Sweet Poison (12 page)

He flicked his gaze to her, then away. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be there for her if she ever needs me.”

Wearing a camel wool jacket, Julia sat on the cabin’s front porch, her computer resting in her lap. Bringing up her Web browser, she logged on to Google, and then typed “Chadwick State College NE.” She’d spent the last few hours reading though Ray’s campaign site, his campaign blog, and checking all the links from his sites to others. She finally discovered Kenzie’s name on a blog about a fund-raising party Cordelia had given at her loft last summer. Along with Kenzie’s last name was the information that she taught cultural anthropology at Chadwick State College in northeastern Nebraska.

Julia didn’t expect to learn much from the college Web site, but at the very least, she hoped to find a photo. She checked through each page, clicked on every link. She learned that the college had a football team, an art gallery, a new dining hall/student center, and two high-rise
residence halls. The only information she could find on the faculty were phone numbers and e-mail addresses, which at this point were worthless.

Returning to Google, she typed in “Nebraska State College Faculty.” Up popped a list of Web site addresses. She knew immediately she’d struck gold. She clicked on
www.kenziemulroy.net
and came to a page with a full-color photo, a list of courses, and instructor policies.

The woman staring back at Julia from the screen was leaning against a fence, a horse in the background. Her arms were folded casually across her stomach. She was wearing a black turtleneck, well-worn jeans, and tan cowboy boots. With her long legs and trim body, she was nice enough looking, although she was hardly beautiful. Her hair was more red than blond, feathered across her forehead and over her ears. Julia studied her for another few seconds and came to the conclusion that she looked like an attractive boy. Jane had always gone for the more feminine type, so Julia was a little surprised. The woman in the picture had a great smile, but Julia knew that when it came to looks, she’d win hands down over this cowgirl any day.

Shutting off the computer, Julia closed the lid and looked up at the shards of shimmering moonlight spreading out across White Bear Lake. A song had been nagging at her all day, one she couldn’t seem to get out of her head. It was Melissa Etheridge’s “Enough of Me.” It wasn’t the first time the song had taken hold of her, refusing to let go. She’d begun to think of it as her theme song.

Julia had given up everything for Jane. In the beginning, she’d moved halfway across the country. In time, she turned her back on a life that was not only lucrative but also fascinating. She’d worked through the fallout from that life, even when her decision to get out threatened to destroy her. Okay, so maybe she hadn’t done everything right. Bang the friggin’ gong. Julia Martinsen wasn’t perfect.

But she’d done her penance. She’d gone to Africa. She was still a doctor, thank God. Jane hadn’t demanded she renounce her profession. With what little she had left, she’d sunk her bare hands, indeed her entire body, into the worst epidemic the earth had ever known.
She’d worked like a demon, given her life utterly in order to burn her soul clean. She’d gone to bed for four years not knowing if she was among the living or the dead. And all she’d wanted in return was forgiveness. Was that so much to ask?

W
ith the beat of a Steve Earle tune throbbing in his head, Corey rode over to Serena’s house and parked his cycle in the cracked cement driveway next to a black Monte Carlo. He set the stand and climbed off, noticing that the ground was littered with cigarette butts and even a few discarded needles. Serena lived in a poor, rough section of south Minneapolis called the Phillips neighborhood. Ever since her girlfriend had told him Serena had bought a house, he couldn’t figure out how she’d been able to swing the mortgage. But now that he’d seen the place, he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that someone had given it away.

Above the front door was a bare bulb that burned hot and bright in the darkness. Inside, he could see a flickering light coming from one of the downstairs rooms. The rest of the house was dark.

He crossed the dry grass and took the steps to the front door two at a time. He hesitated for a moment, going over in his mind just what he wanted to say before she slammed the door in his face, then pressed the bell. When nothing happened, he pressed it again. Figuring it was probably broken, like everything else on the property, he pounded on the door with his fist.

A light burst on inside the hallway. The door drew back and a man,
about Corey’s age, stood staring at him. He was taller than Corey, with dark hair and a beard, and he was wearing a Hamline University sweatshirt over a pair of gray sweatpants.

“Is Serena around?” Corey asked, thumbs hooked into his belt.

The guy’s eyes were lit with alcohol, or something harder. They registered recognition, then turned into small black stones. “Get the hell away from here.” He was about to shut the door when Corey stuck his boot inside.

“What’d you say?”

“You heard me. I know you, man. You’re the piece of shit Serena used to date. I don’t wanna see you within two hundred miles of her—
ever.”

“And you are?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Out of the back came a young voice. “Hey, Johnny. What’s taking so long?”

“Just shut up,” he called back. “I’ll be there in a sec.”

“This is Serena’s house, right?”

“It’s
our
house.”

“You her husband?” His gaze slid to the guy’s hands. No ring.

“You’re bad news, man. Just do us both a favor and get lost.”

Corey was sick of everyone having a ready-made opinion of him. Cons had warned him how hard it would be to return to everyday life on the outside. Corey figured that if he was free, he could handle anything. But this was getting really old really fast.

“Listen, dickhead, if Serena’s in there, you go tell her—politely—that Corey’s outside and wants to talk.”

“She’s not here.”

“You her big manly protector?”

“You got a mouth on you, pal. Yeah, I am. You wanna make something of it?”

Corey smiled. The guy was built like a rubber band and he was drunk. It would be too easy. “She at work?”

“You’re not listening.” His voice hardened. “It’s none of your goddamn
business where she is. Stay away from her. You’re nothing but poison.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Just get lost.”

This time, the kid from the back came out into the hall. “Is the pizza here or isn’t it?”

Corey’s heart nearly stopped. The boy was skinny, with crooked teeth, a spray of freckles across his cheeks, and red hair like a thatched roof. He was the spitting image of Corey at a similar age.

“Dean, come on. Go back in the living room. I’ll be there in a second.”

“I’m starving.”

“Get the hell out of my face.”

Corey was so stunned, he just stood there with his mouth open. “That Serena’s kid?”

“He’s ours. Now leave.”

“How old is he?”

“Five. I’m not kidding, man. Get the hell out of here and don’t come back.” He slammed the door.

Corey didn’t move for almost a minute. The sight of the kid had shaken him. For sure, Serena’s new man had lied. The kid wasn’t five. He had to be right around eight.

“Ours?” whispered Corey, ready to put his fist through the door. What a pile of bullshit. That kid didn’t belong to the rubber band, that kid was
his
. Serena must have been pregnant before he went inside. But she’d never told him. Why keep him in the dark when he would have been so thrilled he would have shouted it from rooftops?

The words “I have a son” exploded inside his mind. He repeated it again and again until the reality sank in.

And the boy’s name sealed the deal. Corey’s full name was Corey Dean Hodge.

“This time, you’re gonna talk to me, Serena,” he whispered, returning to his bike. He started the motor. “Hey, asswipe,” he called. “That’s my son in there.
My
son. Not yours. I’ll be back.”

After rolling backward out into the street, he gunned the motor and whooped as he roared away. The rush of power beneath him was nothing compared to the rush of power inside him.

“My boy,” he yelled to the houses flying past. “I’ve got a son!”

W
e’re here,” called Jane as she entered Cordelia’s loft the following evening. She was greeted by the smell of garlic, rosemary, and roasting meat.

“Both of you?” came Cordelia’s voice from the kitchen.

“Yup, me, too,” said Kenzie, winking at Jane. “Sorry we’re late.”

Kenzie had arrived in a filthy mood because she’d been involved in a fender bender less than two miles from Jane’s house. Her Dodge Ram had a nice new dent on the right front quarter panel thanks to a Goodhue Florist’s truck. Rain had been falling since early afternoon, so the world already seemed a pretty dismal place, but Jane had figured out a way to cheer her up. Thus, their tardy arrival.

Jane counted the number of place settings at the dining room table. Four. “Where’s Melissa?” she called, setting a bottle of Bordeaux on the table next to a small arrangement of bright yellow daisies.

Cordelia charged out of the kitchen and marched to the bank of windows facing the new lofts across the street. Pushing open one of the panes, she shouted, “Are you coming or aren’t you?”

With her head halfway out the window and her hands flat on either side of the glass, she looked, well, ridiculous. Jane wondered if this
was going to be her new form of communication with “the girlfriend.”

Their fingers knit together, Jane and Kenzie walked over to the windows to watch the scene unfold. It was all so typically Cordelia. Who else would get involved with a woman who moved in, then moved out to another loft across the street? And still they were a hot item.

“Why don’t you try cans with a string attached?” offered Kenzie. “It used to work for my sister and me.”

Melanie finally appeared. Not her head, just her hand. Holding a cell phone. “I’m talking to my managing editor,” she shouted. “Hold your damn horses.” The hand disappeared.

“Is this really how you intend to talk to each other?” asked Jane.

Cordelia pulled her head back in. “Why not? Her window is only thirty feet away from mine.”

“But the people down on the street,” said Kenzie. “They’ll hear you.”

Cordelia shrugged. “What would you like to drink? I’ve got iced tea. Cherry, strawberry, and grape soda.”

Jane and Kenzie exchanged pained glances.

“A vodka shot might be nice,” said Kenzie.

“Make it two,” said Jane.

“Hey, Cordelia!” came Melanie’s voice.

Cordelia chugged back to the window. “What?”

“There’s been a murder in town.” This time, instead of her hand, her head appeared. “My editor wants me to cover it.”

“Heavens!”

“Sorry about dinner. I’ll call you later.”

“Love you, sweetie. Be careful.”

Cordelia moved back to the drinks cart and poured three shots, passing them around.

“What should we drink to?” asked Jane.

“Let’s drink to your little niece,” said Kenzie, picking up one of the three dozen photos of Hattie that Cordelia had scattered throughout the living room.

“Perfect,” said Cordelia. “To Hattie, may she be home for Christmas.”

They touched glasses and downed the vodka.

“Hey,” said Cordelia, “let’s drink one to my sister’s ill health. Let’s see. May her face be covered in big black hairy warts. That should be good for her film career.”

“Nasty,” said Kenzie.

“Octavia steals Hattie from under my nose and
I’m
the nasty one?”

“Let’s table that discussion for tonight,” said Jane.

They moved the conversation into the kitchen, where Cordelia had been about to put the finishing touches on the osso bucco.

“A little parsley for freshness,” she said, placing two veal shanks on each plate and giving them each a sprinkle of parsley. “And we’ve got garlic mashed potatoes,” she continued, scooping out a hefty portion for everyone. “And then rosemary roasted asparagus,” she added, pulling open the oven door, removing a flat pan, and using tongs to lay them perfectly alongside the veal. She might love junk food, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t swing a mean chef’s knife. “We’ll be very French and do the salad after the main course.”