Wild Man Page 27

  Tonight, it was my place and I was leaving early to go home and make dinner.

  “What change of plans?”

  “My house, not yours. Game’s on,” he informed me.

  “What game?” I asked.

  “Nuggets,” he answered.

  Hmm. This was interesting. Nuggets beat out Monday Night Football.

  “And?” I asked.

  “My set is better than yours,” he stated.

  “Your set is better than mine?”

  “Babe, your TV should have been retired about six years ago.”

  “It’s only three years old.”

  “Okay, then your set should have been retired about two and a half years ago.”

  I blinked at my desk.

  Then I asked, “What?”

  “You trade up every year.”

  I blinked at my desk again.

  Then I asked, “Your truck was twenty years old but you trade up TVs every year?”

  “Uh… yeah,” he said like, “Uh… duh.”

  This was gearing up to be a milk jug discussion, I could feel it.

  Therefore, my decision about the future of the discussion was… whatever.

  Moving on.

  “I haven’t stocked your fridge in a while,” I reminded him.

  Another thing to note, two houses with one woman meant one woman cleaning two houses and stocking two fridges. Brock, I had learned, was not clean or tidy. Brock, I had also learned, had lived his life since divorcing Olivia (who, he informed me, was not a master chef or even close) on pizza, Chinese, fast food, and takeaway Mexican.

  Considering this, it was beginning to dawn that Brock’s body was a minor miracle even with all that running and gym time.

  “We’ll order pizza,” he decided.

  That I could do.

  “Cool,” I agreed.

  “And I’m tied up, gonna be half an hour later, maybe an hour,” he said. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way home and you can order the pizza.”

  “Does that mean someone died?” I asked.

  His voice held restrained humor when he answered, “Yeah, sweetness. Part of the gig of homicide is someone dying.”

  I turned and looked out into the bakery, smelling cake smells.

  When my phone rang at the bakery, this usually meant someone wanted to order a birthday cake. When Brock’s rang at the station, this usually meant someone had a cap busted in their ass.

  My job was way better.

  Thus, I didn’t mind (too much) cleaning two houses and stocking two fridges.

  “Okay, baby, text me and I’ll order the pizza,” I said softly.

  There was a moment’s pause before I got a “My sweet Tess,” and then I got a disconnect.

  I allowed myself some time to feel the tingle Brock calling me his sweet Tess sent shimmering through me. I shoved the rest of the cupcake into my mouth and allowed myself some more time to feel a different kind of tingle.

  Then I shoved my phone in my purse, pulled on my coat, and headed out.

  I hit the public area of my bakery and, as it always did and I hoped it always would, that gave me a tingle too.

  Three robin’s-egg-blue walls, one of them with a huge stenciled pattern in lavender of hibiscus blossoms attended by hummingbirds with the back wall behind the display case painted lavender with “Tessa’s Cakes” in flowery script painted in robin’s-egg-blue surrounded by hibiscus and hummingbirds. This was positioned just a few inches from where the wall met the ceiling so people could see it clearly from the wide front windows facing the street.

  I still had no idea where I got the theme, outside those colors being my favorite. Flowers and birds didn’t scream bakery! But the colors were warm and beautiful, the flowers and birds delicate and striking. I’d paid a whack for the look and the customized stenciling. With my constant changes and obsession with getting it just right I’d driven the artist who created it and my logo bonkers, but it had been worth it.

  In fact, I’d paid a whack for everything that had to do with the look or feel of my bakery.

  Upon copious consumption of wine with Martha as I planned the rest of my life post-Damian, we had both decided if I was going to go for it, I might as well go whole hog. So when I launched Tessa’s Cakes, I didn’t fuck around. I planned everything to the minutest detail, hired my staff with careful consideration that went beyond them arriving on time and being able to punch buttons on a cash register, and I launched the entire concept. Beautiful cakes that tasted really freaking good bought from friendly personnel who didn’t have vacant looks but easily apparent personalities in a bakery where you either wanted to come back or you wanted to stay awhile.

  The floors were wood, as was the frame of the old-fashioned display case that was filled with beautiful cakes, cupcakes, and delectable-looking cookies, this topped with mismatching but very cool covered cake stands and glass cookie jars. There were battered wooden counters on either side of the display case that also held cookie jars and cake stands and there were shelves on the wall behind the case and counters with even more. Two big blackboards were on the walls on either side of the shelves with the day’s ever-changing goodies scrolled artfully on them in lavender and blue chalk, hibiscus and hummingbirds decorating the corners.

  There were tables out front if you wanted to hang and eat your treats. These again all wood, again all mismatched. The only thing each of the chairs shared was being wide seated, sturdy, and comfortable. Each table was topped with a tiny steel bucket with a poufy display of flowers and there was a much bigger bucket filled with a spray of them on one of the counters. These were rotated twice a week by a local florist who gave me a killer discount because I had a small sign that advertised they were hers.

  I served coffee, tea, and different flavored milk but no espresso drinks because my place was about baked goods, not coffee drinks, and I wanted the hum of the place not to include the blast of steam every five seconds nor the look of it marred by a behemoth espresso machine. I also didn’t want my kids spending their time sweating over making lattes. I wanted them to spend their time selling cakes.

  As Brock was dealing with a dead person and this, in my mind, required cake to expunge any residual mental unpleasantness, I headed to the stacks of flat-packed boxes (piled alternate blue and lavender, all with my Tessa’s Cakes logo stamped on top). I grabbed a six-cupcake one, folded it, selected some treats for Brock then closed it and tied it with bakery string (again, two colors, blue on lavender, which was what I had, and then there was lavender string for the blue boxes).

  I held the box by the string, called my good-byes, headed outside, and after the warmth of my bakery, the arctic blast was a physical hit.

  We were having a harsh winter, lots of cold, bursts of snow. It was after five, full-on dark, and the air was crisp. As I disliked driving in snow, I checked the weather every morning with an obsession that was slightly scary (however, I never thought this. I only thought this after Brock told me he thought this but luckily he did it while chuckling).

  Today they said forty percent chance of snow flurries. Considering my snow-o-meter was finely tuned, I thought the air said more like a one hundred percent chance.

  I got in my car, stowed the box and my purse, and fired it up then pulled out my cell to call Martha to see if she was home for me to come by and hang for a quick glass of wine before heading to Brock’s. But it rang as my finger hovered to slide it on.

  It said Cob Calling.

  My brows drew together.

  Cob and I had exchanged phone numbers but he’d never phoned me. I’d, of course, seen him on occasion, considering we’d just finished holiday season, and during it, he’d popped over to see his boys and give them presents.

  And when I’d seen him I’d noted the obvious and that was that he was not looking good. His treatments had started in earnest, his weight was dropping at an alarming rate, his eyes were sinking into his head, and his skin appeared sallow. He did not complain and acted
his usual self but the physical manifestations of the treatments were impossible to miss.

  My heart skipped a beat. I took the call and put my phone to my ear.

  “Hey, Cob.”

  “Sweetheart,” he replied and he sounded about five times worse than he looked the last time I saw him, so my heart skipped another beat.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I had…” He stopped.

  “Cob?” I called. “You there?” I asked when he didn’t say anything more.

  “Honey, I had an accident. Jill brought me home and she and Laurie…” He paused. “They’ve been doin’ so much. I can’t—”

  Damn.

  I quickly cut him off with, “Where do you live?”

  “I wouldn’t ask. It’s just—”

  “Cob, where do you live?”

  He didn’t say anything until right before I opened my mouth to repeat my question.

  “This shits me,” he whispered. “It shits me, Tess. So damned embarra—”

  “Cob,” I broke in quietly. “Honey, where do you live?”

  He hesitated and then gave me his address and I knew where it was.

  “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I promised.

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he whispered.

  “Hang tight,” I said, disconnected, tossed my phone on my purse, backed out, and headed to Cob’s.

  Cob lived in Baker Historical District, not far from where Brock used to live. Baker was a great ’hood, a mishmash of houses, personality, and most folks took care of their homes.

  Cob’s was tiny with a chain-link fence, an overabundance of tall trees planted close to the house, which would, in summer, totally block out any light, and a look that said he didn’t spend much time keeping up with the Joneses even when he wasn’t being treated for cancer.

  I knocked on the door and entered when I heard him call weakly, “It’s open.”

  When I entered, I was assaulted immediately with the hideous smell of vomit.

  Oh God.

  Cob was on the couch, the TV on. I noticed at once he’d lost more weight. His eyes were more sunken in his head and his skin seemed to hang on his face. Even though he was reclining, I could see his clothes were loose on him and there was a vomit bucket he’d missed on the floor beside him.

  His eyes came to mine.

  “I can’t… I can’t…” He shook his head. “I don’t have it in me to clean it up, sweetheart,” he finished on a whisper.

  “Of course not,” I whispered back, closed the door, and rushed forward, dropping my bag on an armchair that made Brock’s old furniture look like it belonged in an interior design magazine. “I’ll get this sorted, don’t worry,” I said softly as I pulled off my coat and dropped it on the chair.

  “It’s also…” He pressed his lips together. “I also couldn’t make it to the bathroom when I was lyin’ in bed.”

  Great. More vomit.

  I nodded, buried my distaste for my upcoming chore as well as the smell hanging in the house, and smiled. “Okay, honey.”

  I went to work, clearing his immediate space first and scrounging in the kitchen for a big bowl to give him just in case another wave came on. Then I set about dealing with the mess on the bedroom carpet. Then I realized that even with the cleanup, the smell lingered.

  I needed to do something about that. The smell was making me sick and I wasn’t having chemotherapy.

  I walked back to the living room and said, “Okay, cleanup done but I’m heading to the store to get some stuff to deal with this smell. Do you need anything else?”

  He shook his head. “Laurie and Jill keep me pretty well stocked.”

  I nodded but replied, “I’ll just go look. And, I know this doesn’t sound great right now, but if you can keep it down, you need dinner so we’ll get you set up when I get back.”

  “Thanks, sweetheart,” he said quietly.

  I studied him a second and then, gently, I queried, “Cob, don’t they give you something for the nausea?”

  His face shut down almost to stubborn but he was too weak to manage even that.

  Then he stated, “So many damned pills.”

  “I can imagine, but you need to keep your strength up,” I advised.

  “For what?” he asked, his eyes never leaving mine.

  “To fight,” I answered, again gently.

  He continued to hold my eyes, then his moved to the TV.

  Damn.

  I gave up, hit the kitchen, did an inventory, found a piece of paper to make a list, and headed out, stopping to lean down and kiss Cob’s cheek on my way out.

  The good news was, the flurries were holding off so I felt a little better as I made the five-minute drive to the Albertson’s on Alameda.

  The bad news was, I was so involved in what I was doing, I was standing in line at the checkout when my phone rang. I yanked it out, saw it said Slim Calling, and realized I forgot to call him.

  Crap.

  I engaged it, put it to my ear, and said, “Hey, honey.”

  “Where are you?” was Brock’s terse reply.

  “I—”

  “I’m standin’ in my livin’ room, you’re not here, and you didn’t reply to my text.”

  With all the fun I was having cleaning up puke, I must have missed it.

  Crap again.

  “I’m—”

  He cut me off again. “You also didn’t call.”

  “Brock, give me a second to speak,” I said softly, pushing my cart toward the conveyor belt and starting to unload.

  “So, speak,” Brock ordered.

  “I’m at Albertson’s on Alameda,” I told him but got no more out when Brock spoke again.

  “Babe, we’re doin’ pizza, remember?” he asked, and didn’t give me a chance to answer before he went on to query, “And what the fuck are you doin’ at Albertson’s on Alameda?”

  This was a good question, considering the fact that for his place or mine I shopped either at Wild Oats or King Soopers, both on Colorado Boulevard.

  I kept unloading the cart as I answered, “I’m here because your dad phoned. He had a treatment today, got sick, didn’t make it to the bathroom, and he needed someone to help him out. Jill and Laura are taking him to and from treatments and helping out at his house. Jill had dropped him off and he didn’t want to ask her to do more. I told him a while ago, if he needed to call on me, he could, so he called on me.”

  This was met with silence.

  I had the cart unloaded, and I shifted and commandeered the handle, pushing it through as I smiled at the checkout clerk and settled in to watch the bag boy bag my purchases.

  When he didn’t speak, I did.

  “So I went by his place, got it cleaned up but it still doesn’t smell that good. I’m buying some stuff to help with that then I’m going to make him some dinner, see to it that he eats it and keeps it down, and then I’ll be over.” I paused, then said, “Do pizza without me, honey. I’ll eat with Cob.”

  Again, silence but this didn’t last as long.

  Brock broke it when he said, “Your plans change, the shit goin’ down around us, you fuckin’ phone.”

  Then he hung up.

  I blinked at the bags.

  Then I slid my phone in the side pocket on my purse, a variety of feelings battling it out in my head.

  Brock had never hung up on me.

  Sure, I didn’t call and it was obvious he was worried but it wasn’t like I was currently at one of the biker bars he’d introduced me to, on a bender, standing on the bar, and teaching all the bikers in attendance how to dance like Axl Rose (something I had done once while on a mini-bender—that was to say, it lasted a few hours—while I was with Brock when he was Jake though I didn’t do it on the bar, I did it on the stage while the band was playing “Paradise City” and Brock was standing just off the dance floor laughing his ass off).

  I was taking care of his dad.

  It hit me that the surprise at his hanging up on me and
fear of his being angry with me were mingled quite liberally with me being somewhat pissed off. Then being pissed off started winning out and I realized I was getting more pissed off. Then I wasn’t scared Brock was angry with me or surprised he’d hung up on me, I was just pissed he’d hung up on me.

  I managed to pay, get the stuff to my car, and get to Cob’s house without calling Brock back and giving him an earful. I got the stuff in and battled the smell first with air freshener and then with rug shampoo. I didn’t want to overwhelm Cob with a warring combination of intense smells that were worse than just vomit and luckily I managed this feat. The vomit smell was gone, the air freshener evaporated, and the shampoo didn’t stink.

  I set a soothingly scented candle I bought at Albertson’s to burning in the bedroom, I got Cob an iced lemon-lime, and then I set about making dinner.

  The chicken noodle soup was warming in the pan and I was setting out bowls on plates with buttered saltine crackers around the edges (what my Mom used to serve when my sister or I got sick), hoping the butter wouldn’t be too rich for Cob, when I heard the front door open.

  Then I heard Cob surprised greeting of, “Heya, Slim.”

  I sucked in a breath through my nose.

  Then I heard Brock ask, “How you feelin’?”

  “Better,” Cob answered, then offered, “Tess is in the kitchen.”

  “Right,” I heard Brock mutter, then, “Be back, Dad.”

  “Okay, son.”

  I grabbed the spoon, started to stir the soup, and braced.

  I felt his mood hit the room before I saw him do it. It wasn’t sparking and pissed off. It wasn’t abrasive and angry. It was something I’d never felt before. Something heavy. Weighted. Soft but not warm. And when I saw him, that heavy look was in his eyes, the soft on his face.

  He stopped by the stove but not too close.

  He held my eyes and said, “Hey.”