Staying at Joe's. Kathy Altman
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“I’m working on that,” her mother said, and Allison sagged against the nearest wall. “I wouldn’t mind a roommate who’s a little more appreciative. I made the cleverest centerpiece for the dining room table and you know what Carlotta said? She said it was tacky.’”
A crinkling sound. Her mother had popped another candy into her mouth.
“Tacky. Can you imagine? I spent hours on that piece. I put a little stuffed bear in a doll’s chair with a curved back—you know, kind of like a throne?—gave him a jar and a honey dipper and drizzled wood glue all over him. I wish you could have seen him, he looked so adorably messy. Oh, and I glued a bee to his nose and put a tiara on his head.” She paused, and sucked on her candy. “Maybe I should say her head. Anyway, I think the tiara glows in the dark.”
“That sounds...creative.” Poor Carlotta.
Her mother gasped. “Next time I’ll paint hearts on the jar and I’ll have the perfect Valentine’s Day gift. I could make a fortune, don’t you think? And ruffles. I should add ruffles.” Allison could hear her mom scribbling on a piece of paper. “Anyway, after all the time I put into the centerpiece, Carlotta didn’t want it. So I gave it to Sammy. He was thrilled. Well, not at first, but when I told him to give it to his girlfriend he perked right up.”
Allison turned and rapped her forehead against the wall. “You need to stay away from Sammy. He’s not your friend, Mom.”
“He’s a better friend than Carlotta.”
Allison sighed. “Aren’t your craft projects and your job at the mall enough to keep you away from the tables?”
“I get bored easily. You know I do. And when money’s at stake, hours go by like seconds.”
“Money has been at stake for as long as I can remember. The tables are killing you, Mom. They’re killing me. I can’t stand by while you dig yourself in deeper and deeper with that creep. One way or another, you’re going to end up in the hospital.”
“Now you’re being ridiculous. Sammy would never hurt me.”
“We stop paying and that’s exactly what he’ll do.” She pushed away from the wall and surveyed the room. As messy as it was, it couldn’t compare to the wreckage that was her life. But she was a daughter, with a mother who’d once risked everything to protect her.
She had to ask. “You making your meetings okay?”
“Of course I am,” her mother snapped. “And I wish you wouldn’t feel the need to ask every time we talk.”
“I care about you. I want you to get better.”
“You mean you want me to stop being a burden.”
“Mom—”
“But I think I’ve found a way to fix that.”
Oh, God. Oh, no. “What do you mean?”
“You’ll find out. How long will you be away?”
“Two weeks.” Because Joe Gallahan was determined to be an ass. “Mom. No more gambling. Promise me.”
“It’s not a gamble when it’s a sure bet.”
“Mom?”
“Trust me, Allie girl.”
“Mom.”
She’d disconnected.
Allison gritted her teeth and glared down at the phone. She really should have chucked the damn thing into the lake.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER she was combing her damp hair and trying to convince her empty stomach it could survive until morning when she remembered the packet of M&M’s she’d stashed in the glove compartment. She might be too tired and achy to check out the diner Joe had mentioned, but she could certainly limp as far as her car. When there was chocolate at stake, she’d crawl if she had to.
She shimmied into a pair of jeans and a black, short-sleeved shirt, wishing she’d had the chance to wash her new clothes. But at least she didn’t have to climb back into those grime-encrusted coveralls. Not yet, anyway.
After scooping up her keys she walked barefoot to her car. A sleepy gray haze had crept into the summer evening, heralding dusk. Cool air, crisp as a Granny Smith apple, had her thinking of porch swings, oversize sweatshirts and glasses of red wine. On second thought, scratch the wine.
She forced her mind away from the thought of alcohol and what it could do to a person—to a couple—and looked around. Crumbling asphalt, exterior walls that looked like someone had painted them with mashed-up peas, flowerbeds sporting more weeds than blooms, a construction Dumpster that was no doubt as practical as it was unsightly. But there was also a brand-new professional sign towering over her car, a gracious lobby and...her room. A room that had been more than renovated—it had been lovingly decorated.
By a woman? She hadn’t considered that before. That Joe might be involved. But why should she consider it? And why should she care?
She glanced again at the sign. Sleep at Joe’s. Clever. And something that two days ago she was certain she’d never do again.
The ball of her foot landed on a sharp-edged rock. She hissed in a breath, her limp more pronounced as she approached her car. Suddenly she caught a whiff of something fruity and her stomach perked up. She and Joe hadn’t talked about meals—they hadn’t really talked logistics at all. His earlier recommendation of the diner probably meant she was on her own, food-wise.
Though judging by today, she might be on her own. Period.
Supposedly Joe was looking for payback, but he hadn’t seemed to get much of a kick out of Allison on her hands and knees in filth. And she’d thought for sure he’d enjoy mocking her reaction to the mouse. Instead he’d taken it in stride. Well, mostly.
With a frown, she rummaged through the glove compartment. Nothing edible. She sighed. Next on the agenda? Find a supermarket. And put M&M’s at the top of her list. She needed all the help she could get dealing with not only Tackett and Joe, but her mother’s pleas for money.
And the next time Beryl Kincaid called, Allison would let voice mail do its thing. She might get more sleep that way. Because she knew that if her mother had her way, they’d both be living out of Allison’s car.
She shut the car door just as a dusty blue oversize pickup pulled into the lot and parked beside her. Joe. Allison curled her toes into the pavement, feeling suddenly naked. He rounded the hood of his truck, a mouthwatering package of muscle, denim and shadowed jaw. Considering he had eyes only for her Toyota, she obviously didn’t have the same pulse-pounding effect on him.
Which was good. Great, in fact. Things were complicated enough.
Still, it smarted.
“I meant to ask.” Joe hitched a thumb at her car. “What happened to the Beemer?”
She shoved her fingers into her back pockets. She didn’t want to lie. But she didn’t want to tell the truth, either. “Got something against Camrys?”
He looked as if he wanted to say more, then shrugged. “Didn’t see you at the diner.”
“It’s been a while since I last pulled up fifty-year-old carpet. I had a hard enough time getting in and out of the shower.”
Instantly she regretted her provocative words, but Joe didn’t take the unintentional bait. Though why should he? Their bantering days were long gone. He merely nodded, then turned back to his truck. Moments later he held up a crisp white bag.
“I brought you a sandwich.”
“Ham?”
“Extra pickles.”
Her mouth watered. She squinted. “In exchange for...”
“An