I Think I Love You Page 8

  “I fell,” Mica choked out. “Dean isn’t abusive—he loves me.”

  The doctor nodded calmly, as if she didn’t believe her. “Also, you don’t have a urinary tract infection. You have gonorrhea.”

  She tried to laugh, but no sound came out of her throat. She swallowed. “That’s impossible. I’ve only had one sex partner my entire life.”

  “And what about your boyfriend’s sex partners?”

  “He hasn’t…” Her words trailed off as the implication hit her. Of course he had. Dean had given her the clap. His declaration that he’d always been faithful to their bed—a lie. The mysterious phone calls over the last couple of months… his unaccounted absences… his increased irritability with her. The lying, cheating bastard.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Mica murmured.

  “I know this is a bit of a shock,” Dr. Forsythe said in a soothing voice. “But gonorrhea is curable with antibiotics.”

  Mica listened as the doctor droned on about scripts and dosage and latex condoms while her heart quietly caved in. I gave up my family, my sisters, for this? A few minutes ago she was contemplating motherhood and having a child with the man she loved, a child who would help heal her divided family. Now she was contemplating murder. Her hand tightened on the shoulder bag that held the rodent-killing gun.

  “Mica?”

  She blinked and shot back to the present. “Yes?”

  The woman gave her a kind smile. “There’s a shelter in Santa Monica. You could go there to recuperate in private. It’s a secure location, and you would be guaranteed confidentiality.”

  “A shelter?” Mica stood. “You mean a clinic, don’t you?”

  Dr. Forsythe balked. “They do offer round-the-clock medical care.”

  “No thanks. I have somewhere to go.”

  “Is it a safe place?”

  “Yes.”

  “And will you have a support group?”

  She hesitated. “I hope so.”

  Chapter 7

  DON’T trust a man whose most longterm relationship is with his dog.

  Regina took a deep breath as she rounded the curve and the little green-and-white sign came into view. Monroeville, North Carolina, population 5,400. Someone had pasted a “Monroeville Mudcats” bumper sticker at the bottom of the sign, and the image of a yellow Volkswagen Rabbit disappearing from Lovers’ Lane flitted through her mind. The parking teenagers Pete Shadowen and Tobi Evans never knew how close they’d come to an encounter with a murderer that day.

  Regina and Pete had actually dated for a few months during her sophomore and his senior year. The previous summer she had finally sprouted breasts—respectable little peaches—plus hips, and to her astonishment, Pete had noticed. He was handsome and popular and knew how to kiss her without mashing her glasses against her face. After the Homecoming dance, she had let him get to second base (a hand up her shirt), but when he rounded for third (a hand down her skirt), she’d balked. And when he’d suggested that they park at Lovers’ Lane, she’d refused rather hysterically. By the end of the semester, Pete had left her for greener fields, but she hadn’t minded so much. In fact, she often wondered if the reason she hadn’t been able to conjure up enthusiasm for the great Pete Shadowen was because she indirectly associated him with the events of that traumatic day.

  Regina shivered, hoping to shake off some of the gloomy thoughts of her aunt’s untimely demise. She adjusted the rear-view mirror to survey her appearance. Between the nonsense with the letter opener on the online auction, her concern over Justine, who had yet to return her call, and her parents’ alleged breakup, she figured she’d gotten about three hours of sleep last night. And the shadowy crescents under her eyes certainly told the tale. She looked forward to falling asleep on the soft mattress of the four-poster canopy bed in her old room and pushed away the niggling thought that this could be the last time she’d stay in her childhood home.

  Monroeville was a small town that behaved largely, situated close enough to Asheville to snag wayward tourists but far enough away from anywhere to maintain its quaint veneer. Drivers lured off Interstate 40 with tantalizing billboards promising antiques, country cookin’, and general stores would first see the WMON-EZ Listening Radio Tower, the Burl County Community College Satellite Classroom Building, the Licked Skillet restaurant, and the People’s Bank of Monroeville. After that little stretch of prosperity, things went downhill considerably.

  Not much had changed over the years except the size of the trees and the names of the businesses. Spindley’s Jewelry Repair had transformed into Harper’s Jewelry Repair, which had transformed into Logan’s Jewelry Repair, which had transformed into the current and more courageous Miller’s Jewelry and Clock Repair. The town council had never met a zoning ordinance that couldn’t be overridden, so authentic Victorian and Georgian residences rubbed gutters with squatty cinder-block buildings housing hair salons and video arcades.

  Regina pulled into the Grab ‘N Go to stretch her legs, clear the windshield of ill-fated insects, and buy a bottle of water. She glanced at customers and clerks, looking for a familiar face, or a hint of recognition—classmates, customers of the shop, a friend of the family? Nada. Her two best friends from high school, Mary Stamper and Gina Gonower, lived in North Dakota and Florida, respectively, and she seriously doubted if anyone else in the school would remember her, unless it was in reference to Justine or Mica: “Regina… wasn’t she the plain Metcalf sister?”

  She did recognize one face—that of Mrs. Woods, the fat checker whom Justine had told them she’d seen romping at Lovers’ Lane… with two men. Regina understood the whole ménage a trois thing more now than she had twenty years ago, but she still couldn’t get her mind around Mrs. Woods, now white-haired and bigger than ever, doing the nasty in a car in the woods.

  “Dollar forty-nine,” Mrs. Woods said when Regina held up the bottle of water.

  Regina counted out the money.

  “You’re one of the Metcalf girls, aren’t you?”

  She smiled. “Yes. Regina.”

  “Home for a visit?”

  “Yes. For a few days.”

  Mrs. Woods frowned. “I’ve heard all about your sisters, but where did you wind up?”

  “Um, Boston.”

  “Boston?”

  “Massachusetts.”

  “What’s in Boston?”

  “I edit books.”

  “Oh. Well, you have a jim-dandy time while you’re in town.”

  Regina started to step away; then a small headline in the weekly newspaper stand caught her eye.

  ON ANNIVERSARY OF GILBERT MURDER,

  BRACKEN GRANTED HEARING

  Her breath caught. “I’ll take one of these, too.”

  Mrs. Wood frowned at the last-minute purchase but took her money. “Catching up on the local news?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The woman snorted. “Ain’t nothing happened around here in twenty years.”

  Regina manufactured a shaky smile for the round-faced woman, struck by the phenomenon of six degrees of separation that bound strangers to random people and places and incidents. “Thank you.”

  She shoved the newspaper into her shoulder bag and walked out into the bright sun. The parking lot was busy, full of back-slapping friends and tailgaters kicked back drinking pop. The happy summer day made her worries and musings seem downright paranoid. Laughing at herself, she climbed into the car and rolled down the windows to enjoy fresh country air. A few minutes later she stopped at one of the three celebrated red lights in town and learned, compliments of a huge red, white, and blue banner over the street, that she had arrived in time for Monroeville Heritage Days, a Festival of History and Tradition, exclamation mark, exclamation mark.

  Indeed, the sidewalks were more crowded than she’d expected, even for late Friday afternoon. Bake sales abounded and a giant Uncle Sam hobbled around on stilts, waving. The water in the fountain at the entrance to the Lyla A. Gilbert City Park had been dyed a dubio
us pink for the occasion, and the corkscrew metal slides were festooned with streamers and balloons. Lyla would be proud of the showy tribute Uncle Lawrence had built after her death, despite the fact that her aversion to children had been infamous. Regina and her sisters knew that firsthand.

  Lyla and Justine especially grated on each other. Regina remembered an incident when an expensive vase Lyla had brought into the store to sell had wound up on the floor in pieces. Each woman had accused the other of dropping it. Justine, who engaged in constant competition for her father’s attention, had been wounded when John had taken Lyla’s side. Justine had miserably worked off the price of that vase all summer… until Lyla’s murder.

  Steeped in bittersweet recollections, Regina steered through Main Street, hung left at the tire store, and drove past the gated entrance to the Williams Rock Quarry, which provided the most substantial source of employment to the residents of Monroeville, next to tourism. Over time, Tate Williams had expanded the quarry spin-off products to include grave headstones and yard ornaments. The fact that Tate Williams also owned a funeral home and served as the county coroner made the headstone business a lucrative venture. And there wasn’t enough rock dust in all of North Carolina to make enough garden gnomes to meet the regional demand.

  She made two more turns and drove a little over a mile to a big red barnlike structure on the right crowned with a half-dozen windmills and a gigantic sign that read: m&g antiquities, stop here for good deal$.

  Her heart kicked up a flurry of emotion at the sight of the lopsided sign that her mother had always hated and her father had always meant to fix. She pulled into the paved packing lot that could hold up to about fifty vehicles, although she personally had never seen more than twenty-five or so there at a time. It was a few minutes past closing time and the only other vehicle in sight was an unfamiliar blue extended van parked near the rear delivery door, no doubt her father’s latest acquisition. Her spirits ratcheted up a notch—she’d hoped to get a chance to talk to him alone before she drove on to the house to face Cissy.

  She parked next to the van and stepped out to pull her cotton pants and summer sweater away from her sticky skin. Surveying her surroundings, she was bombarded by so many impressions, she could scarcely process the images. Riding her bike to the shop, planting flowers in the metal boxes out front, getting ice-cold RC Cola out of the pop machine.

  The antiques store sat back off the road about fifty feet with a beautifully wooded backdrop. The former tobacco barn had been reinforced and added to over the years as her parents accumulated inventory faster than they could sell it. No one ever accused John and Cissy of operating a tight business, but the couple had managed to generate a good living and raise three children.

  The back door was unlocked, so she stepped inside the massive cluttered storeroom to the tune of a loud chime. She blinked against the relative darkness after the bright sunshine. “Dad? Dad, it’s me, Regina.”

  She headed toward the showrooms, inhaling the ever-present scent of old books and furniture wax. The unending assortment of fascinating objects was always different but somehow the same, anchored by one-of-a-kind finds that would likely never leave the premises, such as the eight-foot stuffed giraffe and the six-foot neon sign blazing dances for 10 cents that had leaned against the same wall for as far back as her memory stretched.

  She walked through the main showroom to the bottom of the stairs leading to the apartment. “Dad? Are you up there?”

  No answer, but he was probably on the phone or in the bathroom. He was still here somewhere, because at least two radios were tuned to the blues station that he liked. John Lee Hooker was crooning about one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer. She hummed along and meandered over to the display cabinets next to the ancient cash register, tracing her finger over the fine scratches accumulated over decades of leaning and looking. Inside were trays and trays of sparkling rings and watches and necklaces and pins, cuff links and buttons and eyeglasses and thimbles.

  She smiled at a pair of retro pink cat-style eyeglasses and thought it would be fun to add them to her accessory drawer. She walked behind the counter, removed her own dark-frame glasses, and set them on the cabinet. Then, using both hands, she tilted the locked latch and gave it a quick jerk to the right. As it had done many times before, the latch popped open. She carefully slid the heavy glass door to the left on its rusty track and reached inside.

  A big hand curled around her forearm. “Stop right there.”

  She gasped and yanked back, but the owner of the hand maintained his hold. Her first thought that her father had snuck up on her was quickly replaced with the two realizations: she didn’t know this big, sandy-haired stranger, and someone had let in a barking dog. She screamed and wrenched loose, then grabbed the handiest weapon available—an old baseball bat leaning against the wall. She assumed a swinging position, squaring herself in the space between the man and his barking black dog. “Stay back!”

  The man snapped his fingers and the dog fell silent, then padded over to sit at his master’s feet. The man scrutinized her stance. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. DiMaggio used that bat to hit a home run in the ‘41 All-Star Game.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “DiMaggio didn’t hit a home run in the ‘41 All-Star Game. Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”

  He crossed his arms over a B.B. King Blues Fest T-shirt. “I might ask you the same question.”

  “Except I asked you first.”

  “But I didn’t just break into a locked jewelry case.”

  “I didn’t break in.”

  His eyebrows shot up.

  She swallowed. “I mean, I know the trick to get in.”

  “You seem to know your way around this place.”

  “This place belongs to my parents.”

  “Oh, you’re the daughter from Boston. I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

  She lowered the bat to her shoulder, still wary. “Do I know you?”

  “No. I’m the appraiser. The bank sent me, and over the last couple of days I’ve become acquainted with your parents.” He scratched his temple. “Interesting pair.”

  His unsolicited observation rankled her. “What bank sent you to do what?”

  He angled his head. “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?”

  “Evidently not.”

  “You should talk to your folks.”

  Regina closed her eyes and counted to three. “That’s precisely why I’m here. Where’s my father?”

  The man studied her in a way that said he didn’t trust her. “Running an errand. He should be back any time now.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Mitchell Cooke.”

  She stared at his big fingers until she started to feel silly, then lowered the bat and shook his hand. “Regina Metcalf.”

  “Metcalf. Not married, huh?”

  She dropped his hand, seized by an irrational urge to whack him after all. “No. And with your charm, I assume you aren’t, either.” She bit her tongue, instantly regretting the childish words.

  He seemed amused. “No. Maybe because I’ve never met a girl who knows her baseball.”

  Regina jumped when she felt a decided push at her crotch. The dog apparently had taken their touching as a sign that he, too, could offer a greeting. She pursed her mouth. “I take it this is your dog?”

  “Yeah. Sam’s a real lady-killer.”

  She nudged the dog’s muzzle from between her legs. “I’m more of a cat person myself.”

  The man lowered his hand and Sam scampered back. “Guess we’re both out of luck, old boy.”

  He was tall, with wide shoulders and long arms, and his jeans hung from lean hips. Mitchell Cooke seemed comfortable with his big self. An ex-athlete? Not a baseball player, she hoped, considering his serious trivia gaffe. Regina stalked back to the cabinet and re-fastened the latch. “I’m leaving. If my father returns, please tell him I’ll see him at home.”

  “Will do. I guess I’ll see y
ou around.”

  “I don’t see why that would be necessary. Good-bye, Mr. Cooke.”

  She retraced her steps, tingling over the awkward encounter. An appraiser from the bank? Surely her parents hadn’t already put things in motion for an auction. She burst out of the back door and struggled to control her emotions as she climbed behind the wheel of her rental car. She needed sleep, she reminded herself. And food. And a sane, intact family.

  The house she’d grown up in was on the same piece of land as the antiques business, and accessible from the store on foot by a winding path through thick masses of trees, but accessible by car only by driving another half-mile, then turning left to double back into the heart of the property.

  The sprawling blue Victorian hadn’t changed much in her lifetime. Since they were little girls, they had called it the Doll because the gables and gingerbread trim resembled a hat; and the wraparound porch, a ruffled skirt. John and Cissy had meticulously restored and maintained the bones of the house but tended to the acres of exterior painted surfaces only on an as-needed basis. As a result, some section of the three-story gal was always in need of a fresh coat of custom Sherwin-Williams.

  Referring to the bramble that encased the house as “landscaping” required a kind countenance—thank goodness the Metcalfs had never had to contend with neighbors who were particular about adjacent lawns. Oak and weeping willow trees sprawled unfettered. The grass in the yard was of indistinguishable lineage, shin-high, and studded with white clumps of clover that bowed from the weight of hungry bees. The ivy that had provided gentle ground cover for the mulch beds when she was a girl had evolved into tough, waxy Jurassic foliage. Blue and purple hydrangeas had managed to stay one step in front of the choking vine, producing mop-head blooms as large as basketballs. Everything else had apparently succumbed, including Regina’s mother, who appeared to have resorted to adding color to her yard with a menagerie of concrete animals—pink bunnies, green turtles, yellow deer. But Cissy hadn’t stopped with animals—Snow White and all the dwarfs lined the sidewalk leading to the stone steps that carried Regina up to the front door. Noah’s Ark took over at the porch.