The 39-Year-Old Virgin. Marie Ferrarella
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territory. Ski knew better. Everyone knew better. Just like everyone knew the reason why he’d withdrawn so completely into himself.
One year. One year today.
How the hell did time go by so fast when it felt like it was standing still, when every second of every day seemed to pierce him with sharpened spears?
And today was the worst of all. Today marked 365 days since it’d happened. Since Ski had come to him with a long face and sorrow in his eyes to tell him what the beat cops in East L.A. had just called in.
Getting out of bed today had been almost impossible. He’d thought of calling in sick, but where would he go, what would he do? Everywhere he went, his mind went with him.
There was no escape.
Staying in the house wasn’t the answer. Danny would be there. He didn’t want his son seeing him like this. The boy needed to be shielded, but he couldn’t pretend that he was all right. He could pull it off for short periods of time. But not today.
The mere thought of his wife had his throat threatening to close up on him. Whatever air was left in his lungs wasn’t enough.
Jane.
Jane, with her bright, eager smile, her desire to put a bandage on the whole world and somehow make it all better through sheer force of will and her infinite capacity to love.
Anger surged, channeling itself through his hand. His fingers tightened around the glass so hard, he realized that he’d wind up shattering it. Loosening his hold took effort. Effort not to go over the edge. Every day was a struggle.
If it hadn’t been for that Mother Teresa attitude of hers, her determination to boldly go where even angels had better sense than to tread, Jane would still be alive today. Alive instead of a victim of the mindless feuding of two rival gangs. She was there, about to get into her car, when the shooting started. Caught in the cross fire, she was one of several people to die that afternoon.
The only one who’d mattered to him.
A year ago. Exactly one year ago today, her young, beautiful life had been senselessly cut short because she had to go see the pregnant girl who was one of the cases she handled as a social worker. The girl was sixteen and already the mother of two. He’d told Jane she was wasting her time, but Jane had been convinced she could turn the girl around, help her get her life together.
She could be so stubborn when she wanted to be. He’d begged her to take a different job, to be reassigned, or, even better, just stay home and be Danny’s mother and his wife and make them both supremely happy. But Jane had to be Jane. She was determined to save the world, one lost soul at a time. So she went.
And instead of saving that pregnant girl, Jane had lost her life that day and he, he’d lost his main reason for living. Nothing else seemed to really matter to him, even though he kept trying to go through the motions. He continued being a cop because that was all he knew and he had to do something to pay the bills and keep a roof over Danny’s head.
He shouldn’t feel this way. Jane wouldn’t want him to be like this and it was because of Danny that he hadn’t pulled the trigger of the gun he’d cradled in his lap night after night that first week, raising it to his lips time and again, desperate for oblivion.
But that would have left Danny an orphan and he couldn’t do that to the boy. It wouldn’t have been fair to deprive him of a father after he’d lost his mother. So he’d put the gun down and stayed alive. In a manner of speaking.
Instead of killing himself, in order to survive, to deal with the huge waves of pain that would wash over him without warning, he’d gone numb. Absolutely and completely numb.
A twinge would break through, every now and then, and Caleb would tell himself that he’d try. Try to break out of his invisible prison and be emotionally available to his son. But every time he did, the pain would find him, oppressing him to the point that he was no good to anyone. So he retreated, telling Danny he’d make it up to him later. And the boy forgave him, each and every time.
I’m sorry, Danny. I really am.
Caleb looked at his near-empty glass. He debated getting another drink. The raw whiskey went down much too easily. But it made no difference. One or ten, the result was the same. Nothing really blotted out the pain and he had to drive home. Killing himself was one thing, but possibly killing someone else, someone who had nothing to do with the tragedy that haunted him, was something he wasn’t willing to risk.
Besides, Mrs. Collins had a home to go to. She’d already been there longer than agreed upon. Edna Collins was a godsend who lived in the single-story house across the street. The widowed grandmother was more than happy to watch Danny for him after school and whenever his work took him away. It gave her something to do, she’d told him. She hadn’t even wanted payment for her time, but he’d persuaded her to take it.
Tilting his glass, Caleb stared down at the bottom. The amber liquid was all gone except for what amounted to one last drop. Despite his earlier resolve, he debated getting just one more before he hit the road and went home.
Caleb really wasn’t sure just what had made him look in the direction that he did. Over at one of the tables, a woman tried to fend off the advances of some would-be Romeo who didn’t look as if he liked taking “no” for an answer. Well, what the hell did she expect, coming to a place like this?
He was about to look away, when something nudged at a vague, faraway place in his brain. A memory tried to break through.
Something about the torrent of red hair, the way she tossed her head, seemed familiar to him.
Remembering was just out of reach.
Did he know her?
Probably not. Maybe she just resembled someone he’d dealt with. God knew he came across so many people in his line of work….
Caleb looked closer.
And then he remembered.
Or thought he did. Curious, he decided it bore investigation. But for that, he needed to get closer. Setting down his glass, he tossed a tip onto the counter.
The next moment, he was striding across the crowded floor, carelessly moving aside anyone and everyone in his way with less regard than if they’d been cardboard placeholders.
The closer he got, the surer he became. And yet, it hardly seemed possible.
But it was, wasn’t it? he silently asked that part of his mind that still retained a few less damaged memories, memories that had been gathered before Jane had entered his life.
And before she’d left it.
Red hair, skin like alabaster. Green eyes. Delicate-looking.
It was Claire Santaniello.
No one else had hair quite that shade of red. Confusion snaked its way through him at the same time that a tiny microchip of warmth made its appearance.
Damn, what was she doing here in a place like this?
Assessing the situation with lightning speed, he told the other man to back away. The expression in the other man’s eyes was pure malevolence as he looked away from Claire and at him.
“You want her for yourself?” the other man growled, holding on to Claire’s wrist as firmly as a handcuff. “Tough. I was here first.”
This was absurd. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever conceived of this kind of scenario. Served her right for not standing her ground and leaving the moment she realized what sort of place the girls were bringing her to.
“Nobody was ‘first,’” Claire snapped, losing her patience. “I’m not some bone you two can scrap over. I’m not interested. In anybody,” she declared with finality just in case the man who’d just come to her so-called rescue had any ideas about the “winner getting the spoils” once he got rid of Neanderthal Man.
It was Claire, all right, Caleb thought. He