Right Back Where We Started Read online

  “Yes, I read the article you left me on the link between blood sugar and Alzheimer’s. But that doesn’t explain why I can’t have orange juice.”

  “It runs in families. I’m doing you a favor.”

  Carter went very still. “She’s my stepmom, remember?”

  She hadn’t. He loved her so well, it didn’t seem to matter. “No, I forgot.” And darn him for reminding her, because it just made all this sacrifice that much more meaningful.

  Martina worked to finish her report, getting data from her phone that she’d collected throughout the day, noting her possible issues with body temperature particularly and the found glasses, as well as the recommendation to get a second pair of glasses. She left it on the counter just as Carter got up to put his dishes in the dishwasher. He paused, cocking his head to read the report, as she gathered her things from the cupboard where she’d stashed them.

  “Thanks for finding her glasses.” His voice was soft. She was coming to recognize it as his “feelings voice.” Time was when his voice would just get louder and more excitable when he had feelings. Now it seemed to go the opposite direction.

  “You’re welcome, Carter.” Dang, she said it without attitude. It sounded too tender, said like that. She’d do better next time.

  “If I make an appointment with her optometrist, can you take her?”

  “Of course.”

  He nodded. “Have a good night, Martina.”

  “Ms. Lopez,” she corrected gently. “You too, sir.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Chase: Hey bro. How’s it going?

  CARTER SIGHED. TODAY had not been a good day at work. He’d found an error in one of his formulas that meant he’d not only had to go back through and fix a bunch of reports, but also go to his coworkers and ask that they also recalculate based on the new data.

  Carter: Fine. How are you?

  Chase: Oh, you know. Another day, another counseling session.

  He’d just put his work bag up in his room when he saw Martina crossing to the front door down below.

  “Hey. Ms. Lopez. I was wondering . . .”

  “Report’s on the kitchen counter. Sorry, I can’t stay, I’ve got a date. Have a good night.” She was gone before he could even get out ‘goodbye.’ He sighed. She’d been weird around him ever since their tiff about him crashing her date, avoiding him, leaving as soon as he came home.

  Carter: Sorry. That sounds boring.

  Chase: Some of it’s not. Some parts of are interesting.

  Chase: I was thinking maybe I could get a pass for Thanksgiving.

  Something caught his eye that didn’t belong. Good grief, was that . . . ? It couldn’t be. There, on top of the grandfather clock: it looked just like the troll they’d hidden in the house for two years while they were dating. He used to tear the place apart looking for it after she’d left. Then when he went to her house, he’d leave it somewhere for her to find, and back and forth, on and on. She’d had it in her possession when she left nine years ago . . . could it be the same one? Her sister had informed him that she’d burned everything when they broke up.

  Striding into his room, he grabbed a wooden chair that sat near the window and climbed up next to the grandfather clock. Theirs had had his initials written on its backside with a pen. Not very mature, looking back. He turned it over and laughed out loud: “MAL.” Martina Annaliese Lopez, you crack me up. He looked around; no one had seen him. He couldn’t hide it at her house, but he could hide here. Somewhere she’d find it . . . surely Mrs. Sánchez would remember the game and leave it alone. He snapped his fingers: the medicine cabinet. Carter stuck it in his pocket and jogged downstairs, lighter than he’d felt in months.

  Carter: Good idea. Do you need me to send a car?

  Chase: Yeah, that’d be nice. Thanks.

  Chase: I might not get the pass, but I just wanted to check with you first.

  Carter: Okay.

  He went into the kitchen and unlocked the medicine cabinet just as Mrs. Sánchez was coming in to do the dishes.

  “Oh,” she laughed. “Not this again.”

  “She started it!”

  Her eyebrows went high. “Did she? Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what hmm?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Just hmm. I think it’s nice. She wants to be friends again.”

  “That is nice,” he agreed, tucking the doll carefully into the cabinet and re-locking it. And it’s the most I could possibly hope for.

  “Do you want hints, if I see it?”

  “Mrs. Sánchez, are you saying you’re Team Carter?”

  “Of course!” she exclaimed, shaking her head, as if the question were ridiculous. He crossed to the fridge and took out his plate.

  “Also,” she whispered, motioning him over, “I hid some cookies from mi ángel. When it comes to treats, she is ruthless.”

  Carter chuckled. “Yes, she is. Thanks for looking out for me.”

  Out of nowhere, he felt himself being hugged from behind. “Always,” she whispered. “You’re a good boy. You’re good to your mama. You’re good to live here, instead of leading a young man’s life. I’m sorry it’s so heavy on you.”

  He had no free hand to respond physically, but he smiled. “Well, you make it lighter. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.” She went back to her dishes like nothing had happened.

  “Oh, Mrs. Sánchez? Do you remember the name of that flight instructor I used to use? I’d ask my mom, but she doesn’t . . .”

  She paused, shaking the bubbles off her gloves. “Robinson?”

  He snapped. “That was it. Dale Robinson. Like the helicopter. How could I forget?”

  Yesenia chuckled. “Perhaps it’s catching.”

  “Don’t even joke,” he laughed, starting on his dinner. “One memory patient is enough. More than enough.”

  “Are you going flying?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. It has been too long. We have more help now, we don’t need you. Go. Enjoy yourself.”

  “What, right now?” he mused, pretending to peer out into the night. “It’s kinda dark out right now, and the airstrip’s not very well lit . . .”

  “Oh, oh. He’s funny now. He’s going to joke with Mrs. Sánchez. Fine, fine. I can take it. Who do you think taught you how?”

  “You did,” he admitted.

  “You do a little more joking with Ms. Lopez, maybe she’ll joke back.” She winked at him. “You like to see her laugh, sí?”

  “Sí,” he agreed emphatically.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  SHE WASN’T LYING; SHE did have a date. Because doctors worked weird schedules, Monday had been the only day Greg had free. And this time, she was taking no chances on his roommate interrupting things; he was coming over to her place. She rushed around the kitchen, putting the final touches on the meal she’d put in the crockpot this morning. The recipe had called it Greek chicken . . . she wasn’t sure what was so Greek about it beyond the olive oil and the oregano, but it smelled good. She’d just finished tossing the salad when there was a knock on her door. Rajah hissed and hurried under the desk. Just as well. I don’t need him getting scratched the first time he comes over. It might be the last, and we can’t have that.

  She checked her makeup in the mirror by the front door before she opened the door. “Greg! Come on in.”

  “Thanks,” he said, blowing on his hands.

  “Chilly out there?”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, and he proved it when his cold nose brushed against her cheek when he gave her a chaste kiss in greeting. It left a funny feeling inside her which was shaped suspiciously like guilt. Especially since the kiss, while sweet, had made no impression whatsoever on her heart.

  “Brr!” she said, hurrying back into the kitchen where it was warm. “Oh—you can just toss your coat on the couch.”

  He took off his scarf with a quizzical look in her direction. “Not hang it in the closet I’m standing next to?”

  “Well,�
� she said, taking salads to the table. “It’s your funeral if you want to try.”

  Greg smiled as he carefully laid the coat on the back of the couch. “Is there a man-eating creature in there?”

  “No, Rajah’s under the desk.”

  Greg bent at the waist and peered into the darkness, only to step back quickly at the hissing. “Oh, you weren’t kidding.”

  “No,” she smiled. “Rescues come with some extra baggage, and Rajah’s is heavier than most. Don’t take it the wrong way; he doesn’t like anybody.”

  They sat down, and the conversation flowed easily as Martina pressed Greg for all the new dirt on what was happening at the hospital. Winnie was a good friend, but her gossip left much to be desired. Martina had tried to reform her many times, but it was no use; her friend just refused to even try. Quitter. Greg, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

  “I heard Kyle Durand is dating Ainsley, finally,” Martina said, cutting her chicken.

  “Not just dating . . . he bought a ring. I saw it in his locker.”

  Martina spluttered into her wine. “He brought it to the hospital? Why?”

  Greg sneezed. “As far as I can tell, he carries it around everywhere with him. He pulled it out the other day when he was looking for a script pad.” Martina wondered if Ainsley knew he was that serious about her; she hadn’t caught up with her friend in a while.

  “This is good stuff. What else?”

  “I think you’ve heard enough about me . . . what about you?” When she paused, unsure what to say, he took the opportunity to look around. “You live here alone?”

  “Yeah . . . why?” Greg was a perfectly nice guy, so it didn’t come off as creepy.

  “Just wondering whose artwork this was.” Wiping his mouth, he stood up and walked over to the art print. “‘Never let your wings be stolen from you?’”

  Martina nodded, sitting back in her chair. “For a villain, Maleficent is surprisingly wise.”

  “So you have a real fairytale thing happening, huh?”

  “I guess so.” She knew how it probably looked to him; childish. But she’d never believe that true love was just a fantasy. She was going to hold out as long as it took. “You have time to stay and watch something?”

  He paused, then sneezed again. “Sure, as long as I get to pick.”

  “You’re claiming the remote in my house? Bold, Trout. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “I’m full of surprises, I guess.” He scrolled through his options before settling on a sitcom she’d seen before. Which was fine, because he took her hand as soon as she sat down and held it the whole time, and that was distracting as heck. Her conscience was a woodpecker, continually pecking away at her moral center. It felt nice to be touched, his thumb stroking the inside of her wrist where it was sensitive. He started it, though. He took my hand, not the other way around. When the show finished, they both looked at each other.

  “You wanna fool around a little?” he asked, sniffling, and Martina couldn’t tell if he was nervous or what, but he didn’t look all that excited about the prospect.

  “Sure,” she said. He started off slow, but his technique was okay; a slow slide of firm lips against hers, and she felt a shiver go down her spine. When he gently encouraged her to lie down with his hands on her shoulders, she went willingly.

  “You’re a good kisser,” she whispered as he moved to her neck.

  “So are you,” he said between kisses, still sniffling.

  “Why didn’t we do this last time?” She hadn’t exactly meant to say that out loud, but he was making her brain a little fuzzy. Her heart, however, could not be reached for comment; she felt like it was giving her a busy signal. Nothing to report. At least her body was more on

  board . . . she didn’t want him to think she wasn’t having fun. She was. Sort of.

  Greg turned his head to sneeze, but he managed to catch her in the head with his elbow in an attempt to cover it.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, but she waved him off. It was just as well; the longer it went on, the more she felt guilt ruining it for her. She tried to focus on Greg, but there was an owl outside distracting her. Her apartment building was out of town a ways on Mr. Ramona’s land. A four-unit, rust-red building, but it was quiet. Her downstairs neighbor was hardly ever home, and she never saw the guy across the hall.

  He shifted so he was more on top of her, and she felt a stabbing pain in her hip; she must’ve left her keys in her pocket. She wasn’t going to say anything, though; she let her hands wander over his strong back and tried to get back into it, but her conscience was still ruining things. Nice Guy Greg probably thought this was leading to a relationship . . . a good night kiss at the door was one thing, a heavy make-out session was something else. She couldn’t let him get invested. She’d promised Daniel, and she never broke a promise.

  He sneezed again, this time being more careful with his elbow.

  “Are you allergic to something?”

  “Cats,” he sniffled. “I have meds, I can take them next time beforehand. Sorry.” Well, that was a perfect segue to not making out if she’d ever heard one.

  “I just remembered,” she said, gently removing his hands from her hips. “I got dessert. You want some?”

  “What kind?” he asked. Okay, he seemed perfectly happy to give this up for pie. So maybe she was blowing it all out of proportion.

  “Apple pie. From Riverside Coffee.”

  “Ooh.” He sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, please.” He reached out a hand and helped her up, too. Such a gentleman.

  “With vanilla ice cream?”

  “Is there any other way to eat apple pie?”

  Martina smiled, hoping her relief at being a little farther away from him wasn’t obvious. “Some people like whipped cream, I think.”

  “Fools.”

  She laughed. This would be way easier if he were a jerk . . . it was just her luck. Why did he have to be such a nice guy?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A FEW WEEKS LATER, the house looked the same as it always did when Martina climbed the stone steps in front of the house. The same boxwoods in pots flanking the door. The same raked walk. The same eagle door knocker . . . it was all the same. But something was not the same. Martina felt it, like the house had been cursed overnight, and when she put her hand to the doorknob, static electricity gave her a tiny shock, and she gasped. She didn't like being superstitious, but . . . she was. She didn't even foster black cats; it was bad luck. Martina wanted to turn and leave, but she pushed her premonition aside as silly and hurried into the house.

  Mr. Carpenter sat in the study to the right of the entryway. Not her Mr. Carpenter, Willow's Mr. Carpenter. She didn't even know his first name: he was just Mr. Carpenter to everyone, Dad to his kids, honey to Willow. Even when she was dating Crash, she'd never learned his father’s first name. Not that he'd spent a lot of time with her when she and Carter were together; he found her unsuitable. He'd cornered her in the hallway to tell her so once, on her way back from the bathroom. It had been so humiliating, she'd fled from the house shortly afterward, claiming to have a stomachache.

  He looked up when she stood there, mute, staring at him. “What are you doing here?”

  She crossed her arms. “I work here. What are you doing here?”

  “I live here.” Not that I've observed. He must be back for Thanksgiving; it was only two days away.

  “Where's Carter?”

  “I assume he's at work.”

  The man sneered. “I told him to be here to meet with me at nine a.m. sharp.”

  It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. His selfishness knew no bounds. Yes, why not demand that your son skip work in order to talk to you when you'd done nothing but ignore his mother and make his life difficult for the last few months? And that was only the months that she knew about; it could be a lot longer.

  “As far as I know, your son is at work, Mr. Carpenter.” She turned to go to the kitc
hen and check for Willow's night reports, put her purse away . . .

  “Young lady, I wasn't done.” Oh good, he had more to say . . . Martina bit her tongue hard, a silent reminder to herself that this man might be the one actually paying her checks, and she should be polite to him. Even if he wasn't reciprocating.

  “Where's Chase?”

  “I believe he's in Bend at the moment.” Chase's drug problems were not her business. She liked collecting gossip, not spreading it to people who would misuse it.

  “Doing what? When I talked to his boss, he said he hadn't been to work in weeks.”

  “I'd encourage you to talk to Carter about the situation. Now if you'll excuse me . . .”

  Mr. Carpenter rose from behind the desk like a wave, seeming bigger somehow than his six feet, and the sense of premonition she'd had earlier returned, tugging at her like an undertow. “I will not excuse you. What job is it you've been hired to do?”

  “I've been hired by Carter as your wife's personal health care provider.”

  Mr. Carpenter gaped at her, then caught himself. “You're the nurse he hired?”

  “Yes.” Her mother would've wanted her to add a “sir” to the end, but villains did not deserve respect.

  His low chuckle made her spine tingle in an uncomfortable way. “Of course you are. Poor fool. He's never gotten over you. Of course he'd use his mother's illness to bring you back into his life.”

  “It wasn't like that,” Martina gritted out. “I'm extremely qualified to help Willow.”

  “Oh, I have no doubt that you are, young lady.”

  “Martina.”

  He cocked his head. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You've been referring to me as 'young lady,' and I'm letting you know that I'd prefer you use my name. My name is Martina Lopez.”