"Okay," I said softly, took my cookies and set them aside as I dropped my Dillard's bag to rummage in my purse for my wallet. "When I get home, do you want me to search for a new contractor?"
"I'll deal with it when we get back from the island," he surprised me by saying. "Rex is set for now. He isn't complaining. It's working so it can wait."
"Okay, honey." I was still talking softly. Then I offered, "I'm at Mrs. Field's. If you don't have cookies handy, do you want me to buy some for medicinal purposes later?"
"Mrs. Field's are sweet, baby, but nothin' beats your kind of sweet."
That was nice, very nice but I wasn't entirely certain if he meant cookies from my bakery or a different kind of sweet that I could give him for medicinal (and other) purposes.
I decided that I'd pop by the bakery, just in case, cover all the bases.
"Okay," I said yet again, having paid for my cookies, I smiled at the clerk, shoved my wallet back in my purse, grabbed my stuff and took off.
"All set?" he asked.
"Yep. The boys have a bevy of swim trunk selections. I'm leaving the mall now, on my way to get them from school. When we get home, I'll supervise packing."
"Babe, we got two days."
"And tomorrow we have one day. We don't want to rush. When you rush, you forget stuff.
We need to be prepared. There are four of us and the boys need supervision. And I need a whole evening to sort myself out. Not to mention, I need to concoct dinner from whatever is in the kitchen so we don't leave stuff that will spoil."
"Tess, we're goin' to Aruba, not a jungle in Paraguay. We forget stuff, we buy it. We come home, stuff spoils, we throw it out."
Hmm. This was true. Except the "we throw it out" part. Brock, Joel and Rex would undoubtedly come home and continue to utilize the fridge as they normally did, that was, standing in its open door, staring inside like doing so could form whatever they wished to have (if it wasn't already there) and they would ignore anything with mold on it that had gone bad. Therefore, the "we" part actually meant "you".
Brock went on before I could remind him of this fact. "And, far's I can tell, you can take a carry-on because all you need is a bikini."
I continued to dodge fellow shoppers on my way to the exit as I explained, "Brock, first, I don't wear bikinis. Second, I need more than one bathing suit for a week. That requires at least three but I'm going with four which is how many I bought when I was out shopping with Martha, Elvira and the girls last week."
By the way, my ban on the mall was up and I made a vow to myself that, next year, post Christmas, no matter how frenzied Christmas could get, I was lifting the ban in February because I'd gone gonzo when I hit a mall for the first time in over two months and I bought practically an entirely new vacation wardrobe. Some of it was hot but all of it was awesome and none of it I needed (really) especially not after paying for four to be accommodated at a five-star hotel and while setting up a new bakery .
"Third," I carried on talking to Brock, "although I intend to relax I also intend to shop and you can't shop in a swimsuit. And last, evening will require me in something other than a bikini and who knows what we'll be up to? We could be going to nice restaurants or local dive restaurants or family restaurants. I've never been to Aruba. Maybe we'll go to all of those kinds of restaurants and each kind requires a different kind of vacation outfit, not just for me, for all of us. Therefore we all have to be prepared."
To this ling-winded, multi-point explanation, Brock asked, "You don't wear bikinis?"
I rolled my eyes and headed to the exit doors outside of which my car was parked. "No."
"Why not?"
"I just don't."
"Why?"
I pushed through the doors asking, "Do I actually need to explain?"
He didn't answer. Instead he asked his own question of, "Do you own a bikini?"
I answered his question. "No."
"Babe, you're at a mall," he told me something I knew.
"Actually, I'm outside walking to my car."
"Turn around and buy yourself a bikini," he paused, "or four."
"Brock."
"Sweetness," his voice had dipped low, "you got a great body. Fuckin' beautiful. Since you told me about this trip, I've been imagining you on the beach in a bikini. I've also been imagining you other places in a bikini. I've also been imagining taking off your bikini. All this imagining has lasted four weeks. I only got two days left to wait. Don't take that away from me."
Mm. I liked that. All of it. So much, I started imagining too.
My imagining took all my attention so I stopped behind a car and studied the tips of my high-heeled boots.
Then something else hit me and I asked, "Do you think it's okay to be in a bikini around the boys?"
I could actually envision Brock's eyebrows snapping together before he said, "Uh...
yeah." Then, "Why?"
"I don't know," I mumbled.
There was a moment of silence then, softly, "Baby, you just became stepmom to two boys.
That doesn't mean you gotta go June Cleaver." Then he ended on a muttered, "Or Christ, at least I hope you don't."
I thought about it.
Then I informed him, "Donna never wore a bikini."
"Did Donna have a great fuckin' body like you do?"
"Donna was five foot two and liked carrot cake more than Rex and chocolate cake way more than Joel. How do you think I learned how to make them?"
I listened to my man chuckle then he said, "Turn around and buy me some bikinis."
"I already bought you three nighties."
More silence, then low, "Fuck," then, "Make my year, sweetness, turn around and add bikinis."
I grinned.
He went on, "I'll swing by, get the boys, bring 'em into the Station. Can you pick them up here?"
His question and the casual way he asked it made warm gushiness saturate my belly.
This was an addition to my life that I liked. Since Martha started and my load was less but Brock's hadn't changed, Brock dropped the boys off at school (on time) and I left the bakery to get them in the afternoons. Usually, they hung out with me at the bakery after school.
Sometimes, I had to take them to baseball practice which had just started and I'd hang while they practiced. Sometimes, I called it quits early and we all hung out at home.
I liked this. All of it. Meeting, even fleetingly, the other Moms and Dads I'd see during school runs, getting to know the boys' friends and their parents, having chats with the boys about how their day went. I never thought I'd have that, asking two beings I loved if they had their homework done, listening to them chatter in the car while I drove, hearing their voices drifting up the stairs while they fought in front of the television about what they were going to watch, going to the grocery store and buying food enough for a family, not just myself or not just myself and a partner.
I loved being with Brock, he made me feel safe, he made me feel beautiful, he made me feel loved. I loved all he'd given me, more than I could say.
But the best thing he'd given me was a family.
And since he gave me a family, I could give him bikinis.
Therefore, I turned back toward the mall, answering, "Sure."
"Text me when you're on your way."
"All right, honey."
"Later, babe."
"Later, Brock, love you."
"Me too, darlin'."
I sighed happily.
He disconnected.
I put my phone in my purse.
Then I saw the middle of a man in front of me, I started to scoot by him and say, "Excuse me," but I didn't get the "Excuse me" part out.
This was because the middle of that man scooted the direction I scooted.
My head came up and I caught his eye.
"Sorry," I said on a small smile and scooted the other way.
He again scooted the way I scooted.
Uh-oh.
"Uh..." I started.
"Mr. Heller wants to see you."
Damn!
I looked beyond him to the doors to the mall. I was four car lengths and a thoroughfare away. I was in high-heeled boots. He was big and brawny. Maybe this meant he'd be slow if I made a run for it.
There was a black sedan that was crawling along our lane and I heard a car also coming from behind.
I sighed in relief that we had company and scooted again, turning to the side to slide by, saying, "I don't want to talk to Mr. Heller."
"I'm afraid that isn't an option," he told me.
Great.
Damian.
God, I hated him. There I was thinking of bikinis and family and Brock loving me and boom! Damian rears his ugly head and sends a goon after me and all my happy thoughts evaporate.
I scooted faster, the black sedan stopped and the backdoor opened.
Damian was in the backseat.
Fuck!
The big brawny guy cut me off from scooting and the car was cutting me off in the other direction so I had to stop therefore I juggled my bags to dig in my purse to grab my phone and call 911 so I could report Damian was harassing me.
"Tess, get in the car," Damian ordered. "It's urgent."
I didn't answer. Vance told me not to engage him and I wasn't going to. I was going to phone 911. I tried to push through big brawny guy but big brawny guy just put a firm hand on my arm to stop this.
I tried to twist away at the same time activating my phone.
"Tess, there isn't a lot of time." I heard Damian say. "Please, for your own good, get in the car."
Surprisingly, big brawny guy wasn't taking my phone away. I dialed 911 (which, at this rate, could be added to my favorites) and put it to my ear.
"Tess, please, " Damian entreated, sounding like it was, indeed, urgent (the jerk) but I kept my eyes on the pavement, the big brawny guy weirdly gently started to pull me to the car and the 911 operator said in my ear, "Nine-one-one, what's your emer "
Then it happened.
Gunshots.
Right there.
Gunshots right there.
So loud. Unbelievably loud. Making my ears ring.
I stood frozen as the big brawny man's hand left my arm and it left my arm because he'd fallen to the ground, blood oozing from his chest.
In a fog of horror, I tipped my head down and stared at big, brawny man who was wheezing with blood oozing from his chest.
Oh my God!
Stupidly, in shock, I turned to look left and saw an older man I'd never seen in my life advancing, smoking gun drawn.
"Tess! " Damian shouted, jumping out of the car before I could do anything, say, like flee.