All or Nothing Page 8

  “No, thanks.” Jen poured the rest of the “tea” down the sink. “If he comes back, we’ll go with it. Otherwise, I’m done with your plan.”

  “You big chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken…” Jen protested, but Cin was clucking into the phone. “Okay, maybe I am a chicken. Maybe I’m just not good at making a fool of myself.”

  “Even for a good cause?”

  “Even for that.”

  “Even for eternal freedom from Mom’s matchmaking schemes?”

  “It won’t last that long.”

  “Look,” Cin said sternly. “Roxanne might be his goldfish or his pet name for his car—which, hey, is probably a Ferrari. You could get over that, couldn’t you?”

  “I don’t care about cars and neither do you. We were trained from the cradle to carry transit passes or walk.”

  Cin continued as if Jen hadn’t said anything. “You don’t know who Roxanne is, and I think you should find out.”

  “How?”

  “Phone Zach.”

  Jen’s heart skipped, but she shook her head. She would not beg. “I don’t think so.”

  “You always sit around and wait for the good stuff to happen all by itself. Sometimes, Jen, you’ve got to ask for what you want.”

  “Oh, I’ve done plenty of that,” Jen said wryly. “It doesn’t always work. After all, it’s not always good stuff that happens all by itself.” She only had to look at her shirt—at the prosthesis in her bra and at the stain on the surface—to see proof of that.

  “That’s just more reason to go and get what you want, because you don’t know how long you’ve got to wait.”

  “Thank you for that reminder.”

  Cin’s voice softened. “Jen, I mean all of us: “you” in the general sense, not the specific sense. None of us get guarantees.”

  Jen frowned. “I know. I know.”

  “I just want you to reach out of yourself, that’s all.”

  “Seems everyone has that on their Christmas list this year.”

  “Well, people like you. Go figure. Oooo, lookee, there are pictures.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!” Cin was giddy, never a good sign. “Funeral pictures from the paper, all nicely hot-linked for you and me. It probably comes up because the caption lists the family members. Here they all are, carrying the coffin.” She whistled through her teeth. “What a bunch of hunks. It’d almost be worth being dead to be able to look up at this bunch. These people aren’t just loaded, they’ve snagged the best DNA.”

  Jen wished she hadn’t answered the phone. “Why don’t I ever learn that trusting you is a big mistake?”

  Cin ignored her question. “Which one is Zach? Oh, here he is, the youngest and the yummiest by far. Oh, Jen, sorry, but I have to phone him myself.”

  “What? Why?” Jen didn’t want her sister to plea on her behalf. Anything but that.

  Well, maybe not quite anything.

  “I’m going to have to have his child,” Cin said and Jen felt her mouth drop open. “For the benefit of humanity. You know, to improve the view. I’m such a sucker for that dark blond ski-bum look. Maybe he’ll grow a couple of days of beard stubble just for me. You know I like ’em disreputable, handsome and rich. We would have the cutest child in the universe.”

  “You wouldn’t…” But Jen wasn’t sure.

  “Oh, yes, I would. No jars and turkey basters for me, though. Nuh uh. We’d have to get right down to it. At least a dozen times. It would be one heck of a weekend. You know, Roxanne could watch. I wouldn’t much care.”

  “It’s all true then,” Jen said with a sigh. “I was raised by wolves. Or aliens. We can’t possibly be related.”

  Cin laughed, right from her gut. “Oh, Jen, I remember when you found out that there hadn’t been a mix-up at the hospital. You were so convinced that you didn’t belong with us.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “And were upset to find out that you did. You were so cute.”

  “If emotionally devastated.”

  “Well, there was that. Hey, tell you what, I’ll name the baby after you. How about that? Kind of a consolation prize.”

  “You’re not serious about this.”

  “Aren’t I?”

  “But you’re married. Or almost married.”

  “Nope, I’m in a common-law relationship. Was in one. It could end as of now. Much easier to wiggle free of the informal stuff, you know.”

  “But you wouldn’t…”

  “Sure, I would. I’m a serial monogamist, you know that. Maybe it’s time for an upgrade.”

  The problem with her older sister was that Jen couldn’t predict with 100% accuracy when Cin was putting her on. This was mostly because Cin might change her mind, based on Jen’s response. “What about Ian?

  “What about Ian? He’s a big boy and can take care of himself. I think his number’s up, and it starts with a 7.”

  “No!” Even while she protested, Jen heard a dial tone. “You will not call…”

  “Dial 9 for an outside line,” Cin said as pertly as a telemarketer. “Then let’s see, 7…”

  “No!”

  The sound of her sister punching in numbers didn’t stop.

  “There we go,” Cin said as a phone somewhere began to ring. Jen wished she had the moral fiber to hang up the phone, but she was curious.

  The line clicked and her heart nearly stopped. Then the answering machine started.

  And it was Zach’s confident voice that came down the line. So much for getting the wrong number.

  “Hi. You’ve found me, but I’m either ducking your call or I’m not home. So, talk to the machine, if you want, and if I want, I’ll call you back. Ciao.”

  The beep sounded. Jen was suddenly terrified of Cin leaving some outrageous message.

  It was something her sister would do.

  Jen managed to make a choking sound of protest before the line clicked again and Cin hung up the phone. Then Jen sagged against the counter in relief.

  Great. Now Zach would come home to the sound of strangulation on his machine. At least if he pulled up the last number that had called him, it would be that of Nature Sprouts, alfalfa and mung bean sprout suppliers to the eastern seaboard.

  “Gotcha,” Cin said with satisfaction.

  “Isn’t it illegal to give people heart failure?”

  “Yummy voice too,” Cin continued. “Feel better just hearing him?”

  Jen did, but she figured she had already admitted too much to Cin. Information was being used against her. “Doesn’t matter to me. After all, I was just trying to use him, on your advice.”

  Cin laughed. “And if I believe that, you’re going to try to sell me a bridge. Look, Jen, it’s your choice. Because one of us is going to call this guy again before Thanksgiving. And just so we understand each other, I’m not going to be doing any intervention here on your behalf. If I call, it’s for me and the future of the species. And you know that I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “Yes, I know.” Jen shook her head, admiring in a way the formidable force that was her older sister. “He’ll never know what hit him, but he’ll feel like he’s been run over by a Mack truck.”

  “Some of them like it that way. Come on, Jen, you or me?”

  “You’re merciless.”

  “It gets results. Next Wednesday night, I’ll call.” Cin cleared her throat. “Unless, of course, you tell me that you’ve talked to him and straightened out all the pesky details.”

  “I could lie to you.”

  Her sister laughed. “But you’re such a lousy liar that I’d know. Hey, here’s his number.”

  Jen wrote down Zach’s telephone number on the pad beside the phone, uncertain that she’d call despite her sister’s threat.

  “Just let your fingers do the walking,” Cin advised. “And do it soon. You know how I hate doing things at the last minute.”

  “You love doing things at the last minute.”

  “True.
You’re the power planner. Hey, so if you don’t call over the weekend, then I’ll know that you aren’t going to, given that you always have to arrange things well ahead of time…”

  Jen glanced up at the wall clock and knew she was saved from answering that. “Hey, your fifteen minutes are up, Cincinnati McKee. You’d better get off the phone and go make a living.”

  “Such as it is.” Cin laughed her throaty laugh, the one that came from her heart, the one that always made Jen feel better. “Good work out there, today, kiddo. I never thought you’d snag a winner so fast—and I’m proud that you asked him out. You’re making progress, Jen. Keep me updated.”

  And with that, Cin hung up the phone.

  Jen chose not to think about her sister’s threat for the moment. She turned on the kettle again, rinsed out her mug and got a tea bag out of the box of green tea.

  The telephone number niggled at her, drawing her eye to the notepad from across the room. Should she? Shouldn’t she? Could she? Who was Roxanne? If she just phoned Zach out of the blue; the guy would think he had a stalker.

  The thought of any man having a stalker who wanted him to come to Thanksgiving dinner at her grandmother’s house was so ridiculous that Jen was tempted to call and say exactly that.

  It would probably make him laugh. The door banged and she glanced over her shoulder to find her mom arriving with groceries.

  “Hey, is that a smile?” Natalie demanded with obvious pleasure. “You’ve got to tell me what—or who—is responsible for that. And, more importantly, is he coming for Thanksgiving dinner?”

  Ooops. Think fast.

  “Just glad to be home, Mom,” Jen said brightly.

  “Uh huh.” Natalie clearly wasn’t convinced but to Jen’s relief, she let it go. She looked pointedly at Jen’s mug. “So, how’d you like the tea?”

  * * *

  By Thursday morning, Zach had only one eye in working order thanks to the skepticism of Snake-Eyes. His left eye had swelled shut and was already turning an impressive shade of purple. One look in the mirror and any scheme to drop by Mulligan’s to see Jen was nixed.

  He had to look better than this the next time he met up with her. He wanted to make her laugh but at his jokes, not at his appearance. His scheme to return to the pub for details about turkey day would have to wait a few days.

  Meanwhile, job one was to find his favorite camera. He was amazed that it could be so hard to find something in what was essentially an empty apartment.

  In fact, Zach’s condo showed little evidence that he had owned it for six years. It was a one-bedroom unit, although the bedroom was small. The balcony faced the river and its view—from the sixth floor—was pretty good. Its other big selling point had been that the sun came through the two pairs of French doors which opened to the balcony, a feature which appealed mightily to Roxie.

  One could have been forgiven for taking a glance at Zach’s unit, though, and assuming that no one had ever moved into it. Or for assuming that it had been used to kennel the pets for other condo residents while they vacationed. Other than a liberal embellishment of dog hair, it was pretty much empty.

  The walls were still painted in the standard contractor beige, albeit with a few scuffs here and there. The hardwood floors were as bare as they had been on the day Zach had gotten the keys. He had never gotten around to finding rugs or paintings or drapes, or for that matter, furniture. There had always been better things to do than nest, better places to go than home decor stores. He’d never dated a woman long enough that she’d managed to change his mind.

  Much less his environment. Letting a woman decorate his place would have been a step away from booking the wedding, to Zach’s thinking, and he wasn’t ever going there.

  Zach did have a futon, which had seen better days. His current choice of bedding was an old sleeping bag, which suited Roxie just fine. He usually came home to find her sprawled on the futon in a stray sunbeam, queen of all she shed upon. (And that was a much larger territory than the casual observer might assume.)

  The kitchen appliances were standard issue and white—no upgrades for Zach—and were holding up well, despite the lack of maintenance. That could have been because Zach only used the fridge—for beer—and the microwave—for leftover take-out food and the occasional frozen burrito.

  Even the cabinetry was pristine. Zach possessed one kitchen knife and one big spoon, and, since Roxie’s arrival, generally had a roll of paper towels around. The cupboards held three dinner plates, a collection of cheap glasses of various sizes and shapes—embellished with various logos, evidence of their ‘borrowed’ origins—a pot big enough for making two boxes of Kraft dinner at once, and a handful of stainless steel cutlery that had somehow become stained. None of this cluttered the space—he fit it all in one drawer and one cupboard.

  The bathroom was white—standard fixtures, again—and, like the kitchen, fastidiously clean. Zach wasn’t without his good habits and the insistence upon a clean bathroom was one of them. In fact, the bathroom had been one of the reasons Zach had bought this unit: it didn’t have a window and it had a long vanity counter. It was the location of his only upgrade: the bathroom had a pair of stainless steel kitchen sinks mounted in that vanity.

  The bathroom was also the site of the sole modification done with Zach’s own hands: the door frame had black foam all around it and the door itself had a wedge of foam attached to the bottom. The combination made the room devoid of light when the door was closed. The sconces had red light bulbs in them, so Zach could use the bathroom as his darkroom.

  He hadn’t done that in a while, though.

  And that must have been why he couldn’t find his favorite camera. Zach couldn’t even remember when he’d seen it last.

  If Maralys wanted pictures, well, he’d get her some. But he needed his camera to do that, and he wanted his favorite 35 mm with the sweet zoom. It wasn’t in any of the boxes in the bedroom closet, although he had found a bunch of contact sheets and the film he’d shot in Venice. There was a bit from New Orleans, too, and some killer shots from Savannah. He’d taken some great stuff in Paris, as well, and hadn’t been able to shove the box back into the closet.

  He’d lost the night before to a one-eyed review of his own work. He’d actually been good at photography. It was a welcome revelation that he’d been good at something other than ticking off his father.

  And he missed taking pictures, another surprise. Zach remembered an art teacher—Mr. Nicholson—telling Zach years ago that if he ever decided to give a crap about anything, he’d make something of himself, but that otherwise, Zach would just be another aimless rich boy, taking up space and wasting oxygen.

  For a long time, he had despised Mr. Nicholson.

  Now he wondered what had ever happened to Mr. Nicholson.

  Morning had brought a new sense of purpose—and a new range of color in the bruise surrounding his eye. Zach was determined to find that camera. It wasn’t in any of the kitchen cupboards, or the front hall closet. He was running out of options. Had this place come with a storage locker? Zach couldn’t remember. And if it did, where had he put the key?

  He pulled open the louvered doors of the utility closet with some impatience. The stackable washer and dryer had never been used—Zach still frequented the same coin Laundromat he had used as a student. His rationale was that a guy could never meet women doing laundry in his own utility room, although lately, the women at the Laundromat had seemed too young and too giggly to be interesting.

  (Where did Jen do her laundry? He would have paid good money to know, so he could ‘accidentally’ run into her and have her trapped for an hour as the laundry whirled in the dryer, compelled to talk to him. He was sure that he could make her laugh in an hour of solo time. Guaranteed.)

  There was an enlarger parked on top of the washing machine, the dust on it offering evidence of how long it had been since Zach had used it, and how often he had to move it to open the lid of the washer. In fact, the manuals wer
e still inside the respective machines, and as he stood there, he considered the merit of using them.

  “I could become one of those eccentric hermits,” he suggested to Roxie, who was sniffing inside the unfamiliar territory of the closet. “Never leave the unit, have my groceries delivered. I could just sit back and watch my toenails grow longer. You and me, Roxie, we could just have each other.”

  The dog snorted a dust bunny, sneezed and gave him a look.

  “Right. That wouldn’t work too well for you, would it?” Zach found a dirty T-shirt and cleaned the dog snot off the appliances while it was still fresh. He had learned that it was much harder to remove later. “I tell you, the prime achievement of my life was training you with six stories between us and the grass.”

  Roxie stepped back and sat down, the expression on her face hinting that, given the chance, she’d contest whose achievement it had been. She trotted to the front door and returned to look at him expectantly.

  “There would be the power of suggestion. Just give me a minute, Roxie. There’s a box on the top shelf.” Zach didn’t have a chair or a step stool—which left the mystery of how the box had gotten there in the first place—so he climbed the appliances.

  He could have waited, but that wasn’t his style.

  He opened the dryer door and put one foot on the opening, managed to get his toes beneath the lip of the dryer and the washer above, then pulled himself up by the door frame. He nudged the box open Roxie-style (with his nose) peered into the box and shouted in triumph.

  “Ha! There it is. Bonus!”

  The trick was that he had to let go of the frame to reach into the box. There were, after all, limitations to how many tricks he could do with his nose. Chances were good that he’d fall.

  But he wanted the camera. Now.

  The sensible thing would have been to get down, to go find a chair or a step stool, but Zach had never been one for sensible responses. He liked the immediacy of surrendering to impulse.

  It had led to some of his most memorable experiences. It probably was responsible for the majority of disasters he’d experienced in his life as well. On the whole, he thought the balance came out in favor of impulse.