Hot Coco (20 page)

“Scott’s the one, Margie. He’s the one who has feelings for you. Take it from me, sometimes forgiveness is a tough thing to muster up. And forgetting? Well, you have to find the forgiveness first. Hopefully, the forgetting will come … with time.”

She blew it. No, he blew it. No, Margie O’Conner blew it right out of the damned water. The little bitch may as well have had a grenade.

Jen’s magic evening was blown to smithereens. She and Eric had never made it to her place, and never made it to the bedroom where her plans to strip him out of that suit and rock his world never happened.

Margie’s plans? Well played, well executed, and well ... she won. Touchdown.

Jen let out a pathetic chuckle.

If Clay were here, he’d dub the entire fiasco as FUBAR: Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
It was a military term.

Clayton Marshall, her ex-husband, was military to the bone, Marines. He referred to everything in military terms. Assigned to an ops unit, he was often far away from home, usually in some third-world country, for long periods of time. When he did come home; he was distant and absent. Their sex life was fast, wicked, and unfeeling. He treated their son, Brandon, as if he were one of his soldiers. It was as if the missions that he served on had stolen his spirit to render him incapable of tender intimacy, even love.

It had been a dozen years since the divorce. Neither Brandon nor she had heard one word from Clay. Oftentimes, on sleepless nights, she wondered if his body was rotting in a jungle somewhere. Shuddering, she would force herself to deem, “He’s not my problem, not my concern, and he’s not my husband anymore.”

Leaning her elbows on the vanity, Jen dropped her face into her hands and laced her fingers through her hair. She had thought Eric would be the new beginning she so desperately needed and wanted.
What the hell happened? I was alone in the ladies room, putting on my lipstick and a nanosecond later, I was rolling over the bathroom floor with Margie on top of me. The rest is a blur. Thank God.

After hiding in a ladies room on the far side of the Convention Center while speculating where her other shoe might be, she called a taxi and got home at two in the morning.

Her cell phone vibrated in a tiny circle on the vanity top.
INCOMING CALL: ERIC WEST.

Even through the night, he had been ringing her phone every couple hours.

She couldn’t talk to him.
Not now. I’m too embarrassed. I don’t know how I’m ever going to face him, again.

The phone went to voice mail. He had left three, maybe four messages, but she hadn’t listened to any of them.

Yeah, I know what he probably wants to say, “I’m sorry, Jen, I can’t see you anymore. Why? Because you’re a total asshole.”
Trying to shake that image out of her mind, she shivered.

No, not Eric’s style, he’s too much of gentleman. He’ll probably say, “I’m sorry, it’s just not working out. I’m really not ready for a committed relationship.” Then, he’ll kiss me on my forehead and walk out of my life forever. If that little hillbilly whore has her way; he’ll walk right into hers.
That was the image she really needed to shake off.

Well, so much for progress, and so much for the prospect of a new beginning.

She slumped back into her chair to stare at the reflection of her weary face in the mirror. She focused on the tiny laugh-lines around her eyes and mouth. Character, that’s what her mother used to say that they represented. The character of a woman’s life.

Mom was right. Okay, enough with the feeling sorry for yourself, Jennifer Fleming. You’re still an attractive charismatic woman. Don’t let that poser take your man. That’s right. Your man.

Her cell phone bumped and jiggled on the vanity. If it was Eric, she was going to answer it and she wasn’t going to let him break it off.
Oh, no, I’m going to pull out my claws and fight like a tiger.
When she grabbed the phone, it wasn’t Eric.

INCOMING CALL: MARGIE O’CONNER.

Good
.
Let’s get down to brass tacks, bitch.

What the hell was I thinking? I ruined any chance I ever had with Margie.

Scott mulled over the events of the past day. They had fun at the dance. They were talking and laughing. They even slow danced once or twice. He thought they were making progress. It was slow, but it was steady progress. She was forgetting all about Mike West and Eric? Well, that could be written-off as a huge misunderstanding.

Mistakes are supposed to be part of the dues one pays for a full life. Whoever said that must have really thought through every mistake they ever made.

Scott shoveled another heap of horseshit into a wheelbarrow in Dan Quaide’s stable. Yep, he was now working for Dan. He could never go back to the O’Conner stable. Doug would most likely be waiting for him with a shotgun.
Hell, he probably hates me worse than Mike West—no contest. Eh, I can’t blame him. I deserve it. Margie deserves better and I’ve failed miserably.

He should’ve admitted to the vandalism to Eric West when he stopped by the stable looking for Margie.
At least, it would have been done in private instead of in front of all those people at the dance. It would have been less humiliating and hurtful for Margie. Poor Marge, she was the one that ended up the big loser in the whole quandary.

The guilt was suffocating.

“Thought they’d have you locked up.” Margie’s voice caught him off-guard.

Surprised not only to see her but that she would even speak to him without launching some heavy projectile in his direction, Scott looked up.

He leaned the pitchfork against the wall and stuffed his hands into his pockets. His face felt flushed and hot. “I’ve got a hearing in two weeks,” he said into his chest with a lift of his shoulder. He wasn’t able, nor did he want, to look at her.

Margie noticed a book sitting on top of a bucket with a picture of George Washington on the cover. Scott had mentioned that he liked historical books. He wasn’t a stupid man. It was generational poverty that kept him mucking-out stalls and living in the trailer park across the street from the racetrack.

They weren’t worldly people. They weren’t well-traveled or well-spoken. They belonged to the racetrack. For Scott, it was a prison. For Margie, it was the only place she knew. For both, it was home. Yep, they were cut from the same cloth.

“So what do you think is gonna happen?” She tried to hide it, but concern bled into her voice.

He looked up, and was shocked to find empathy in those dark exotic eyes that belonged to the woman he had fallen in love with, had hurt, and had humiliated.
I don’t deserve what I see. Concern? Could it be? Is that forgiveness I’m looking at?

“I’ll probably have to pay Ms. Fleming restitution. Maybe do some public service for a while. We’ll see.” He still wondered what was going on behind those incredible eyes.

“Mmmm, so what are you doing here?”

“Mucking stalls for Dan.”

“We got plenty of stalls that need mucking.”

Now he was totally baffled.
How can she invite me back after everything I’ve done to her?
He dragged his gaze to meet hers. Her eyes were smiling at him.
Smiling. Damn, she’s a strong woman. Is she strong enough to forgive?
He couldn’t imagine, but something made him step past the wheelbarrow. Something gave him the courage to step toward her, until he was close—very close.

She sucked in her lips and gave way to a cock-eyed grin. “Unless you’d rather muck stalls for Quaide.” She looked away. “I’d like it if you came back to our stable.” She lifted her gaze to meet him square in the eye.

He couldn’t breathe. His heart flipped inside his chest. He grabbed her and, God help him, he kissed her the way he had wanted to kiss her for weeks.

She didn’t pull away. Closing her eyes, she kissed him back, because she knew the kiss was sincere. It was a kiss she’d been waiting for thirty-three long years.

“Are you sure, Margie?” he whispered with his forehead pressed against hers. His lips still touched hers.

How strangely wonderful. A conversation. Lip to lip.
“I am.” Wanting another taste of his sincerity, she pressed her mouth against his.

Slowly, he drew away. “You’ve forgiven me?”

“No, but I’m working on it.”

Ava was making herself comfortable. She propped her feet up on Jen’s desk, crossed her left leg over her right, leaned back in the chair, and dragged her fingers through her silken hair.

Trying to stay busy, Jen had come to the office to get some work done while keeping a calm demeanor until her visitor arrived. She looked lean and mean in her navy slacks, and pristine white blouse with a patch over the left breast pocket that read: Keystone Downs Medical Team.

Jen didn’t expect a stopover from Ava. But there she was, and she was hunkering down for a lengthy stay.

“Take it from me, Jen. Those West boys are more trouble than they’re worth.” Bullets, Ava loved to make bullets. “I can’t believe Eric would
play around with someone so much younger, and yet so … well, you know, unattractive.”

Conceding that trying to get anything done would be futile, Jen tossed her pen onto the pile of paperwork. “Men love younger women, and that seems to be the norm. But I can’t believe he’d go for someone so aggressively vindictive.”

“What do you mean?”

“My car, my window, remember?”

Cupping her hand to her mouth, Ava gasped. “You don’t know. Margie didn’t do those things. Scott Carter did. He admitted to it at the dance.” Her eyes widened. “Oh, it was after you’d left.”

Oops! Now she’d have to make a different kind of bullet. Not a problem
.
Landing on her feet, she regrouped. “She was still trying to
get her hooks into Eric. You know, I’m not so sure she wasn’t successful. You’ve got to give her credit—playing the part of the closet illiterate ... smart, very smart.”

Jen had stopped listening at “
Margie didn’t do those things. Scott Carter did …”
She couldn’t believe it. He was so nice to her after she found her tires slashed.
Oh, God, I’ve been duped.
Her stomach was feeling weak.

When Margie walked through her office door, Ava whipped her feet off of the desk. Jen stiffened in her chair.

“Well, I’d better be going. Doc Spears will be looking for me. He wanted extra help today.” Ava was wide eyed.

“Oh, you don’t have to go, Ava,” Jen prodded with a sly grin.

Ava scurried passed Margie. “No, no, like I said, Doc’s waiting.” With that, she rushed out the door.

She took several steps. It was killing her.
What’s Margie doing here?
A smile crept across her lips.
Another cat fight?
She just had to know. She waited outside to hear the fireworks that she was confident would soon begin.

Jen leaned back in her chair with her eyes trained on Margie. “Okay, you’re here.”

“How would Eric put it? ‘Let’s iron this out.’” Margie crept to the door, grabbed the knob, and shoved it open sharply.

The door smacked Ava in the face and tossed her backward to the floor.
K-thump!
Blood streamed from her nostril, down her chin, and onto her T-shirt. She was dazed. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth. Grabbing her nose, she scrambled to her feet and scurried for a rest room.

Sneering, Margie closed the door. Smirking, Jen stood up.

Margie reached into her back pocket and produced a glittery, silver, sling-back shoe. She tossed it onto the desk. “Found your shoe. Thought ya might want it back.”

Jen snickered. “Thanks. So ... let’s iron this out ...”

“Woman to woman.” Margie happily agreed.

Eighteen

Concentration was eluding Eric. He’d been trying to read the newspaper for the past hour and a half, but the events at last evening’s dinner dance kept racing through his head.

He had thought he might be able to start his life over with Jen. After the way she had looked at him, with her eyes filled with hurt and tears before she stomped off to find her own transportation home, his chances with her were probably slim to none.
Women like Jen Fleming don’t hand out second chances.

Finally, he closed the paper, slammed it on the sofa next to him, and tossed his bifocals on to the coffee table. He rubbed his eyes and dragged his fingers through his hair until his hands rested with his fingers laced at the nape of his neck. He stared at the tiny, blue flicker of flames dancing between the charred logs in the fireplace.

This used to easier. Back in the seventies, when the Eagles were playing on the radio and Barbara was snuggling against me in my 1971 Ford pickup.
He smiled at the memory. He could still smell the sweet scent of her long blonde hair.
She was a beauty.
He saw that natural beauty in Kate.
She’s so much like her mother—so very much like Barbara. The woman that filled my soul, the woman I miss everyday.

It had been ten years since Barbara was killed by a drunk driver—his very own older brother. John was still in Albion State Prison for killingher. Eric was left to raise two of their three children on his own. Thank the Lord for Mike.

Mike was twenty-three at the time. Rife with despair over the untimely loss of the mother that he was so close to, he did what had to be done. He dug right in to help with Shane and Kate.

Kate was sixteen and full of wide-eyed teenaged girl fantasies. God, she needed her mom, but she was stuck with Dad. He did the best he could.

Eric smiled.
Kate turned out terrific despite my lack of motherly instinct.