Author: Robyn Carr
Rick stayed as close as he could, trying to get her to classes. He couldn’t leave her to fend for herself, alone, making her way through the snickering girls, half of whom would’ve done anything for a date with Rick. Sometimes he was late for class because he’d been getting Liz to hers. His teachers weren’t real sympathetic. He didn’t pretend this was some fling or second cousin—he straightened his spine and claimed her. His girl and his baby. He wished he didn’t have to, but he had to. She had no one else.
It didn’t take too long for him to get into a fight. A loudmouthed, dimwitted junior by the name of Jordan Whitley made a crack about Rick “gettin’him some every night” and it just tipped him over the edge. Rick shoved Whitley up against the lockers and slugged him. Whitley got one off on Rick before teachers pulled them apart, so when Rick went to work that afternoon at the bar, he brought a shiner with him.
“What the hell happened to you?” Preacher asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “Some asshole had an opinion about my love life.”
“That right? And you felt you had to get your face bashed in?” Preacher said.
“No, Preach. I decked him. He never should’ve gotten up. I guess I didn’t hit him hard enough.”
“Man. Feeling a little out of control?”
Rick shrugged. Truthfully, he hated that little punk and had secretly wanted to hit him for at least a year. “He has a real mouth on him. Maybe he’ll keep it shut now.”
As far as his love life went, it was pretty bleak. Oh, it was true, he was having sex.
He couldn’t deny that it scratched a certain itch, but it was beyond strange. Liz needed to be touched, to be loved, but the girl who so softly curved to him now was worlds away from the hot little number that squirmed wildly on his lap last year. And not only did these brief sessions often end with her in tears, he could sometimes feel his baby move while he held her, loved her. When she cried, he’d just collect her against him and soothe her, tell her it would be all right, that they’d figure it out. He said that, doubting it constantly.
And here they were, having a baby and expected to act like grown-ups, with Aunt Connie watching them like a hawk, making sure they weren’t doing anything adult. The only time he could get with her was by taking a detour on the drive home from school to park for a little while, an action that got him all worked up even as he felt guilty about it. Even with everything that had happened between them, they weren’t allowed to lie down on a bed together. God forbid! What if Liz got pregnant or something?
She wanted to run away and get married. Fifteen and seventeen, holy Jesus. And when they’d made this little error in judgment, they’d been only fourteen and sixteen. It was a real wake-up call. He was holding her back, holding her off, telling her he’d never abandon her, but he didn’t think they should do anything as drastic as marriage—it was too soon to make that leap. The leap they’d made was terrifying enough. Most days he thought he had her convinced they should wait at least until they decided what to do about the baby.
Doing the right thing, knowing what the right thing was, just seemed to get more confusing all the time. Around Liz, he tried not to let that show. She was having a hard enough time without Rick letting on that he didn’t know what he felt, didn’t know what to do.
It was eating him up.
Ten
On the drive back to Virgin River, Preacher asked Paige a lot of questions about the missing girlfriends, Jeannie and Pat. He asked, “You think they did all right when they got married?”
“They picked up on Wes so easily, I assume they had much more on the ball than I did. I met their families—parents, brothers and sisters. They seemed okay.”
When they got back, Preacher got on the Internet. It was quick, but it took him a few days to work up the courage to present his findings. When she came into the kitchen right after putting Chris in bed for a nap, he put down his chopping knife and said, “I…ah…I hope this wasn’t out of line. I found them. Your friends.” He pulled a slip of paper out of his jeans pocket—their married names, addresses and phone numbers.
Her mouth actually gaped open as she stared at him, her hand hesitatingly reaching for the paper. She stared at it for a moment, then her eyes went from the page to his face to the page, back and forth. He shrugged and said, “I was getting in your personal business again, but I just thought—”
She shrieked his name, threw her arms around his neck and hugged him so fiercely he took a step back and started to laugh. He put his arms around her and held her off the floor in her excitement. She kissed him on both cheeks, several times, making loud smacking noises. He laughed at her, hanging on, hating the thought of letting her go. He had to put her down too soon. Large, liquid green eyes stared up at him, overcome, and on her lips a phenomenal smile. “How did you do this?” she asked in a breath.
“It was easy,” he said. “I need to show you how to work that computer. I can’t believe you didn’t use a computer before.”
She just shook her head and stared at the paper. Wes wouldn’t allow her use of his computer; it would have put her in touch with the outside world too much.
“Go on,” he said. “Call ’em. Use the phone in my place instead of in here. Have a little time alone with the girlfriends.”
She got up on her toes and kissed his cheek again, laying her small hand against the other cheek. She looked at him with such gratitude, it melted his heart. Then she whirled and ran to his apartment, gripping that paper like a lifeline.
“Yeah,” he said to himself, under his breath, nodding. “Bet there’s lots of little things I can look up for her. Yeah.” And he went back to chopping.
Jack came into the kitchen, looked at Preacher and frowned. “What are you grinning about?” he asked.
“I’m not grinning,” Preacher said.
“Preacher, I didn’t know you had that many teeth.”
“Aw, Paige. I looked up something for her, got her all excited. That’s all.”
“Kind of looks like it got you a little excited, too. I think you’re flushed. And Jesus, you sure have a mouthful. You never showed me a grin like that.”
Yeah, he thought—big mystery. You put your arms around me and kiss all over me like that, I’ll show you a mouthful—of fist. But he couldn’t stop grinning. He could feel it and couldn’t stop it. Jack just shook his head and left the kitchen.
There was another by-product, as if all that affection wasn’t enough. Paige had so much to tell him. Pat was still in L.A., working part-time now in a new salon, a real upscale salon, and she had a baby daughter. She even had some celebrities as clients—little celebrities, but her reputation was growing. Jeannie was in Oregon, of all places! And she had her own shop! She’d married a guy twelve years older who’d never been married before. He flew cargo, so he went out on ten-day trips, then was home for at least two weeks. They bought her shop a few years ago and here they were, thirty and forty-two, thinking about a family if she could just get the management of the shop under control.
“She offered me a job, can you believe it?” Paige said excitedly. “She said she’d love to have me there, and would train me as assistant manager.”
“Wow,” Preacher said. “That must have made you feel pretty good. Think you could do that?”
She laughed and put her hand on his arm. “I have one or two things to get settled before I even think about anything like that,” she said.
There were all kinds of details about her old girlfriends’ lives, and she didn’t seem to leave out even the smallest one. They sat in front of the fire until very late. She said, “I don’t know how to thank you. It was so wonderful to talk to them.”
“You should talk to them as much as you can. Catch up on things.”
“It’s long distance, John.”
“Aw, that’s not a big deal. Call every day if you want. Think you’ll get to see them soon?” he asked her.
“Well, Pat’s in L.A., and I’m not going back there. The very thought gives me shivers. But maybe when things are resolved a little, I’ll check out Jeannie’s new husband, new shop.”
Paige’s attorney had filed divorce papers while Wes was still in treatment, warning her that they might not be able to serve him.
He was as protected as he wanted to be while there. But within a couple of days her lawyer called her to report that the papers had been served, accepted, and the message from Wes was that he had a great deal of remorse and wanted to be cooperative. The only exception to her terms: he wanted at least supervised visits with his son. He hoped to finally be released from treatment with a good report by Thanksgiving.
Paige asked John to use his apartment to place a long-distance call, but this one was not to one of the girlfriends. She told Brie what she’d learned.
“I don’t trust this for a second,” Paige said.
“You shouldn’t. Here are some facts—we have no idea how he’s doing in treatment. There’s no way to find out if he’s committed to recovery or one of their problem children. Also, if I were his lawyer, I’d advise him to be repentant, cooperative, ashamed and docile. I’d tell him if he could cry at his trial and blame the drugs for everything, it would go down a lot better than getting his back up about how bad he’s getting screwed by the woman he knocked into the middle of next week.”
“Lovely,” Paige said.
“Lawyers aren’t all bad. Advice like that often puts the defendant in that mind-set—he has to change his awful ways, be sorry, be nice. It doesn’t always work that way, but often. He can’t get what he wants if he has an attitude with the court. And we might not know what’s happening with him in treatment, but him not getting released with a good report after thirty days is an indication he hasn’t exactly given himself over to the gospel. Two months isn’t bad. He hasn’t screwed himself up yet.”
“But it’s his third battery offense,” Paige said. “It’s automatic prison. Right?”
“Aah,” Brie began. “Sentencing requirements vary. He can be charged, tried and convicted, and his sentence can still be less than you’re hoping for. He’s got a good lawyer. It could be light—short time, lots of probation. It’s still a sentence, still a conviction. The judge has the power of discretion as long as he’s within the law. My advice? Deny the visitation and go after this divorce like a bulldog. If he really does clean up, he can revisit the custody issue when he’s proved himself. That’ll take years.
“Meanwhile,” Brie said, “watch your back. Stay alert. Remember who this guy is. You know him better than anyone.”
“Oh, Jesus, is he going to get out of treatment and show up here again?” Paige said in near panic.
“He could. But my guess is, he’s going to honor the conditions of his bail to stay out of jail, go with this trial and try to get out of the felony convictions. Or at least plead them down. Freedom, Paige—that’s the big carrot right now. And the trial can come soon, maybe early in the new year.”
“I’ll be completely gray by then,” she answered.
Paige brooded a little bit, hoping it didn’t show too much. Strangely, it wasn’t Wes or the divorce that occupied her thoughts, but John. November came in rainy and cold and she’d been in Virgin River more than two months. There were times she could become lost in the present moment—oddly satisfied with the day-to-day simplicity of her life, content to work alongside him in the kitchen. They were in sync, and it wasn’t rehearsed; he would chop the scallions, she would scrape them into the bowl. He would shred the cheese, she would clean the grater. She’d beat the eggs, he’d make the omelet. He’d mix the dough, she’d roll the piecrust. She loved watching John—his movements so slow and steady, confident. And to talk with him in the evening after closing, even for a while, was like a reward. The sound of his voice as he read to her son, kind of raspy and soft, comforted her as much as it did Chris.
