Acapulco Nights (20 page)

April 2005 – Seven Months Later

“Tall, non-fat latte with a shot of hazelnut,” I told the barista behind the counter at my favorite coffeehouse a few miles from home. My life might be dramatically different than before that trip to Acapulco, but my drink preferences had stayed the same.

The woman at the register took the ten dollar bill out of my hand and swapped it for some change.

I picked out a seat by the big plate glass window in front and waited for my order. The weather, which had been hot the day I left for Acapulco, was cool and rainy. That pouring down, lightning-and-thunder kind of rain that sweeps across Texas, pounds out the dust, and then disappears as fast as it arrives.

It was Saturday. The house I’d once shared with James felt too large, too empty, and too dark today. I wanted to be out with people, noise, and activity. My seat by the window did an adequate job of distracting me.

The home improvement store next to the coffeehouse attracted a constant stream of shoppers. People loaded lumber, PVC pipe, and grass seed into trucks, minivans, and even an old, beat-up station wagon.

“Tall, non-fat latte with a shot of hazelnut!” A teenage boy called out from behind the counter.

I hopped off the high stool and went to collect my drink.

As I sipped my latte, I wondered where James would be on a rainy Saturday afternoon. The image of his face, half-smiling, his dimple in full force, popped into my brain. Regret tugged in my gut, but I pushed back any bad feelings about the way things ended.

When I arrived back in San Antonio no one had been there to greet me. No car had waited near Baggage Claim to pick me up.

On the plane, I couldn’t resist picking up the air phone and dialing James’s cell. I wanted to listen to his voicemail message, but that warm honey of a voice made me want to say something.
I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you
.

I’d almost said it, too.

But then, I realized I needed to back off. Making rash decisions and rash comments had gotten me into trouble in the first place. A man like James deserved some distance, some time—to bombard him with my feelings and my apologies now would do nothing.

So I arrived in San Antonio with my luggage and a divorce.

When the taxi dropped me off at our little green-and-white house, I knew James would be gone. Even from the outside, although nothing really had changed—the flowerbeds were overrun with crab grass and the backyard fence was missing one of its slats—I knew something was different.

Walking through the front door, I saw the coat rack. His trench coat was gone, and it was sunny and ninety-five degrees outside. Then I knew for sure that he’d left, and he wasn’t going to come back.

At first, I didn’t want to look any further. I dropped my suitcase on the entryway floor, set my handbag on the sofa table, and sat down, staring at the sage green walls of our living room. Maybe if I didn’t look any further, I would be mistaken. Maybe he was still at work. Maybe he would be back soon, folding laundry or watching the basketball game on TV.

So I sat there on the couch for hours, watching the sun make its way across the floor in hot white patches of light.

That had been months ago.

Even though we worked for the same company, we never saw each other. He worked in development, and I worked as a technical writer. We focused on different products. I kept my nose to the grindstone and buried myself in bulleting target ideas, formatting tables and charts, and indexing technical terminology.

And I kept that very important paper in my desk. I waited for the weeks to pass, for the divorce to become final. I wouldn’t feel completely unburdened from my past until that day. Six months of waiting to be single again—for real.

I made a new weekend routine to replace the Saturday morning breakfast-in-bed I’d shared with James for almost four years. Saturdays were my new ‘special’ day. I got up early, washed a couple loads of laundry, and then made my way to one of several coffee places within a short drive of the house.

This morning I’d chosen The Coffee Beanery. Horrible name (I mean, what’s a ‘beanery’?) but fantastic coffee and a great people-watching window. Those were the key elements for me. I read the paper, sipped my coffee, and watched the Saturday morning crowds ebb and flow in the parking lot.

I sat for several hours watching the daily lives of San Antonians play out before me. Once I got jacked up on caffeine or my butt got too sore from sitting on the padded stool, I’d go home.

This morning, five sips away from my caffeine max for the day, I saw the car.

His car.

James’s car.

If my heart wasn’t already beating a million miles a minute from the two lattes I’d consumed, I’m sure it would have beaten as fast because of that car. A 1998 maroon Volkswagen Jetta with a small dent in the front fender from the time I tried to parallel park by the Riverwalk. Not my finest moment.

His car has been parked twenty-five yards out, in the sea of other cars. The rain had slowed to a drizzling grayness, making it easier to distinguish it from all the rest.

My ex-fiancé climbed out of it, his long, thin limbs unfolding like a Swiss Army Knife.

I fiddled nervously with the handle on my coffee cup. I wanted to walk up to him, ask him to forgive me, and have everything go back to the way it was. But life is never that simple.

James wove between parked cars, making his way toward the sporting goods store. His familiar, awkward gait vanished from view, and that’s when I made my move.

I got up from the stool and self-bussed my mug in the white bin by the garbage can. For a moment I wished I wore something a little less slob-on-a-Saturday morning: gray yoga pants, a faded yellow hoodie with a hole on the elbow, and the I-haven’t-washed-my-hair-since-yesterday-morning ponytail.

I reminded myself he had seen me under much worse circumstances. Strengthening my resolve, I left the coffee house and pulled the yellow hood up over my head to keep off the drizzle.

*

I waited by his car, watching for him. I was soaked through. Thank goodness the rain had stopped after only a few minutes of standing in it. The weak sun peeked out from behind patches of clouds. A nice Saturday was on its way after all.

James emerged from the sporting goods store, a large bag in one hand. He looked up, and his gaze locked onto me. He paused in his steps for a moment, but he kept heading straight for me.

A shiver ran through me.

When he came within a few feet of me, I said, “Looks like you could use some help.”

Wordlessly, he looked from me to his right front tire, which was as flat as a pancake.

“Suzie, what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to help you. Can you pop the trunk and get out the spare?”

He set the bag down next to me, and pressed a button on his keychain. “When did you learn how to change a tire?”

I could hear the beginning of a smile in his voice, but I didn’t look up. We had a tenuous connection I didn’t want to break.

He handed me the jack, and I got down on my knees to set it under the frame of the car.

“Oh, somebody I once knew taught me how—“ My mind flashed back to the night I met James—his hands on mine, showing me how to use the jack and how to loosen the lug nuts. Everything about him that night had been determined, masculine, and precise.

“Oh, really?”

I looked up and caught his green-eyed gaze. I missed their warmth and their softness. No other man had eyes like those.

The words tumbled out of my mouth, “I’m sorry, James. So, so sorry.” Before he could react, I bent my head down, ratcheting the handle to lift the car up higher. “I was nineteen, and I was an idiot. I didn’t know what to do. I never wanted to hurt you. Never.”

His hand touched my hair—a cool, soft touch. “Oh, Suze,” he said with a voice full of misery and hurt. “You could have told me.”

“I know,” I whispered.

He was right. I could have. If I knew this man so well, I should have known he would understand, but I never even gave him the chance.

My cold, wet fingers slipped on the lug nuts. I tried to use the damp sleeve of my raggedy hoodie to get a better grasp.

He stood there for a moment, his hand on my head. The weight of it comforted me. Then, he walked to the trunk to wrestle out the spare.

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding furiously, and  asked, “Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee?”

James set the spare down next to me. I kept cranking the jack. “What about pie? There has to be pie.”

My heart beat faster. “Coconut cream?”

“Hell yes.”

I laughed. Lightness and air filling me from head to toe. He became my James again, my sweet, silly James.

When we finished changing the tire, we headed back to The Coffee Beanery. We walked side-by-side. I wanted to grasp his hand in mine, but knew that something like this needed lots of time, lots of care.

As we strolled closer to the coffeehouse, I slipped the cap to the tire’s air valve into my pocket. I hoped James wouldn’t notice it was missing, but if he did, I think he would forgive me.

He held the door open for me, and I walked inside, but not before I caught his gaze and saw that green softness. Something I thought I wouldn’t ever see again.

In one hand he carried the large bag from the sporting goods store. I wondered why he didn’t put it in his trunk, but when we sat down to drink our coffee in a quiet corner, he showed me why.

He set the bag on the table and pulled out my tennis racket.

I thought I’d misplaced it all these months. I gave him a quizzical look.

“Your racket’s needed to be restrung for a long time. I finally got around to getting it done.” He handed me the familiar worn grip of my Prince racket. I accepted it and laid it on the table, staring at him in surprise.

“I forgive you, Suze.”

That was all I needed to hear.

I tucked a copy of my finalized divorce papers into an envelope, addressed the front, and placed enough stamps on it for postage to Mexico.

I glanced at the name on the front, “Mercedes Ruiz,” and hoped that her parents would get it to her. Wherever she was.

I thought of the picture of Ariana in Joaquin’s office—the smiling, pretty girl with eyes so much like her father’s. She deserved better.

But maybe this will help
, I thought, carrying the letter out to the mailbox. For on those finalized divorce papers was Joaquin’s new address in Cancún.
He thought he had been so clever, trying to get away from Ariana and his responsibilities
, I thought to myself, as I lifted the red flag on the side of the mailbox.

“Time for dinner!” called out James, his head peeking out from our front door.

“I’m coming,” I called out, giving one last glance at the mailbox. Then, smiling to myself, I followed James into our house and shut the door behind me.

K. J. Gillenwater survived life as a military linguist and a technical writer before pursuing her dreams to become the novelist she’d wanted to be since grade school. She writes what she loves: suspense and romance. When she isn’t writing, K. J. loves to watch way too much T.V., bake, hang out with her family and enjoy the view from her front porch.

If you enjoyed this book, K. J. Gillenwater is the author of three paranormal suspense books, which are available in print and in ebook format through Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

The Ninth Curse

His blood for a cure. It’s a cruel and deadly bargain…

Nine curses. Nine weeks to live. Joel Hatcher has inherited more than a family legacy. It’s a time bomb that’s ticking down to the inevitable: his own death. But the curse won’t die with him. Unless he can find a way to break the cycle, his younger brother becomes the next victim.

In the throes of the third curse, the Painful Pox, Joel makes a last-ditch decision to seek the help of a young spiritualist.

One look into Joel’s suffering eyes, and “Madame Eugenie” finds herself torn between doing the right thing and fulfilling her most secret wish—bring her husband Adam back from the dead. Joel’s cursed blood is the missing ingredient in her resurrection rituals, and Adam’s spirit whispers seductively that there’s only one way to get it: steal it.

As Gen and Joel unearth his family’s past to track down a cure, they come closer to each other, and to a horrible truth. To live, Joel must lose everything. Up to and including the woman he has grown to love.

Warning: This book contains curses, sacrifices, a ghostly husband, a crazy cat and a love that defies all odds.

Amazon:
http://tinyurl.com/d74mppv

Barnes & Noble:
http://tinyurl.com/d82fzy6

The Little Black Box

After the suspicious suicides of several student test subjects, Paula Crenshaw, research assistant and budding telekinetic in Paranormal Sciences at Blackridge University, suspects they may be connected to a little black box designed to read auras. Professor Jonas Pritchard, the head of the department, doesn't believe his precious experiment could be causing students to drop like flies. But when her best friend almost dies after her encounter with the black box, Paula is certain there is a connection. She pulls her cute, but sloppy, office buddy, Will Littlejohn, into the mystery, and they get closer to the truth behind who might be financially backing the project and why. Haunted by memories of a childhood accident, which she believes she caused with her untamed psychic abilities, Paula finds herself lured to the black box and its mysteries.

Amazon:
http://tinyurl.com/c2zb938

Blood Moon

Werewolves are roaming Northeast High, and Savannah Black is determined to hunt them down.

When Savannah's academic rival mysteriously disappears, she enlists the aid of her two best friends, Dina and Nick, to solve the mystery. Football players with glowing eyes and razor sharp canine teeth may have fooled the faculty, but not Savannah and her friends. These brave students are determined to eradicate a clan of deadly werewolves who threaten to take over their school.

When Dina disappears right before the big Homecoming Dance, Savannah and Nick must act quickly to save her from the werewolf's curse. But will a straight-A student be able to master knives and silver bullets as easily as chemistry and calculus?

Amazon:
http://tinyurl.com/owbhn42