laughing and dripping with perspiration.

Ethan danced with Brenda after Veronica begged off. Adam steered her back to the table where Caleb sat, brooding over his beer.

“You don’t dance?” she asked Caleb while taking a long drink of her frosted Long Island Ice Tea.

“I dance . . . some.”

She arched her eyebrows.

“Slow dances. You wanna dance?”

Oooh, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.

A flash of humor crossed his face, as if he suspected what she was thinking.

They slow-danced to two songs, and she liked it. Well, who wouldn’t? With her arms linked around his neck, his arms linked around her waist, and her face against the hard tendons of his neck, she felt, well, tingly inside.
What a teenagey kind of word to use!
She almost giggled, which was also a “teenagey” kind of thing to do.

Caleb smelled of some spicy soap or deodorant, maybe just the detergent or fabric softener in his soft navy T-shirt. The strong heartbeat she felt against her breasts was anything but soft.

But then everything changed.

Her eyes opened lazily at the end of one song to gaze over his shoulder and see . . . Jake! He was leaning back, his elbows resting on the bar, with a bottle of beer in one hand, watching her. He had his impassive, poker face on, which gave her no clue as to his mood. But she could guess.

She stopped and told Caleb, “I’ve had enough dancing . . . for now.”

He raised his eyebrows at her abrupt change of mood, then turned to see where she was staring. “Crap!” he said, and steered her back to their table.

Veronica couldn’t feel comfortable after that. She answered questions as others at her table talked, mostly Brenda and Adam. Caleb remained quiet and brooding. It wasn’t that Jake did anything overt. Just the fact that he was there put a damper on her fun. As if she had been doing something wrong, which she hadn’t been, of course.

They were joined by unexpected company then—her grandfather, looking spiffy in slicked-back white hair, blue jeans, a white Jinx, Inc., T-shirt, and white-on-red polka-dot suspenders. Flossie wasn’t too shabby, either, in a pink, short-sleeved spandex dress with high-heeled matching slides. Chandelier earrings comprised of various-sized tiny bells jingled as she moved her head, which was covered with its usual big, blonde hair. She arrived in a cloud of Shalimar perfume, noticeable even in the tavern’s heavy air.

“Don’t scowl at me like I’m a party crasher,” Frank said as he pulled chairs over for him and Flossie. “Flossie made me come, even though I told her they don’t play polkas in this dump.”

“Tsk-tsk-tsk!” Flossie said, giggling and giving each of them at the table a little wave.

Her evening of fun was not turning out as she had planned.

Frank ordered a beer for himself and a piña colada for Flossie, who told the waiter, “And don’t forget the umbrella!” Frank then turned to Veronica and said, “So why aren’t you over there with Jake?”

She felt herself blush as Brenda and Adam swiveled in their chairs to see Jake, still at the bar, though now he was talking to the bartender, handing him a bill, and pointing at the band. He was probably telling him to ask the band to tone it down. It was so loud in here, a person could develop a hearing problem. “I think he just came in,” she explained, as if it was her fault he hadn’t joined them.

Frank nodded.

“Let’s dance,” Flossie said to Frank.

Instead of balking, as most men did till they had a few beers under their belts, he stood and took her to the dance floor, where he surprised all of them. He steered Flossie around the dance floor in a sweeping old-fashioned waltz, even if it was to Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.”

“That is so neat!” Brenda said, mirroring Veronica’s own thoughts.

My grandmother would have a fit if she could see how good they look together.
But then another thought occurred to her.
Did he and my grandmother dance like this at one time? Did they love each other as passionately as Jake and I once did?
Her eyes immediately shot to Jake to see if he was watching the pair . . . and having the same emotions.

Instead, she saw with delight that life was throwing a speed bump on Jake’s plans as well—assuming he had plans—because a small figure climbed up onto the bar stool next to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

It was Tante Lulu.

Dumb no more . . .

“You are such a dumb cluck!”

Jake had been sitting on a stool, leaning against the bar on his left side, which gave him a good view of the dance floor . . . and beyond. He was nursing a long neck, minding his own business—okay, minding Ronnie’s business, too, dammit!—when he heard that familiar voice behind him, making that probably accurate assessment of his mental state, immediately followed by a tap-tap-tap on his shoulder.

It was the new bane of his life, Tante Lulu, looking like a midget on the bar stool, with her white sneakers only reaching halfway to the floor. She had a greenish tint to her white hair today and was wearing a matching bright green jogging suit.
The Jolly Green Dwarf.
“Dint ya hear me, boy?”

“I heard you,” he said, turning around to face her.

“Then why are ya standin’ here like yer butt’s Krazy Glued to the stool, lettin’ that stud make moves on yer woman?
Stud
is a word Charmaine taught me. It means hubba-hubba handsome.”

“First, I know what a stud is. Second, Ronnie isn’t
my
woman anymore. We’re divorced.”

“Pffff! Iffen she ain’t yer woman, ya oughta tell yer eyeballs and yer heart. ’Cause I’m tellin’ ya, sure as sunshine in the bayou, ya got yer heart in yer eyes ever’ time you look at her.”

That’s just great. I’m gawking at Ronnie like a lovesick dork.

Actually,
gawking
was a good description of what he’d been doing. He’d known from their short jaunt on the boat that Ronnie had turned over some kind of leaf, and not just quitting her job. Her clothing choices had undergone a dramatic transformation, too. First, there was the gold sperm-chasing bathing suit, and now this sheer blousey thing she wore over low-cut black jeans. She looked mighty fine. Too fine.
She shouldn’t be dressing like that in front of other men. Just me.

“You could be a stud, too, ya know.” The old lady’s words brought him out of his brain blip with a jolt as she took a long slurp from a straw in a big red drink, then continued. “The thunderbolt caint do it all itself. Ya gotta work with the thunderbolt, sonny.”

I’m going to regret this. I know I am.
“How do I become a stud?”

She surveyed him from head to toe as if she were that guy on
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy
and found him lacking. “Get yer jeans a size or two smaller.”

Maybe one size smaller. Two, and I won’t be able to walk.

“Pump up them muscles in yer chest. Ya oughta try workin’ out with Richard and me . . . ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies.’”

Oh, yeah, that’s gonna happen. Me and a lady with more wrinkles than time working out with Richard Simmons.

“Mebbe ya need to polish yer moves, too,” she suggested. “Yer sexual moves, iffen ya know what I mean.”

Oh, no! She’s going to give me sex advice.

“I got this movie, a dee-vee-deedy that I took from under Tee-John’s mattress one time. It’s called
The Dummy Guide to Hot Sex.
”

Unbelievable!

“’Course, I also took
On Golden Blonde, Star Whores, Crocodile Done Me, Intercourse with a Vampire,
an
Diddler on the Roof,
but them was pure trash. I doan think you wanna learn anythin’ from those movies, ’ceptin’ mebbe that one move where the man gets a tongue erection.”

Jake could feel his eyes practically bug out. “Does Tee-John—or any of your family—know you’ve got this stuff?”

“No, and why should they? I’m old enough to do whatever I wanna.”

I should say so!

“Doan be thinkin’ I’m watchin’ these films to turn myself on.”

Oh, God!

“My wild oats turned to bran flakes a long time ago. Nope, I watch ’em to get ideas soz I kin edjacate my fam’ly members when they’s actin’ stupid.”

Jake pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from laughing out loud. “Listen, sex is not our problem.”

“Yeah, but it can always be better.”

“I’m thinking about trying tantric sex.”
I’m thinking that I’m losing my mind to discuss this subject with a woman who was around when Iraq was called
Mesopotamia.

“Tantric, smantric, whatever works, honey.” She patted him on the arm as if he were a little boy she was advising on the right way to ride a skateboard.

To hell with it. I might as well get advice from her as flounder along on my own because that ain’t working.
“She doesn’t want to be with me anymore. I mean, she wants to be with me, but she won’t try again because we’ve failed too many times.”

“No rain, no rainbows.”

“That helps. Not!”

“Wear her down, boy.”

He grinned. “I’m trying.”

“So, what’s your plan?”

“Uh . . . I don’t have a plan, exactly.”

She shook her head as if he was a hopeless case, then proved it by saying, “I’m gonna say a prayer to St. Jude fer you. But ya gotta do some work yerself. Caint ya think of anythin’ the girl likes about you, or somethin’ that would tug at her heartstrings an’ give you a chance to wheedle yer way back in?”