Prayer (6 page)

The long version was that she’d liked him. He was hot—with soulful hazel eyes, and a scruffy black beard and messy, longish hair to match—and he was sweet, with a quick, gentle smile. He was tall, too, taller than she by several inches, which was rare. Atticus was about her height. At the most. As a tall woman, she didn’t have many opportunities to feel fully enveloped in an embrace. It was nice to be with a taller man.

He wasn’t her favorite Pagano—she’d nursed a pretty intense crush on the very-married Luca for her first year or so in the Cove—but she’d liked John a lot. She’d thought he was a good guy, but she should have remembered how much her judgment sucked.

Reeling from that sucky judgment, dumped on New Year’s Eve by a guy who’d decided that he wanted to ‘go a different direction’ in the new year, Katrynn had stomped into Quinn’s determined not to spend New Year’s Fucking Eve sitting in her living room, wrapped in her fluffy purple throw, eating Chunky Monkey and watching the ball drop on television with no company but Lennie and George.

At Quinn’s, she’d found John, sitting at the bar with a whole bottle of some kind of booze, drowning disappointments of his own. He’d been dumped recently, too—just before Thanksgiving. They’d commiserated, and then they’d just talked, and laughed, drinking all the while.

The bar had gotten loud and crowded, but Katrynn had barely noticed. When it got too loud to hear each other, they’d leaned in close.

Then it had been midnight, and he’d kissed her. He hadn’t asked, and he hadn’t demanded. He’d just come in, and she’d met him.

And holy shit, could the guy kiss. It had been perfect.

They’d both been drunk, sure, and they’d both been rebounding. But it had still been perfect. The whole night had been perfect, from the time he’d seen her standing at the bar and called her over.

Quinn had had a cab on retainer for the night, and he’d sent them off together, giving the driver both of their addresses. They’d made out on the way, and John had gotten comfortable at second base, when the driver stopped at her place. She hadn’t been ready to give the perfect up. So she’d asked him up. If she hadn’t been drunk, she’d never have had the guts to do it.

That had been perfect, too. Exactly what she wanted. She had come harder than she ever had before, not counting when she was alone with her toys—a real, true, uninhibited orgasm. Complete satisfaction. Even bliss.

Yes, he’d passed out while they were in the afterglow, while he was still inside her, but that hardly mattered. She’d worked her way out from under him and settled at his side, and she’d fallen into her own boozy sleep thinking that maybe something real could happen. Hot guy, good guy, great sex. She’d felt like karma was finally giving to her instead of taking. At any rate, they were so completely in sync that it was worth a try.

And then she’d woken up alone, and, when he wasn’t in her apartment, she’d looked out the window and seen him standing in the lot, on his phone, with his shoes in his hand, like he’d been in such a big hurry to escape that he hadn’t taken the time to put them on. In January in Rhode Island.

Not such a good guy, then. A fucking asshole, in fact.

The worst part of it was that they’d been friends. Not close, but comfortable talking together. She was in his circle—his family circle, even—and they saw each other often. Maybe that made hooking up at all a bad idea; she could understand if he’d regretted the night. Sober, she probably wouldn’t have entertained the idea, either.

But he’d just bailed on her, knowing full well that they wouldn’t be able to avoid each other, that she’d have to face him again and again, and that she’d always know that he didn’t even think her worth the effort to leave gracefully.

Yes, the long version was worse.

“The long version is more detailed. Leave it at that.”

Bev studied her, her blue eyes narrowing shrewdly. Then she huffed. “Okay. I’ll call and tell him not to come tonight. We don’t need musical accompaniment.”

“No!” Katrynn had no wish to see him again—ever—but worse than that would be for their ‘misunderstanding’ to make things weird in the Paganos. If Nick had already been at him, that was bad enough—though she liked the thought that a mafia don was in her corner. “Let’s just leave the plans the way they are. I don’t want this to be bigger than it is. He was an asshole. I was probably a moron. You know me. Shitty luck with men. And anyway, Atticus is taking me out to dinner tonight, so I’ve moved on.”

“I won’t point out that you mention that immediately after saying you have shitty luck with men.”

Katrynn smirked. “You just did point it out.”

Bev smirked back. “As someone who survived a long history of shitty luck with men, I gotta watch out for my sister in the struggle.” She reached out and moved the scarf away from Katrynn’s neck. Katrynn hadn’t been expecting that, so she hadn’t moved quickly enough to avoid the next question. “Is this a gift from Atticus? And I don’t mean the scarf.”

Katrynn pulled the scarf from Bev’s hand and resettled it, hoping she’d covered all the deep reddish-purple. Her makeup had not been adequate to the task. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“First, that sentence is a gigantic red flag. Again, I know personally. And second, what it looks like is a hickey that belongs in the Guinness book.”

“Okay, then it
is
what it looks like—and see? Not to worry. We just had fun last night.”

Again, those blue eyes probed at her. She and Bev had never discussed specifics about what they liked and didn’t like in bed, but Katrynn got the strong sense that Bev didn’t believe that she’d had fun last night. And she hadn’t. She’d felt abused.

But maybe that was just her being prudish and putting too much emphasis on the way she wanted things to be.

Time to change the subject. “Enough about all that. Tell me how you got pregnant again so fast. Is this good?”

Bev blinked, and with that, her eyes softened and returned to the weary state that had become normal of late. “It happened the usual way, obviously. On our weekend in New York, almost definitely.”

“Ooh. Romantic.” Mafia don or not, Nick was basically the perfect husband, as far as Katrynn could tell—and Bev thought so, too. It was beyond romantic to see a man who had as much power as Nick had be so besotted with his wife and children. Katrynn wanted that in her life, too.

“It was.” That brought a happier light into Bev’s eyes. “Very. As for is it good? Yes. It has to be.” Her expression clouded over again. “I’m not sure how yet, but it has to be. In about six months, when Carina is just about a year old, and before Elisa starts kindergarten, I’m going to have baby number four. So it has to be good. It has to be. I have to figure it out.”

Katrynn’s little misunderstanding suddenly seemed petty and stupid. Bev had been off her game for months. She had three little girls at home already, and she owned this shop. Katrynn managed it, and they had a small sales staff, too, but Bev worked about half-time, on top of everything she did with the girls. She was exhausted and stressed all the time.

She gave her friend a hug. When Bev hung on, Katrynn said, “It
is
good. You and Nick make the most perfect babies. And I’ll help. I’ll do whatever you need here, you know that. You’re surrounded by people who love you and your family and will help with anything you need. And you know Nick will move heaven and earth to get you whatever you need. I think I mean that literally.”

Bev laughed and leaned back from the hug. She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “You’re right. I know. I’m scared, but I know it’ll be okay. I just need to get out of my head.”

“Then I’ll help with that, too. I will regale you with all my romantic misadventures, and you can be glad you’re you and not me.”

“I
was
you. I know it sucks. You can always talk to me, you know that. For advice or just an ear to listen or a shoulder to lean on.”

Katrynn smiled. She was glad Bev hadn’t spouted the platitude that there was somebody out there who was perfect for her, who was meant for her. Bev had found her perfect somebody, but Katrynn knew that that had been pure luck. They hadn’t been fated to be together. They had stumbled into each other.

She’d let herself slip, for a mere few hours, and think that maybe there was a perfect somebody for her, too, that maybe fate was in play after all, but that had been bullshit.

You were lucky, or you were lonely, or you settled. Period.

Katrynn clearly wasn’t lucky, and she didn’t want to be lonely. So she’d settle.

She reached up and retied her ponytail, then fussed with her scarf until she felt fairly sure it covered the bruise.

~ 3 ~

John answered the door. “Hey, Theo.”

“Hey. You ready?”

“Yep.” He locked up and stuck the key in its hidey-hole under the porch. “Let’s hit it.”

A couple of years ago, not long after Carmen and Theo had moved back to the Cove and Carmen had sold John this little beach house he’d been renting from her, John and Theo had started running together several times a week.

They’d both been runners for years; John had gone to the cross country state championships three years in a row in high school. They’d met each other on the high school track one morning and then started a regular thing. Theo would run the couple of miles from his place to John’s, they’d run together to the high school and do laps on the track, then work out at the stations on the sidelines. Then they’d run back to Theo’s, and John would run home. Depending on their schedules, the weather, and their mutual dedication, they’d do anywhere from five to eight miles, altogether, about four days a week. Theo was in his late fifties, but he was every bit as fit as John, who was no slouch.

John tried to get a couple of days a week in at the gym, too. He wasn’t worried about those few Italian vacation pounds.

He’d been a little surprised that morning, when Theo had called to check if they were still on for their run. His night at Carmen and Theo’s party hadn’t ended on the best note. With Nick leaning on him, and everybody else looking at him like he was some kind of rapist or something—or at least a really bad party guest—and with fucking Atticus (make that Arthur) Calhoun all over Katrynn and smirking at him every chance he’d had, John had said his goodbyes to the people who mattered and then bailed. Nobody had been sorry to see him go.

It seemed like feeling guilty about bailing on Katrynn had gotten her wedged into his head, now that he was back in town. Before, he’d liked her and been interested in her, but it hadn’t been anything more than vaguely, and occasionally, disappointing not to have a chance to ask her out. Since seeing her last night, though, he’d been, well, obsessing over her a little. He
really
didn’t like that she was apparently with Calhoun.

She’d had several boyfriends since he’d known her, and he’d met a few, without any feeling stronger than that vague and occasional disappointment. Calhoun was different. It felt like Calhoun was between them.

Which was just stupid. There wasn’t any ‘them’ to be between. He sure as fuck had no right to get territorial. They’d only been casual friends before New Year’s Eve, and a drunk fuck he had zero recollection of was hardly a claim.

They weren’t even casual friends anymore, he guessed. She wouldn’t talk to him now.

That was a lot more than vaguely disappointing.

And fuck, he wanted to turn Calhoun’s smug smirk into ground meat.

So, yeah. He’d been a little obsessed this past half-day or so.

Usually, he and Theo chatted while they ran, but not today. As they headed side-by-side down the road that dead-ended at the high school, finally John had to say something.

“I’m really sorry about last night.”

Theo nodded but didn’t speak for several strides. Then he said, “I’m having trouble imagining you hurting a woman.”

“I’m glad. I wouldn’t.” Except he had, right? Clearly, he had hurt her. He was starting to worry that he’d done more than simply bail, that he’d been shitty to her the night before as well. But there was still nothing in his memory about that night. He must have been well into his drunk when he’d first seen her.

Theo gave him a sidelong glance. “Okay.”

He didn’t say more, didn’t ask for more, and for that John was grateful. What would he have said? He would really have liked the whole sordid thing to fade into the past and be forgotten. After he apologized properly to Katrynn. If he even knew all that he should have been sorry for.

As they arrived at the track, Theo said, “Atticus is leaving on Sunday.”

John was surprised that Theo had turned the focus on Calhoun, since the scene last night had been between John and Katrynn. He took from it that Katrynn and Calhoun were definitely together. Which made his attendance at the party coming up that night problematic for more than one reason.

“Okay. Should I call Bev and cancel for tonight?” It was a book release party. What did they need with him strumming old-style folk tunes, anyway?

“If you want. I’d say that’s between you and Bev. My take is that you’re all grownups, and you made commitments.”

Despite Theo’s assertion that he was a grownup, that made the second time in the past day that John had been—probably rightly so—made to feel like a badly-behaved teenager. The confrontation with Nick last night had been the first. Nick was his cousin, not his father. He was older, in his early fifties, but he was still just a cousin.

Except he was also the don of the Pagano Brothers, and while family went far, it only went so far. Getting on Nick’s wrong side was never a good idea, blood ties or not.

John figured he’d better get his shit together and start acting like the grownup he was.

~oOo~

Cover to Cover Books was located on Gannet Street, in the original part of Quiet Cove. The buildings there were a couple hundred years old or, in the case of those buildings which had simply failed over time, replaced to look a couple hundred years old. The town historical society spent a lot of time ensuring that Quiet Cove kept its old-world charm. At Pagano & Sons, John and Luca, and their father before them, spent just as much time jumping through hoops, on restoration or new build jobs in town. They much preferred jobs outside the town limits, where the restrictions were fewer.

John, a finish carpenter by training, liked the restoration jobs, though, and he’d taken point on the job, a few years back, to renovate Cover to Cover, in an original building. These old buildings were chock full of beautiful wood, and wood was his thing. His particular interest was parquetry, designing and laying custom flooring with intricate patterns, but he enjoyed researching period patterns and influences for just about anything. The Cover to Cover job—they’d called it the ‘C2C’ job—was his signature work, with a flooring design modeled after a William Morris wallpaper pattern, and a perfect restoration where possible, and reproduction where not, of the original, eighteenth-century cabinetry and trimwork.

Since Carlo Sr. had retired, putting Luca in charge of the business and making John Chief Supervisor, John didn’t get many opportunities to do the work he liked—to be on job sites with tools and materials in his hands. Now it was all paperwork and meetings and traveling from job site to job site to check on other people’s work.

He hated it. But it was the family business, so he did it.

When he’d claimed point on C2C, that had been the last time he’d enjoyed his work.

The bookshop was gorgeous. When Bev had inherited it from a friend, it had been charming in the way of old bookshops: cramped, dim and dusty, with a cat reigning over the place. Now, it was still charming, and it was beautiful, too. The same cat was still there, an old broad with long white fur, who stalked around and occasionally deigned to allow a human to touch her, and the layout wasn’t dramatically different. But the space was fresh and warm and appealing. It still smelled like rotting paper, which was a good thing, according to Bev and Katrynn. They’d actually fretted that the construction smells, of sawdust and wood stain, would overwhelm the old-books scent.

They needn’t have worried. That smell was both strong and impenetrable.

On the night of Calhoun’s release party, John arrived at the shop at seven-forty. He was the last of the Paganos to arrive, and the non-family guests were starting to file in. He went around back and knocked on the private door.

Looking beautiful, but stressed and tired, Bev opened the door after a minute or two. “You’re here. Good.” She hugged him and then leaned back. “I wasn’t sure you would be.”

“I gave my word, Bev.”

She smiled, and in that curl of her mouth, John knew that Katrynn had told her about New Year’s. He was relieved and hoped it meant she wouldn’t direct questions his way. “Thank you. Atticus isn’t here yet, and neither is Katrynn, but we still have a few minutes. I’ve got him set up to read at the entrance to Chris’s room. I was thinking you could sit behind him to play?”

‘Chris’s room’ was the Chris Mills Reading Room, which they’d set up in honor of Bev’s friend, the former owner of the shop. He’d died in a car wreck and had left the shop—and everything else he’d had—to her. It was a nice room—the centerpiece of the shop, in John’s opinion.

It had a double-door entrance, and as he followed Bev out of the private staff rooms and into the main shop, he saw that there was already an elegant podium set up in the doorway, with rows of folding banquet chairs before it. Off to one side, in the poetry nook, was a table covered in deep-green fabric. A couple of silver vases full of pens perched on it, waiting. Near the front desk was another green-covered table, this one longer, that held a pretty array of refreshments.

The place was crowded, and more people were coming in. Few of the guests were locals, though. Almost everyone looked New York to John.

“Will that work?” Bev pointed to one of the folding chairs, set up in Chris’s room, just out of sight of the entrance—so the music he played would be heard, but he would not be seen.

That hurt his feelings. He was probably wrong, it probably had nothing whatsoever to do with last night, it was probably solely because the important thing was Calhoun’s reading and not the guitarist playing background music, but John felt like he was being punished.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Okay. Good. Well, now we just have to wait for the guest of honor, I guess.” As she said it, she turned and stared at the door as if willing Calhoun to show. And Katrynn was missing, too. That was strange.

“Is Katrynn with Calhoun?”

Over her shoulder, Bev shot a look at him. “Is that your business?”

It wasn’t. He didn’t answer, though a sigh forced its way out of his chest. Of course she was with the guy.

“Do you need to warm up or something like that?”

“No. I’m all set.” He’d spent the afternoon playing, getting loose and figuring out what he’d play. John hadn’t read the book, but from the way Bev described it, he thought it was some kind of ‘cowboy has existential crisis’ story. His job was to accompany the reading with angsty music with a western flair.

Since he’d completely forgotten about the gig, since he almost never played for pay, and since he was in the family doghouse, he was nervous. It didn’t help that he was playing for a guy he couldn’t stand, or that he’d been shunted off to a corner to do it.

But he’d take his lumps and be a grownup.

~oOo~

Calhoun was almost thirty minutes late, and so was Katrynn. As expected, they arrived together. By then, the guests were restless, Bev was pale with anxiety, and Nick was calmly furious. John spent the time with his brothers, griping about Calhoun, while the family women fussed over Bev. Nick leaned against the wall near the stairs and glared at the door.

When they finally arrived, Katrynn looked stressed and worried. Calhoun just smiled and began to schmooze.

Eventually, Calhoun came to the podium, gave John a terse nod, said, “Make sure you don’t play over me,” and opened a copy of his book.

He read for twenty minutes. Focused on playing, John didn’t listen to much of what was being read aloud. He played a medley of cowboy tunes he’d researched online. It wasn’t his preferred genre, but honestly, it wasn’t that far off, and it was fun to play. He liked folk music and singer-songwriter stuff. He’d never found the pyrotechnics of rock all that much fun to play, and he preferred the sound of his Alvarez acoustic to an electric any day. When he was in high school, he’d taught himself a bunch of Sixties protest folk—Bob Dylan; Peter, Paul & Mary; Phil Ochs, stuff like that. His older siblings thought he was nuts. He’d shared a bedroom with Joey, who was five years younger than he. Joey hadn’t been thrilled, either.