All Summer Long
Page 11
Today she was simply a middle-aged woman who used to be someone.
Growing old was a bitch.
The manager finally left. Dominique crossed to the window and stared out at the view. She wasn’t sure why Chantal had settled in this small town at the foot of the Sierra Nevadas, but she had. Now as she stared up at the snow-covered peaks, she shivered slightly. Her journey was like that of a mountain climber. First she would gather supplies, then she would make the ascent. Her goal wasn’t physical, but emotional. Still, it would be grueling and she could fail.
She turned and glanced at her bodyguard. Justice Garrett carried himself like a man comfortable in any situation. He had military experience of some kind, was licensed to carry a concealed weapon and could probably stop a bullet with his bare hands. He was extremely well trained. He was the sort of man a person took into the most dangerous parts of the world. With his dark blond hair and deep blue eyes, he was handsome enough. But there was a wariness in his gaze. He was a man who carried ghosts, she thought.
Now he looked back at her, as if asking, “What next?”
As if she had the answer. She’d hired him only a few days before and they had yet to get to know each other.
“You must wonder why you’re here,” she said, returning to the living room of the suite and opening the minibar. “What possible danger could an old woman like me be in?” She closed the minibar and walked to the small tote that had been left on the coffee table. After opening it, she pulled out a bottle of eighteen-year-old Scotch.
She held up the bottle in invitation.
“I’m on duty.”
She smiled. “We both know no one is after me.”
“Then why am I here?” He gave her a slight smile. “I don’t come cheap.”
She opened the Scotch and poured some into two glasses. She picked up one and settled on the sofa. Justice came into the living room and stood by the window. He didn’t even glance at the drink.
“Money isn’t one of my problems,” she told him, then took a sip. The smooth liquor went down easily. “I have enough for several lifetimes. It’s the other things that are missing. Youth, love, family.”
“You have a daughter.”
“Technically. Biologically. She doesn’t love me.” Dominique took another drink, knowing the more difficult truth was that Chantal could barely stand her. “What did you think of her?”
“She’s lovely.”
Dominique laughed. “Hardly. Chantal is many things, but not lovely. She’s capable and strong. She gets both of those from me. I am not the delicate flower you see before you.”
She rose and walked into the bedroom. Justice followed her as far as the doorway. She motioned to the three suitcases by the dresser. A fourth had been put on a luggage rack.
“Would you please put those on the bed for me?”
He did as she requested and stepped back. She set her drink on the nightstand, then opened the smallest of the suitcases. Inside were several carefully wrapped pictures. She took the top one and removed the protective layers, then held out the framed photo.
“My husband,” she said.
Justice took the picture.
She didn’t have to look at it to see Dan. So tall and handsome. He’d swept her off her feet within a few minutes of meeting her. Her manager had arranged for Dan to put in shelves in Dominique’s New York dance studio. She’d shown up unexpectedly to find him working. He’d turned around, smiled and she’d been lost.
They’d married two months later, much to the shock of her business manager and all her friends. But she’d never regretted the impulsive decision. They’d loved each other until the day he died. There had been other men in her life and in her bed. Before him and after he’d died. But no one else had ever touched her heart.
“He looks happy,” Justice said, returning the picture to her.
She took it and placed it on the dresser. “He was. He had me and Chantal. He loved us both.” Dominique had struggled with that, she remembered, wanting to be the center of her husband’s universe. How he’d devoted himself to his daughter. Sometimes she’d been jealous. Foolishly, maybe. Wrong, perhaps. But true.
She offered another picture. This one of a three-year-old Chantal in a tutu. Even then she’d been too tall and far too awkward. She’d wanted to play with trucks instead of dolls and she had no patience or talent for any kind of dance.
“I wanted a daughter like myself. A dancer. Someone I could nurture and mold. What’s that old saying? If you want God to laugh, make plans?”
Justice gave her back that picture.
“No advice?” she asked.
“Not in the job description.”
“Were you a spy, Justice?”
“Nothing that exciting.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. Do you think I’m attractive?”
Nothing about his expression changed. “Ma’am?”
She smiled briefly. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to seduce you. I used to be beautiful. A sheik once offered me a million dollars for a night with him. Just like that movie from years ago. It was before I met my husband, so I said yes.” The smile returned and broadened as she remembered. “The next morning he sent me home with the million dollars and a diamond necklace. He wanted to marry me, of course. So many of them did.”
She sighed, knowing the memories would be with her tonight. Sometimes they were just like her former suitors. Insistent. Determined.
“Well, Justice Garrett, I will see you in the morning. You have your room key?”
He touched his jacket pocket. “You never answered the question.”
“Why I hired you?” She shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? With you around, I get to pretend that I still matter. That I’m still famous. That I have significance. None of which is true.”
He looked at her for several seconds, then murmured, “Good night,” and left.
When the door had closed behind him, Dominique picked up the picture of Dan and stared at his familiar face. “I would give it all up to have you back,” she whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”
Tears filled her eyes. As there was no one to impress, she let them fall. Smudged makeup didn’t matter these days.
She pressed the picture to her chest and let the truth wash over her. She was alone. She had been for years, but she’d never allowed herself to see it. Being in that hospital room, waiting to find out if she was going to live or die, had brought that painful reality home. As she’d waited, she’d vowed that if she survived, things would be different.
Chantal was the only family she had left. Dominique refused to lose her. She was here to be a part of her daughter’s life—however much Chantal might resist.
* * *
“PICK IT UP, people,” Charlie yelled. “I’ll make this a timed drill if I have to.”
As she watched, the ten volunteer candidates finished running around the track. With the opening of Josh Golden’s cycling school, she’d been offered a new place for her candidates to work out. As long as she didn’t schedule training during cycling sessions, Josh had given her access to both the indoor and outdoor track, the weight room and an unfinished area she planned to use for various drills involving hoses and other pieces of equipment. She was a happy camper.
Now she waited until the last of the women ran up to join the group. Charlie blew on her whistle, the signal for everyone to race toward the large truck tires she’d had delivered. The concept was simple. Drag the heavy tires from one end of the field to the other. After running two miles.
She’d already wrapped ropes around the tires and provided gloves. But nothing helped the fact that the tires weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds. Each.
But instead of racing as instructed, two of the women smiled at Clay. One even flipped her hair. Charlie snorted in disgust. Sure Clay was the most fit person on the field, but he was a major distraction. Still, she would give him credit for ignoring their preening and grabbing the ropes of his tire. In a matter of seconds, he was dragging it across the field at a brisk pace.
The other two guys in the group did their best to keep up with him. Two of the women were only a few yards behind, but the other four were seriously struggling.
Charlie walked over. “What’s the problem, ladies?”
The tallest of the women, the blonde, looked at her. “This tire is too heavy. Can’t we do something else?”
It was the same with every class, she thought, having been at this long enough not to even be surprised. She let the question hang there a couple more seconds, giving herself time to get her mad on. Then she gave the woman the same smile she suspected bears used right before they snatched up unsuspecting salmon.
“There is a belief among many firefighters that women don’t belong. Do you know why that is?” She paused.
All four of them shook their heads.
“Because some idiot wants it to be easy. It’s not easy. A firefighter wears about fifty pounds of gear. Which means if the guy next to him goes down, you have to drag him plus fifty pounds out of a burning building. And by drag, I mean carry.”
She stepped closer to the blonde, staring her in the baby blues and wishing she’d had onions on her burger at lunch.
“Either you’re ready to do the job or you’re not. Because I, for one, am not explaining to any family that Daddy isn’t coming home because you weren’t strong enough to save him. That tire weighs a hundred and twenty pounds. Assuming the average male firefighter weighs two hundred and his gear is another fifty, then you’re responsible for carting around two hundred and fifty pounds. So don’t whine to me about the damn tire.”
When she finished, she wasn’t shouting, but there was a whole lot of energy in her voice.
The blonde’s eyes welled up with tears. “You’re being a real bitch, you know that?”
“I know, honey, but it’s only going to get worse. So this is probably a good time for you to find something else to do with your afternoon.”
“You’re right about that.”
The other woman stomped off the field.
Charlie turned back to her group. She wasn’t surprised to see that they’d stopped to listen. What did impress her was Clay standing on the other end of the field. He’d completed the assignment.
“Anyone else want to complain about the tire?” she asked.
There was a chorus of nos, followed by some serious tire moving.
Three hours later, everyone was dripping sweat and collapsed on the grass. Charlie made sure they each had a bottle of water.
“Good work, people. Michelle Banfield is teaching the next session. You’ll see me at the end of the week.”
She gave them what she hoped was a friendly wave, picked up her clipboard and started toward the parking lot. Clay fell into step beside her.
“Great workout,” he said.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She kept moving, doing her best not to notice his muscled arms or long legs. Shorts and a T-shirt had never looked so good.
“You went easy on us.”
She glanced at him. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “It was the first day. You don’t suffer fools but you’re not mean. You didn’t enjoy making Madeline cry.”
“You know her?”
“She introduced herself to me.”
Charlie might be completely inept when it came to the whole boy-girl thing, but she wasn’t stupid. “She gave you her number.”
When he didn’t answer, she wondered how many of the other women had done the same.
“Must be nice to be you,” she muttered.
“Not always. Besides, I’m otherwise engaged these days.”
She stopped and stared at him. “What does that mean? You’re dating? You’ve only been back a few weeks. I didn’t think you had time to get involved. Look, if you’re seeing someone I don’t want to...” She paused, fumbling for the right phrase for what they were, in theory, going to do.
He faced her. He was taller than her, broader in the shoulder. She was used to being the same size or bigger than everyone in the room, so it was kind of strange to be smaller than Clay. Nice, but strange.
“I’m not dating,” he said quietly. “I meant you.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine, then.”
His dark gaze settled on her face. “Know any martial arts?”
“Not formally. I’ve taken self-defense classes, of course and I can have a mean left hook.”
“I could teach you. We could spar sometime.”
She held the clipboard against her chest. Not exactly like a shield. She sighed. Fine. Yes, exactly as if she were trying to protect herself.
“How would that be fun?” she asked. “Sparring with someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing? Don’t you want to work out with someone better than you? Isn’t that how you learn?”
“You don’t think you could take me?”
“Not that way. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
He took the clipboard from her. “Charlie, take a deep breath.”
“Why?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“All right,” she grumbled and did as he requested. “And?”
“That was flirting.”
“Breathing?”
He grinned. “No. My offer to spar with you. Think about it. The two of us in a room, getting physical.”
“I don’t think that was flirting. I didn’t flip my hair. Isn’t hair flipping required?”
“Is that why you wear it short?”
Growing old was a bitch.
The manager finally left. Dominique crossed to the window and stared out at the view. She wasn’t sure why Chantal had settled in this small town at the foot of the Sierra Nevadas, but she had. Now as she stared up at the snow-covered peaks, she shivered slightly. Her journey was like that of a mountain climber. First she would gather supplies, then she would make the ascent. Her goal wasn’t physical, but emotional. Still, it would be grueling and she could fail.
She turned and glanced at her bodyguard. Justice Garrett carried himself like a man comfortable in any situation. He had military experience of some kind, was licensed to carry a concealed weapon and could probably stop a bullet with his bare hands. He was extremely well trained. He was the sort of man a person took into the most dangerous parts of the world. With his dark blond hair and deep blue eyes, he was handsome enough. But there was a wariness in his gaze. He was a man who carried ghosts, she thought.
Now he looked back at her, as if asking, “What next?”
As if she had the answer. She’d hired him only a few days before and they had yet to get to know each other.
“You must wonder why you’re here,” she said, returning to the living room of the suite and opening the minibar. “What possible danger could an old woman like me be in?” She closed the minibar and walked to the small tote that had been left on the coffee table. After opening it, she pulled out a bottle of eighteen-year-old Scotch.
She held up the bottle in invitation.
“I’m on duty.”
She smiled. “We both know no one is after me.”
“Then why am I here?” He gave her a slight smile. “I don’t come cheap.”
She opened the Scotch and poured some into two glasses. She picked up one and settled on the sofa. Justice came into the living room and stood by the window. He didn’t even glance at the drink.
“Money isn’t one of my problems,” she told him, then took a sip. The smooth liquor went down easily. “I have enough for several lifetimes. It’s the other things that are missing. Youth, love, family.”
“You have a daughter.”
“Technically. Biologically. She doesn’t love me.” Dominique took another drink, knowing the more difficult truth was that Chantal could barely stand her. “What did you think of her?”
“She’s lovely.”
Dominique laughed. “Hardly. Chantal is many things, but not lovely. She’s capable and strong. She gets both of those from me. I am not the delicate flower you see before you.”
She rose and walked into the bedroom. Justice followed her as far as the doorway. She motioned to the three suitcases by the dresser. A fourth had been put on a luggage rack.
“Would you please put those on the bed for me?”
He did as she requested and stepped back. She set her drink on the nightstand, then opened the smallest of the suitcases. Inside were several carefully wrapped pictures. She took the top one and removed the protective layers, then held out the framed photo.
“My husband,” she said.
Justice took the picture.
She didn’t have to look at it to see Dan. So tall and handsome. He’d swept her off her feet within a few minutes of meeting her. Her manager had arranged for Dan to put in shelves in Dominique’s New York dance studio. She’d shown up unexpectedly to find him working. He’d turned around, smiled and she’d been lost.
They’d married two months later, much to the shock of her business manager and all her friends. But she’d never regretted the impulsive decision. They’d loved each other until the day he died. There had been other men in her life and in her bed. Before him and after he’d died. But no one else had ever touched her heart.
“He looks happy,” Justice said, returning the picture to her.
She took it and placed it on the dresser. “He was. He had me and Chantal. He loved us both.” Dominique had struggled with that, she remembered, wanting to be the center of her husband’s universe. How he’d devoted himself to his daughter. Sometimes she’d been jealous. Foolishly, maybe. Wrong, perhaps. But true.
She offered another picture. This one of a three-year-old Chantal in a tutu. Even then she’d been too tall and far too awkward. She’d wanted to play with trucks instead of dolls and she had no patience or talent for any kind of dance.
“I wanted a daughter like myself. A dancer. Someone I could nurture and mold. What’s that old saying? If you want God to laugh, make plans?”
Justice gave her back that picture.
“No advice?” she asked.
“Not in the job description.”
“Were you a spy, Justice?”
“Nothing that exciting.”
“I’m not sure I believe you. Do you think I’m attractive?”
Nothing about his expression changed. “Ma’am?”
She smiled briefly. “Don’t worry. I’m not trying to seduce you. I used to be beautiful. A sheik once offered me a million dollars for a night with him. Just like that movie from years ago. It was before I met my husband, so I said yes.” The smile returned and broadened as she remembered. “The next morning he sent me home with the million dollars and a diamond necklace. He wanted to marry me, of course. So many of them did.”
She sighed, knowing the memories would be with her tonight. Sometimes they were just like her former suitors. Insistent. Determined.
“Well, Justice Garrett, I will see you in the morning. You have your room key?”
He touched his jacket pocket. “You never answered the question.”
“Why I hired you?” She shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious? With you around, I get to pretend that I still matter. That I’m still famous. That I have significance. None of which is true.”
He looked at her for several seconds, then murmured, “Good night,” and left.
When the door had closed behind him, Dominique picked up the picture of Dan and stared at his familiar face. “I would give it all up to have you back,” she whispered. “You know that, don’t you?”
Tears filled her eyes. As there was no one to impress, she let them fall. Smudged makeup didn’t matter these days.
She pressed the picture to her chest and let the truth wash over her. She was alone. She had been for years, but she’d never allowed herself to see it. Being in that hospital room, waiting to find out if she was going to live or die, had brought that painful reality home. As she’d waited, she’d vowed that if she survived, things would be different.
Chantal was the only family she had left. Dominique refused to lose her. She was here to be a part of her daughter’s life—however much Chantal might resist.
* * *
“PICK IT UP, people,” Charlie yelled. “I’ll make this a timed drill if I have to.”
As she watched, the ten volunteer candidates finished running around the track. With the opening of Josh Golden’s cycling school, she’d been offered a new place for her candidates to work out. As long as she didn’t schedule training during cycling sessions, Josh had given her access to both the indoor and outdoor track, the weight room and an unfinished area she planned to use for various drills involving hoses and other pieces of equipment. She was a happy camper.
Now she waited until the last of the women ran up to join the group. Charlie blew on her whistle, the signal for everyone to race toward the large truck tires she’d had delivered. The concept was simple. Drag the heavy tires from one end of the field to the other. After running two miles.
She’d already wrapped ropes around the tires and provided gloves. But nothing helped the fact that the tires weighed about a hundred and twenty pounds. Each.
But instead of racing as instructed, two of the women smiled at Clay. One even flipped her hair. Charlie snorted in disgust. Sure Clay was the most fit person on the field, but he was a major distraction. Still, she would give him credit for ignoring their preening and grabbing the ropes of his tire. In a matter of seconds, he was dragging it across the field at a brisk pace.
The other two guys in the group did their best to keep up with him. Two of the women were only a few yards behind, but the other four were seriously struggling.
Charlie walked over. “What’s the problem, ladies?”
The tallest of the women, the blonde, looked at her. “This tire is too heavy. Can’t we do something else?”
It was the same with every class, she thought, having been at this long enough not to even be surprised. She let the question hang there a couple more seconds, giving herself time to get her mad on. Then she gave the woman the same smile she suspected bears used right before they snatched up unsuspecting salmon.
“There is a belief among many firefighters that women don’t belong. Do you know why that is?” She paused.
All four of them shook their heads.
“Because some idiot wants it to be easy. It’s not easy. A firefighter wears about fifty pounds of gear. Which means if the guy next to him goes down, you have to drag him plus fifty pounds out of a burning building. And by drag, I mean carry.”
She stepped closer to the blonde, staring her in the baby blues and wishing she’d had onions on her burger at lunch.
“Either you’re ready to do the job or you’re not. Because I, for one, am not explaining to any family that Daddy isn’t coming home because you weren’t strong enough to save him. That tire weighs a hundred and twenty pounds. Assuming the average male firefighter weighs two hundred and his gear is another fifty, then you’re responsible for carting around two hundred and fifty pounds. So don’t whine to me about the damn tire.”
When she finished, she wasn’t shouting, but there was a whole lot of energy in her voice.
The blonde’s eyes welled up with tears. “You’re being a real bitch, you know that?”
“I know, honey, but it’s only going to get worse. So this is probably a good time for you to find something else to do with your afternoon.”
“You’re right about that.”
The other woman stomped off the field.
Charlie turned back to her group. She wasn’t surprised to see that they’d stopped to listen. What did impress her was Clay standing on the other end of the field. He’d completed the assignment.
“Anyone else want to complain about the tire?” she asked.
There was a chorus of nos, followed by some serious tire moving.
Three hours later, everyone was dripping sweat and collapsed on the grass. Charlie made sure they each had a bottle of water.
“Good work, people. Michelle Banfield is teaching the next session. You’ll see me at the end of the week.”
She gave them what she hoped was a friendly wave, picked up her clipboard and started toward the parking lot. Clay fell into step beside her.
“Great workout,” he said.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” She kept moving, doing her best not to notice his muscled arms or long legs. Shorts and a T-shirt had never looked so good.
“You went easy on us.”
She glanced at him. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “It was the first day. You don’t suffer fools but you’re not mean. You didn’t enjoy making Madeline cry.”
“You know her?”
“She introduced herself to me.”
Charlie might be completely inept when it came to the whole boy-girl thing, but she wasn’t stupid. “She gave you her number.”
When he didn’t answer, she wondered how many of the other women had done the same.
“Must be nice to be you,” she muttered.
“Not always. Besides, I’m otherwise engaged these days.”
She stopped and stared at him. “What does that mean? You’re dating? You’ve only been back a few weeks. I didn’t think you had time to get involved. Look, if you’re seeing someone I don’t want to...” She paused, fumbling for the right phrase for what they were, in theory, going to do.
He faced her. He was taller than her, broader in the shoulder. She was used to being the same size or bigger than everyone in the room, so it was kind of strange to be smaller than Clay. Nice, but strange.
“I’m not dating,” he said quietly. “I meant you.”
“Oh. Okay. That’s fine, then.”
His dark gaze settled on her face. “Know any martial arts?”
“Not formally. I’ve taken self-defense classes, of course and I can have a mean left hook.”
“I could teach you. We could spar sometime.”
She held the clipboard against her chest. Not exactly like a shield. She sighed. Fine. Yes, exactly as if she were trying to protect herself.
“How would that be fun?” she asked. “Sparring with someone who doesn’t know what she’s doing? Don’t you want to work out with someone better than you? Isn’t that how you learn?”
“You don’t think you could take me?”
“Not that way. I wouldn’t know how to begin.”
He took the clipboard from her. “Charlie, take a deep breath.”
“Why?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“All right,” she grumbled and did as he requested. “And?”
“That was flirting.”
“Breathing?”
He grinned. “No. My offer to spar with you. Think about it. The two of us in a room, getting physical.”
“I don’t think that was flirting. I didn’t flip my hair. Isn’t hair flipping required?”
“Is that why you wear it short?”
