Chapter 45
45
Jack and Ryan Finnerty sat on the tailgate of Jack’s truck, finishing off their lunch of convenience-store heat-’n’-eat burritos and iced tea. Jack kicked the dust from his work boots and loudly crunched the ice from his cup.
“Hey, bro, what’s with you?” Ryan asked, balling up the paper burrito wrapper and tossing it into the back of the truck along with the rest of the day’s trash.
“Nothin’. Why?”
“You’re all, like, happy and stuff. Right now, you’re sitting there with this shit-eating grin on your face. And I know it’s not because of the excellent cuisine we just consumed.”
“Probably just gas,” Jack said, thumping his chest with his fist and summoning up a belch on command, a talent he’d possessed since kindergarten.
Ryan matched his belch.
“Mom would be so proud,” Jack said.
“So, back to why you’re in such a great mood lately. Like the best mood you’ve been in since, like, a long time.”
“Since Zoey left you mean?”
“Well, yeah. You heard from her?”
“Nope.”
“You seeing somebody new?” Ryan studied his brother with deepening suspicion. “Wait a minute. I know that look. You’re not just seeing somebody. You’re sleeping with somebody.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack said, tossing his burrito wrapper at the trash heap.
“Sure you do. You were moping around, moody and grouchy as hell, for weeks after Zoey took off. All during the wedding, you were a total sad bastard. But now, this past couple weeks, you’re Mister Happy Face. Mister Happy Face who’s getting laid on a regular basis. Even Torie’s noticed you were acting different.”
Jack hopped down off the tailgate. “Enough chitchat. Let’s go finish sanding that floor so we can get the first layer of stain put down before we knock off tonight. I told Libba we’d put down the first coat of poly tomorrow morning. The wedding’s less than three weeks away.”
“I’ll get back to work as soon as you tell me who the lucky lady is that you’re getting lucky with.” Ryan leaned back on his elbows and watched his older brother rebuckling his tool belt. “Is it somebody I know?”
Jack tried to look indignant. “I would never kiss and tell.”
“Sure you would. Come on, gimme something here. Some vicarious enjoyment.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? You’re the one who’s still on his honeymoon.”
“Tell that to my bride. When Torie’s not barfing up her breakfast she’s locked herself in the bedroom crying about how fat her ass is getting.”
“Morning sickness? How long is that supposed to go on?”
“According to the stack of books on her bedside table, it’s usually for the first trimester. But we’re heading into week thirteen right now, and I don’t mind telling you, it’s been a long dry spell, if you know what I mean.”
Jack nodded sympathetically. “I feel for you.”
“Just gimme some details. It somehow makes my situation more bearable if I at least know my big brother is getting some.”
“Anybody ever tell you you’re a pig?”
“All the time. Who is she?”
“I haven’t even said I’m seeing somebody.”
“You don’t have to. I know the signs when I see ’em. Anyway, good for you. I was almost on the verge of agreeing to let Torie fix you up with one of her girlfriends.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
***
At the end of the day the two brothers climbed into Jack’s truck and steered it back across the Talmadge Memorial Bridge, home to Savannah. Their skin and clothes were coated with a thick dusting of sawdust, their clothes damp with sweat.
They listened to the radio and discussed the plan for the next day’s work.
“Other than not too much going on in the bedroom, how’s everything else going with you guys?” Jack asked.
“Good,” Ryan said. “I promised Torie we could go pick out a crib for the nursery this weekend. Which reminds me, I’ll drive myself tomorrow. I’m supposed to meet her at the doctor’s office at three. We’re going to see an ultrasound of the baby.”
“Cool. So you’ll know if it’s a boy or a girl?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
“I got five bucks says it’s a girl,” Jack said.
“That’s what Mom says too,” Ryan said. “I don’t care either way. Boy, girl, just so it’s healthy—and looks like her but has my temperament.”
“I heard that,” Jack said. “Do you guys see much of Torie’s folks?
“Not as much as they’d like. Torie talks to Lillian all the time. I try to keep my distance. Her old man’s all right—but Lillian? What a mouth that woman has on her. Swear to God, she wakes up every day and has a beef with somebody.”
“Like who?” Jack asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“Anybody. Everybody. The dry cleaner who melted a button on her favorite jacket, the neighbor whose cat keeps crapping in her garden. Oh yeah, her current obsession is with some silver piece she claims our wedding florist stole.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. It’s crazy. Remember Cara, from our wedding? Real cute gal. You danced with her at the reception.”
“I think I remember her,” Jack said vaguely.
“Anyway, after the reception was over, Torie’s folks went to the Bahamas for a getaway. When she got back, Cara returned all the silver they used at the reception. Except this one antique doohickey went missing. Apparently it’s pretty old, belonged to her grandmother or somebody. Lillian went ballistic. She went over there, accused Cara of stealing it, called the cops and everything.”
“Wow. That’s pretty radical.”
“Torie told Lillian that Cara wouldn’t do anything like that. You met Cara. She’s no thief. But once Lillian gets something in her head, she’s like a damn bulldog, keeps chewing and tussling, and nobody can call her off.”
“So what happens now? After she called in the cops?”
Ryan shrugged and wiped the sweat from his dust-caked forehead. “Some detective came over to talk to Lillian, then went to see Cara. They’ve talked to the assistant too. And I guess they’re checking pawn shops around town to see if it turns up.”
“But the cops aren’t gonna arrest the florist, right? I mean, they can’t prove she stole the thing, like you said.”
“For all we know, somebody took the damn thing home from the wedding with ’em. You were there, everybody was blitzed. In the meantime, Lillian is bad-mouthing poor Cara all over town.”
“Seems like a shame,” Jack said. “Can’t Torie do anything to calm Lillian down?”
“She’s tried. In fact, they had a big fight over it last weekend. Now Lillian’s not talking to Torie, which is fine by me.”
“In-laws.”
Jack turned the truck onto East Forty-sixth Street and pulled alongside the curb in front of his brother’s Craftsman bungalow. “Porch railing looks good,” he said, nodding toward the house.
“Yeah, it worked out okay,” Ryan said. He gathered his tools and stepped out of the truck. “See you in the morning. Remember, I don’t need you to pick me up.”
***
As soon as he’d dropped his brother off, Jack headed north, toward downtown. He found himself smiling, and whistling. Mister Happy Face, Ryan had called him. Maybe he was. Maybe he had something to smile about these days.
He found himself cruising slowly past Bloom, on West Jones Street. It was nearly seven, but Cara hadn’t brought in the garden cart full of plants she kept outside the shop. He halfway considered stopping and offering to help her bring it in, then, glancing down at himself, thought better of it. Maybe he’d go home, shower, then call and ask her out to dinner. Between all the weddings she always had on weekends, and his amped-up timetable for the Strayhorn project, they still hadn’t had what he considered a real date.
He picked up his cell phone and tapped her number. It rang three times, and then went to voicemail. Jack frowned. She must be working on something. He knew she had a wedding over the weekend, and that her assistant was slacking off.
“Hey, it’s me,” he said. “I just rolled past your place and it looks like you’re working. How about I take you out to dinner tonight? I’m headed home to shower. Call me, okay?”
Jack thought about the matter that had put a smile on his face earlier in the afternoon. He’d almost confided in Ryan. He and his brother were close, best friends, if you got right down to it. But then he’d decided it wouldn’t be fair to Cara.
He hesitated, then tapped her number.
“Me again,” he said ruefully. “Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you. Maybe we can talk about it over dinner.”
When he got to his block of Macon Street, he pounded the steering wheel in frustration. A pair of bright yellow sawhorses were pulled across the street, and city work crews were busily tearing up the pavement.
“What the hell?” he muttered, taking a left turn down the lane. He had a single narrow parking space in back of his cottage, but he preferred parking on the well-lit street out front, since he still hadn’t taken the time to install a motion-activated light in the backyard as a deterrent to thieves.
Grumbling, he shoehorned the truck into his allotted space between two sets of garbage cans. He got out of the truck, locked it, then went around to fetch his heavy tool kit. No way he’d leave it in the truck for any passing thugs to steal.
He had to set the toolbox down while he sorted through the keys on his ring to find the small one that fit the back-gate padlock. Finding it, he unlocked the gate, stepped into his ill-kempt back garden, and locked it again, tugging hard on the padlock to make sure it was secure. He wasn’t taking any chances on Shaz making any more great escapes.
Although, come to think of it, the last time she’d gotten out, things had worked out okay.
“Shaz!” He looked around the yard, expecting to see the big white furball come bounding full-speed at him. He wasn’t the only one at this address whose mood had improved lately.
Since he’d started taking her on regular walks, and even out to the job site some days, Shaz was a different dog. She was lively, playful, energetic, what you expected from a puppy.
But where the hell was she? He’d put her out in the yard before leaving this morning, being careful to make sure she had fresh water in her bowl, food, and chew toys. He’d bought a dog door that would allow Shaz access to the kitchen when he was gone, but hadn’t had time to install it yet.
He peered around the yard, checking to see if she was nestled in the shade beneath the garden’s only tree, a large water oak that desperately needed limbing up. No Shaz.
“Shaz!” Jack was starting to worry. Had she somehow managed to get out some other way? He scanned the fence line, but there was no sign that she’d managed to burrow beneath it, and there was no way she could have jumped the six-foot-high stockade fence.
His pulse raced as he considered the alternatives. Could somebody have broken in and taken the dog? How? The gate had been locked. He hurried to the back porch and tried the door. Locked. He turned the key and stepped into the kitchen, hoping, against logic, that Shaz had magically figured out a way to get inside.
“Shaz!”
“Wowf!” The dog raced into the kitchen and planted her paws on his chest, her tail wagging a mile a minute.
“Damn, girl, you scared me. How the hell did you get in here?”
“Jack?”
For a moment, he could have sworn his heart nearly stopped from a combination of shock and fright.
A woman’s voice. Faint, but distinct, and it was coming from the front of the house.
“Jack, is that you?”