The Set Up (42 page)

Her eyebrows draw together in contemplation. “Are you sure?”

I laugh. “Yes, I’m absolutely, positively certain.”

That puts a smile on her face.

Coming to a stop, I put the car in park and look over at her. She’s chewing her thumbnail raw. “Charlotte, we’re here so I can work on your car. You have nothing to be nervous about.”

Hank opens the front door wearing his trademark wife-beater tank and khaki pants, a cigar between his teeth. His shirt is draped neatly around the kitchen chair, I’m certain. He lifts his beer bottle in greeting.

The heavily tinted car windows allow me the luxury of looking away and acting like I don’t notice him. All of a sudden my stomach twists and I consider turning around right now.
This is a mistake. A huge mistake.

Charlotte smiles. “I wasn’t expecting Hank—are you okay with him knowing about us?”

“I am. And I’m glad he’s here. My mother is better when he’s around.”

The house is modest, nice, safe. In his name. No press because no one knows about their long, ongoing affair. A narrow driveway leads to the large detached garage. “Your car is here,” I tell her, pointing to it.

She shakes a little with glee and those mounds of curls bounce. Now, that is enough to put a smile on my face.

Her eyes take in the surroundings. “The flowers are beautiful.”

Flowers cover every inch of empty land and I know my mother’s been busy this summer. “They are. My mother works very hard on making sure they stay that way.”

“I can tell.”

With a sigh, I look around and then back at Hank. My mother is behind him now. Her arms around his waist. Her chin on his shoulder. A smile on her face. After all these years, I can actually put one there once in a while.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

Now Charlotte grabs my hand and squeezes it. “It will be fine. Remember? And besides, we can’t stay in the car much longer—they’re waiting for us.”

“Yeah, I know. Let’s go.”

“Wait a minute,” she says.

I turn to her.

She takes my face in her hands and kisses my mouth. “It really is going to be fine.”

I sigh again, not so certain, but at least I’ll have her by my side to give me strength when I falter.

Just as she opens her door, I call out, “Wait a minute.”

This time she turns to me.

“I told you not to mention my father, right?”

“You did . . . only about a million times.”

“Okay, just checking, because it will set her off even with Hank here.”

She nods with a sadness I want to wipe off her face. Just as I lean over the console to kiss her one last time, my door swings open and my head snaps toward it.

“Jasper, my baby, you’re finally here.” It’s my mother. Her arms are outstretched and she’s waiting for me to get out of the car.

This is the part that really gets me. Every time I see her she acts like I don’t visit her enough. Like all the problems between us are water under the bridge. And every time I act like they are because she’s my mother, and what else can I do?

Stepping out of the car, I lean down and give her a tentative hug. “Mom, come on, it hasn’t been that long.”

She grabs hold of my face and pulls me down to her. “I haven’t seen you since Easter, what are you talking about?”

At forty-nine, my mother is both enigmatic and elusive. She is a classic beauty and knows how to use her looks to get her way. With light brown hair that is always curled in big waves, high cheekbones, and what people say are Bette Davis eyes, she can charm anyone. She is also a little on the dramatic side. I hug her for only a moment. “I’ve been busy, Mom.”

She shakes her head. “That’s no excuse.”

I give her my standard response, “You can always come and see me,” because I don’t want to get into it right now. At least this little exchange tells me that she’s unaware of the fact that I’ve been named a person of interest in the Eve Hepburn murder case. If she knew, she’d already be talking about it. I’m not sure how I feel about that, because now I have to be the one to tell her.

Easing back from my mother’s tenacious hold on me, I find Charlotte frozen in place at the front of the car. “Charlotte, come over here,” I say with a wave.

As soon as she circles the hood, I can see that her body is taut with tension. She’s wearing shorts that show off miles of sexy legs and I can see it in the way her thigh muscles bunch when she moves. I step closer to her and reach a hand to snag her and pull her close. “Mom, you remember Charlotte, don’t you?”

The smile my mother gives Charlotte is more than I could have expected. “The cute little quiet girl who lived next door to us in Eastpointe, of course I remember her.”

Charlotte offers her trembling hand. “Mrs. Storm, it’s so nice to see you again.”

I hate that she’s this nervous.

“Nonsense,” my mother says, “call me Lynne, and come give me a hug.”

I never said my mother wasn’t nice.

This is tricky water we’re wading in. Not a word about Adam Lane was spoken when I told my mother Charlotte was in town. Whether that will continue to hold true I suppose depends on how much my mother drinks, but with Hank here it’s a safe bet she won’t drink much. He doesn’t like her drunken side.

“Hey, Jasper, good to see you.” Hank is walking toward us.

The sympathetic look in his eyes is enough to tell me he knows what’s going on even if my mother doesn’t. Then again, he spends his days out in the real world, while she remains hidden away up here.

Extending my hand, I give him a nod. “Hank.”

Hank is a tall man and he’s built like a lumberjack. Holding his cigar off to the side, his gaze flickers to Charlotte in the strangest way. Some kind of protectiveness surges through me, and my hold on her tightens. And then as if it was never there, the tension he exuded upon first seeing her disappears and he smiles down at her. “Charlotte, hi. I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met a few times when your uncle Tom would bring you to my plant.”

Confusion clouds me.

Charlotte shakes her head no, and pales.

He goes on, not noticing her reaction. “You couldn’t have been more than three. I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Realization hits me with a force and my stomach knots a thousand times over. All those years ago Charlotte used to go places with Tom Worth and her mother, and that must be how Hank knows her. Tom Worth worked for Hank before he left HH Automotive to start Laneworth Automotive with Charlotte’s father, and they remained friends even after he left.

“Well, it’s nice to see you again,” he offers, trying to lighten the mood.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Harper. Or rather, again,” she says with a lightness in her tone as well.

“Call me Hank.”

“Nice to meet you, Hank.”

“Come on inside,” my mother says. “I have lunch almost ready.”

Great.

Just fucking great.

One big, happy meal coming our way.

As the four of us walk toward the house, my mother chats with Charlotte about the extremely hot weather and her flowers wilting because of it. Charlotte smiles and asks questions when she can fit a word in.

Hank puts his hand on my shoulder. “Sorry about last weekend. I really thought I could get her to come, but she refused.”

I shrug. “Better she didn’t come with the circus that took place, anyway.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to call you about that this week. Anything I can do to help?”

“No, I got it all under control.” I indicate my mother with my chin. “She doesn’t know anything about it?”

He shakes his head no. “Thought you should tell her.”

I nod. “Yeah, I will.”

“You talk to Alex lately?”

“Yeah, I have.” I keep it at that. No need to get into detail about what his son, the mayor, has slipped my way.

My mother opens the door and Hank holds it open for all of us to pass. I find my mind wandering. A line I never forgot from English class hits me hard as I step inside: “You can’t go home again.”
Thomas Wolfe wrote it. I think the phrase would be more fitting if it read, “You shouldn’t try to go home again.”

The kitchen isn’t the same. The furniture isn’t the same. Fuck, the house isn’t the same. Yet, as soon as the smell of chicken and pastry assaults me, and with Charlotte by my side, I feel like my mother is cooking my father’s favorite chicken soufflé at our house in Eastpointe.

“Mom, can Charlotte stay for dinner?”

She wipes her hands on a towel. “Let me just call her mother and make sure it’s okay. She might already be cooking.”

I shake my head no. “She’s not home.”

With a wineglass in her hand, she looks at Charlotte with concern. “Where is she?”

Charlotte looks terrified.

“She had to go out and the babysitter is late,” I answer for her.

“Oh, is it Sheila? She’s always late.”

I nod. “Yes, Sheila,” I lie. There is no babysitter. There never is. This time Mrs. Lane said she was running out for milk. That was two hours ago. She has yet to return. Chances are it will be well after midnight before she does.

My mother bends to check the oven.

I see the chicken soufflés and cringe. That means peas. I hate peas.

She turns back. “Sure, she can stay. Go play. We’ll be eating as soon as your father gets home, Jasper.”

Thankful she said yes, I say nothing about the peas.

My mother opens the oven door and my thoughts snap back. I look around at the recently remodeled kitchen space. Gone are the avocado-green appliances and the worn linoleum floor. In their place are stainless steel and ceramic tile. Hank must have been feeling generous.

The counters are still the same, though, and the fake wood laminate is starting to peel. Perhaps those will be next. Or maybe once I get things settled and have the money I could change them out for her. Scanning the rest of the kitchen for what else needs replacing, my eyes land on the Swanson chicken potpie boxes stacked on top of the garage can. A telltale sign we’re not eating her chicken soufflé for lunch.

Like I said, she never cooks anymore. Not even for Hank. Feeling more nostalgic than I normally do when I visit, that fact makes me sad.

Even after twenty years she misses my father raving over her cooking.

She misses him.

She. Still. Misses. Him.

So do I.

FENDER BENDER

Charlotte

SOFT MUSIC WAFTS
from the living room. The men have taken their beers and gone outside. They are sitting at a round table with an umbrella over it on a stone patio that is surrounded by flowers in bloom. Vibrant shades of yellow, red, orange, and blue all around.

Inside, the kitchen is warm, even with the windows and the screen door open. Sadly, there is no breeze today to cool the stifling air.

I’m not as nervous as I was. Mrs. Storm is extremely pleasant and easy to talk to and doesn’t seem to hold the same animosity toward me that everyone else in this town does.

“How can I help?” I ask her as she’s pouring vinaigrette dressing on top of a bowl of sliced strawberries, shredded lettuce, and walnuts.

She turns and wipes the hair from her eyes. She’s wearing a sundress and flat sandals. Twenty years ago I thought she was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen. She is still stunning, and she looks just like I remember her, standing in her kitchen at Eastpointe cooking with a wineglass. Today the wine is missing and the kitchen is different, but she still smiles at me like she always did. “Why don’t you pour us some lemonade? Or if you’d prefer wine or beer, I have both.”

Grabbing the iced pitcher from the counter, I take two of the glasses beside it and start pouring. “Lemonade is perfect.”

“Great. Everything is done. Just follow me,” she says, turning backwards and pushing the screen door open. The tray she is carrying contains four chicken potpies and the salad bowl. She’d set everything else outside already.

Jasper rushes to the door to hold it open for her. She passes by him and Hank takes the tray from her hands, setting it on the counter beside the large outdoor grill.

“Everything okay?” Jasper whispers in my ear.