Finding Summer (Nightwind Book 3) Page 37

  Summer smiled. And then she mentioned the sleeping dragon in the corner of the room—the one they carefully avoided talking about.

  “Bad fracture, elaborate bracing, and a strange knee walker. Physical therapy and a ban on driving for the foreseeable future. Have I covered all the bases?”

  Lynda grabbed Summer’s hands and grimaced. “I’m so sorry! My stupid fall makes things more difficult for you. The birth center can’t accommodate the knee walker. I tried pleading, but the director says it’s a liability issue.”

  And there it was. Proof positive that the damn universe wanted Summer to be well and truly alone when she needed support the most.

  She was going to give birth without anyone meaningful in her life at her side. If this was a test, it was a sucky thing to do.

  Lynda’s anguish was deep. Summer knew there wasn’t any way around the realities before them, so for her friend to beat herself up over an accident was just dumb and a waste of time.

  “In the words of some generation, maybe mine, maybe not,” Summer joked. “It is what it is. No harm, no foul. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug of acceptance. “I’ll be fine. Everyone at the clinic has been great. Don’t worry about me, okay?”

  “I should call Cy and see if Joanne can come down and take my place.”

  Summer shook her head. “Her mother was moved into hospice.”

  “Oh, shit. I didn’t know.” They shared a heavy sigh, and Lynda murmured, “I’ll send her a card. Something to lift her spirits.”

  “That’d be nice.” She struggled as a wave of melancholy seized her.

  Lynda’s Hallmark addiction rivaled Summer’s. She was always sending out cards, but except for Reed and the Westmorelands, there was no one in her life to correspond with. She made a brutally clean break when it was time to leave Santa Barbara. She stayed in touch with no one—not even the girls at the restaurant who had been stoked about Summer’s pregnancy. It was the only way to keep her baby safe, but being cut off, socially isolated and emotionally cloistered wasn’t easy.

  Suddenly, she was done. It was a nice change to keep each other company while they were on physician mandated restricted activity, but Summer wasn’t in the proper headspace.

  Every inch of her body below her neck was sore, bloated, or stretched to capacity. Pregnancy made her boobs big enough to see from outer space. Her hands and fingers were so fat she’d given up wearing jewelry. A goddamn forehead zit was driving her mental. She hadn’t seen her swollen ankles or feet in forever, and because all of that wasn’t enough, she kept losing herself in far-too-real daydreams or crying like a baby for no reason.

  The warning lights flashed in her head as she approached maximum density. It was time to waddle back to her place and put in some quality feeling sorry for herself time.

  “Nap time for the belly,” Summer groaned to her friend at the same time she tried to stand. Using the arm and back of the sofa for balance, she finally found her feet and stood straight. “That was not graceful,” she said with a self-deprecating snicker.

  “I love your top. Did you paint it?”

  Summer looked down and grinned. “So here’s what happened. I went to the craft store because I needed something for the baby’s crib corner. I decided to stencil paint pixies and fairies on the wall. While I was there, the sales bins called to me. So did a shadowbox kit, a bunch of coloring supplies, and a fabric paint project collection.”

  She swung right and left in a modeling pose. “A giant sunflower is a bit much, but so is Tinker Belly.”

  She’d been standing for only a short time, but her back was already beginning to burn. As she stretched with a fist pressed into her lower back, a low moan left her throat.

  “Are you okay?”

  Ignoring a new succession of body sensations—particularly the dull throb around her belly button—she blew off Lynda’s concern.

  “I’m fine. Just pregnant.” She managed to lean close enough to meet Lynda halfway for a cheek smooch.

  Flashing a peace sign, she said, “I’m out,” and slowly shuffled back to her tiny guest apartment.

  As she shut the door and headed to the living room, her eyes drifted to the Scooby-Doo wall calendar. It was September thirtieth. Tomorrow, when she flipped to the next month, she’d have made it to the finish line without falling to pieces.

  On her way to the couch, Summer stopped. She glanced to the right where her bedroom sat at the end of a short hallway. Then she eyed up the sofa.

  The light gray two-cushion modern sofa matched the rest of the Ikea furniture left behind by the Gerry’s daughter, Brigit. Comfort and functionality aside, none of it was her style. She missed her big, ugly Brady Bunch couch. She missed the collection of mismatched pillows and soft throw blankets for napping.

  She missed her old life.

  Feeling her strength waning, she turned toward the bedroom and held the wall along the way.

  The light-blocking drapes were closed, so the room was cool. She propelled herself toward the bed and sat. Her gaze drifted across the mess of stuff and nonsense cluttering a nightstand. A stack of paperbacks served as a shelf for a tub of belly butter and a little basket overflowing with lip balms and Chap Sticks.

  Her long, wistful sigh filled the air when she gazed at an ingenious dresser with a changing table on top contributed by Uncle Reed. Next to it was a gorgeous pink crib with white and gold dust accents. Summer loved the ornate wood back with its bow and ribbon scrollwork. Nursery furniture was a true marvel. The crib could convert into many configurations from infant crib to toddler bed to a twin size adult bed.

  This was the only room she decorated for herself. It was a shabby chic sanctuary and nursery filled with soft colors and happy, shiny things.

  Crawling inch by inch to a pile of pillows, Summer sank into their comfort, shifted her belly until the tension melted from her back, and promptly fell asleep for a midafternoon nap.

  Arnie was helping his NIGHTWIND bosses hang a framed commendation from the mayor when Milo angrily stomped past them in the otherwise empty corridor.

  Watching him storm by, newlywed and insta-dad Kingsley Maddison’s face transformed from a dark scowl to droll amusement. Beside him, groom-in-waiting Jon Weston didn’t hide his smirk.

  Squinting at the wiry little dude’s retreating form, Arnie had to be blind not to notice the vibrant green sparks hovering around Milo’s head.

  Jon sniggered. “We might have to get a drinking game started. Every time Jade rubs Milo the wrong way, we take a shot.”

  “She’s not rubbing him at all,” King drawled with his patented sardonic cockiness. “Blue balls.” He chuckled, nodding in Milo’s direction.

  “More like Jade balls,” Arnie said.

  They cracked up because that’s what guys do when another guy has woman trouble. The sound of their manly chuckles drew Dottie from her office.

  “What are you ladies cackling about?”

  Out of sheer habit, Arnie flinched and straightened like a guilty kid.

  “Nothing,” he blurted out with no believability whatsoever.

  Jon punched King in the arm, and said, “See? What did I tell you? It’s like she has a Taser aimed straight at his nuts.”

  “Nut. Singular.” King sniggered.

  Arnie frowned at them. He didn’t know where to start with how much was fucking wrong with both men.

  “Your wife called,” Dottie snarkily informed King. “She’s pulling rank.”

  Jon sniggered. Loud.

  “Since you’ve proved you man-worthiness and gotten your lovely bride knocked up, she’s laying down new rules.” Dottie’s delivery made it hard to keep a straight face.

  Arnie loved it when she focused her scary grandma badass powers on somebody other than him.

  King muttered, “She’s like twenty minutes pregnant but insists on telling everybody.”

  “The minute you told Jack and Nicole a baby is on the way, your little secret
was out of the bag,” Arnie reminded him.

  “An-ee-way,” Dottie pointedly countered. “Apparently, we’re all expected to clean up and dress appropriately for monthly cocktail get-togethers at the Maddison estate.”

  “Estate.” Jon chuckled. “Jesus Christ. She’s not exaggerating.”

  “Also,” Dottie said so sweetly, Arnie’s alert system pinged. “Mrs. Maddison is overruling everyone—even me—and signing off on a vending machine for you know who.”

  Arnie responded with a fist pump, and growled, “Yes!”

  “Are you fucking kidding?” Jon squawked.

  King smirked. “You have Nicole to thank,” he told Arnie with raised brows. “My new daughter seems to think you don’t get enough respect.” He paused for a few beats and drawled, “And since a four-year-old has no idea what that means, I assume you fed her the words.”

  A huge smile expressed his amusement. “That little lady is a smart cookie, boss. I’d be careful around her. She doesn’t miss a thing.”

  Dottie cleared her throat. They looked at her as she crossed her arms and stared them down.

  “In closing, gentlemen—and Arnie—at the direct behest of the only woman with ranking higher than mine, her husband is to be addressed thusly.”

  Arnie snorted. He couldn’t help it. “Thusly?”

  Jon smacked his arm and shook his head in warning. “Shut up.”

  “Mr. Maddison. Kingsley Maddison.” Dottie’s lips pressed together, and then she grumbled, “And finally, King Maddison.”

  King laughed. “I sense my sister Antoinette’s hand in this as well.”

  “The pregnancy brigade ganged up on me,” Dottie confirmed. “Resistance was futile.”

  “Says the only person who ever called him Lee to begin with.” Jon smirked and then stepped behind King, using his friend as a shield.

  “You sound bummed, Quickie,” King said in a far too cheerful voice. “Tell you what. Do you want a new title?”

  “Only if it’s ostentatious and comes from the Prime Minister of Shutthefuckupistan.”

  Arnie heard none of what was said after. Dottie’s quip slingshot him back in time to Summer telling him her father had a lapel pin from the Blessed Order of Saint Shutthefuckup.

  Summer. She was always with him. Hovering close and out of sight.

  The hand of destiny had a brother known as the fist of bad timing. BT caused many a headache over the years, but when his motherfucking phone rang, the headache BT brought was more like an arrow through the head.

  Fumbling in his pocket, he tried to get the phone and mute it, but it was too late. Several seconds of “Teenage Dream” filled the air.

  Jon muttered, “What the hell?”

  If there was any way for the earth to split open and swallow him before things got any weirder, he was okay with it.

  The call was from his dad, so he had to take it. Without any explanation, he turned his back on his audience and connected to the call as he swiftly strode away.

  “Dad. What’s up?”

  “Arnie! Am I catching you at a bad time?”

  He found an empty room and ducked behind the door for privacy.

  “Absolutely not. Everything okay?”

  “Things are great here. Better than great. But that’s not why I called. Just got off the phone with my father, and he’s decided to convene the next retreat in Connecticut. January as usual. Thought you’d like to know right away in case you were looking forward to some California sunshine.”

  The hits just kept coming. He found nothing to smile about with this news. Had he lost his West Coast privileges and just didn’t know it? Goddammit. Why was the universe blocking him?

  What fucking lesson was he supposed to learn from what was now an official shitshow?

  Arnie’s free hand clenched. His dad kept talking.

  “Don’t miss the miserable New York weather. At my age, all I want is clear blue skies, warm, sunny days, and happy nights. Snow and icy walkways are for you young people.”

  There wasn’t so much as a complete heartbeat before Arnie’s hand shot out and punched. He didn’t feel it when the force of the frustrated wallop sent his fist through the drywall.

  “Fuck,” he grumbled into the phone.

  “You don’t sound happy, son. What’s going on? Stan driving you nuts?”

  “Don’t worry about Stan. He’s fine.”

  “Uh-huh. Okay. So?”

  “Nothing.”

  His dad snorted. “Cut your old man a break, would you? I may not share your psychic sensibilities, but I know when sunshine blows up my ass.”

  Feeling and acting out like a petulant child denied a treat, he lamely whined, “I was counting on the California trip.”

  A short silence wrapped up when his dad said, “Arnie? What’s going on?”

  He’d already given away too much. If he said anything at all, he knew he’d be opening the door to full disclosure, and he wasn’t ready to tell the world what a dumbass he was. Even though hope felt more and more distant, he still clung to the pipe dream of finding Summer and making this right.

  Taking the chickenshit way out, he mumbled, “Dad, I gotta go. Work stuff. I’ll, uh, call you soon.”

  With that, he ended the call, stared at the phone, then at his raw knuckles. Without thinking about it, he drew his arm back and pitched the expensive tech across the room where it smacked the wall and dropped to the floor.

  A low, angry roar erupted from his mouth. He jumped half a foot when an amused chuckle followed by a series of tut-tuts announced Dottie’s presence. He turned to find her leaning in the doorway with a smirk covering her entire face.

  Glaring at her and wondering how much she heard and saw, he threw himself onto a chair and pouted.

  She, of course, ignored his bitchiness. Entering the room, she shut the door and walked to the far wall where she bent to pick up his phone. Turning it over in her hands, Dottie laughed and walked to him, holding it out.

  “Lucky son of a bitch. Not a knick or crack.”

  Grunting his thanks, he took the phone and slid it back into his pocket. “Best thirty-six dollars I ever spent. Titanium case.”

  “Is there anything you want to tell me?” Her question, though innocent-sounding, dared him to punt his answer.

  “No.” There, he thought with smug satisfaction. Short, sweet, and decisive. That should shut her up.

  After nearly two decades of working together, you’d think he would have learned by now.

  Shifting slightly to stand directly before him and nearly touching his knees, she nailed him in place with a gaze intended to intimidate. “Well, okay, Darnell. If this is the way you wanna play this, so be it.”

  When she let loose, he barely had time to swallow before a verbal grenade meant to rattle his personal fortress detonated in his face.

  “The path from you to California is littered with bread crumbs, so don’t try any man-shit. Your withering antipathy for the Wanamaker clan is part of your charm, so it’s not unreasonable for me to notice when you all but cried about cutting out early from last January’s get-together. I can’t remember another time when an assignment came up, and you dragged your big feet.”

  He scowled. She smirked some more.

  “And then that nonsense of demanding personal time. What the California fuck has your Speedo in a bunch? I’m not blind. You’re involved in something that’s making you act out.”

  Her voice and demeanor escalated until she was shouting. “It’s a little late to start keeping shit from me!”

  “I’m not keeping anything from you,” he angrily replied although the lie tasted bitter and made him gag.

  “Seriously?” Her anger was red hot. “Big mistake.” Gesturing with her arms, she waved them to indicate the enormity of the shitstorm heading his way. “If you won’t tell me, then I’ll just head out to California and find out what’s going on without any help from you.”

  Arnie knew better, but he reacted in a physical
ly threatening manner by shooting up from the chair to loom over her. She took a step back. The next thing he knew, his face was smashed against the floor, and Dottie was sitting on his back.

  “Let me up.”

  “Apologize for being a dick.” She emphasized the demand by grinding her elbow between his shoulders.

  “I’m a dick, okay? Now, get off me. I taste blood.”

  She stood but made no effort to help him off the damn floor. The indignity of a grandmother putting him down in a sprawl did not sit well. Mortified by the effort it took to pick himself up, he was bright red and puffing like a steam engine when he was finally upright.

  Pushing him back into the chair, Dottie grabbed his chin and yanked his head in every direction.

  “Bit your lip, but other than that, you’re fine, you big baby.”

  “I’m not a baby,” he grumbled. Pulling at the tail of his shirt, he used it to wipe his mouth and showed her the red stain. “See?”

  “You don’t get a medal for injuries sustained while behaving like a douche.” She glowered at him for a minute and then surprisingly softened. “Don’t make me take you down again. Understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’m trying to help.”

  He understood and nodded but didn’t immediately fill the silence with an explanation of his behavior.

  “You don’t have to give details.”

  Arnie’s face registered surprise. It wasn’t like Dottie to offer an easy way out.

  He dangled an incomplete defense, curious how she’d react.

  “I did a stupid,” he replied somewhat guardedly. “A, uh, big stupid.” Mimicking an explosion, he sighed heavily and shook his head. “Some things are hard to fix.”

  True to who she was, Dorothea Anders Quick asked, “Does this involve NIGHTWIND in any way?”

  Always the professional.

  “Absolutely not. I wouldn’t do that, Dottie. This is,” he groaned, searched for the right word, found only one, and grimaced, “Personal.”