Chapter Four

Friday, midnight

“Screw you, miserable prick,” I muttered as I guided my car along Pacific Coast Highway toward Rick’s wine shop.

The last thing I wanted to do on a Friday after work was see the Weasel and return his shit. But he’d been calling all week, pestering. I should simply toss it on the doorstep.

My cell phone vibrated. Probably Rick checking to see if I was coming. I knew it couldn’t be Delia. She’d be boarding her flight for South America. When Brad’s name appeared, I picked up the phone and answered.

“Thanks for giving me background information for my story tonight,” he said. “Feel like dancing? The night crew is headed over to that retro place, Azure.”

“Unfortunately I’m on my way to see my ex-boyfriend.”

“Ex?” Was that surprise in his voice?

I hadn’t told anyone at work about Rick, nor had I explained my outburst the previous Sunday. I’d been looking for a reason to let Brad know. “Extremely ex. At least he will be, once I return his shit.”

Rick’s belongings were heaped into three boxes in my trunk. Everything except that diamond pendant. I’d sent it to him by courier earlier in the week.

“Come by after you’re done. If not, may I buy you dinner this weekend and help you make a fresh start?”

Should I take a chance with a coworker? Delia had been right about one thing—it had been ages since I’d been without male companionship. A Queen without a consort? I didn’t like the idea. “Call me tomorrow.”

“It’s late to be driving alone. Where are you?”

“Just entering the business district in Mira Loma.” I rounded a bend into a familiar sweeping boulevard with its welcome sign surrounded by palm trees.

“Isn’t that a dangerous area? Maybe I should come help.”

“Thanks a lot. I live not too far from here. It’s safe enough. Besides, I’m armed with a baseball bat and a gun.”

“I didn’t know you could shoot.”

“Rick bought it for me, and I took one class. I never liked it, so I’m giving it back. He’s lucky I’m a lousy shot. I’d be tempted to shoot him.”

“Now, be cool.”

“I’ll be cool as a cucumber in a chilled salad.” Easy to say, but I didn’t feel cool. Despite the chilly breeze that swept in from the beach, sweat dampened my skin, sticking to me like a clammy veil. “I’m here. I’ll carry the bat for protection, though he’d scream if I used it. You’d think it was the Holy Grail.”

“Stay calm. Talk to you later.”

****

My attempt at calm lasted until I stood at Rick’s front door. My stomach wiggled like it contained a bowl of nervous goldfish as I pushed the after-hours buzzer. The RW Fine Wines logo caught my gaze. I helped design the stylized script graphic.

Prick!

My hands shook and I felt as though I grasped a greased rope, dangling over a cauldron of seething emotion. I gripped the bat. My palm was wet against the metal. I felt like a major league hitter coming to bat in a World Series. Score tied, bases loaded and two out in bottom of the ninth.

“Keep cool,” I whispered. “You’re Kimberly delaGarza, Queen of TV. This is the last time you ever have to face him.” Like Robert Redford in The Natural, I’d end this game in a victorious shower of fireworks.

Seeing no movement inside, I jabbed the buzzer again. Maybe I should toss the bat into the ocean across the street. Let him spend the rest of his life combing the beach for it. I should dump his crap here so homeless scavengers could scramble like fans in the bleachers after a home run ball, taking their pick of Ralph Lauren shirts, Tommy Hilfiger sportswear, and Armani suits. Someone might use the gun to hold up the store. Even as I imagined the event, light enveloped me and the door slid open.

Rick greeted me with a smile. Handsome enough to be a male model, he maintained a year-round tan that emphasized salt-and-pepper hair and soft brown eyes. His well-defined cheeks and cleft chin might have been sculpted by a GQ photographer.

I refused to say hello as I stepped inside, tapping the bat on the tiled floor.

“Good show tonight,” he said.

I froze and studied him like a batter sizing up an opposing pitcher. For once Mr. Impeccable was a mess. His hair was mussed as though he’d run his hands through it. Wrinkles creased his blue shirt and the sleeves were rolled up on his arms. His eyes were bloodshot. I stifled the urge to ask if the Bimbo was wearing him out.

“Your crap is in the car.” I pointed the bat toward the door.

He offered an easy pitch in a soft voice. “You want a glass of wine? I’ve opened a new red.” He gestured toward the area where he hosted wine tasting parties.

I spotted a bottle and two glasses. Trying to strike me out with a seasoned Pinot Noir?

I stood my ground, the batter digging into the box. “I’d rather go home. Get your stuff.”

As I started to hand him my keys he pulled a key ring out of his pocket, held up a duplicate, and walked out the door.

Ouch! He’d delivered a nasty pitch that brushed me back. I stared at my key ring, realizing not only did he have my keys, but his house and car key remained on my ring. Like the commitment we’d made when keys were exchanged, this was the ultimate moment in the other direction. The Return of the Keys.

My grip on the composure rope slipped. Maybe I no longer loved him, but did all those years count for nothing? What about loyalty? I shook my head. We were on opposite sides. Wearing uniforms of different teams.

Huffing with exertion, he returned with a box. “There’s a lot there.”

I nodded, a knot forming in my throat. “I’m leaving your keys on the counter.”

He blinked in surprise, as though The Key Exchange just hit him too. “Okay.”

While he made two more trips, I paced the shop. Together we designed the layout when he expanded. Delia and I labored for hours over handwritten labels above wine bins.

Taking a deep breath, I fought nostalgia. The last couple of years hadn’t been hot on the romance scale, but they were fun—chatty evenings at favorite restaurants, getaways to Mexico, weekends of Saturday parties and Sunday brunches, baseball games and movie premieres.

He returned with the final box. “Sure you don’t want wine? We should talk.”

“We have nothing to discuss.” I had to get away before I broke down. Crying was a certain strike out. I still held the bat. Tapping it against the floor helped me keep a grip on my emotions.

“What about our business plans?” His eyes darted sideways. “We should...uh...discuss money...”

We had money invested together through our shared accountant—his buddy, Carl. Rick had even given me a partnership in the shop as repayment for money I’d loaned him. “I’ll have Adrienne call Carl.”

He drew back and hurt flashed in his eyes. Foul ball. “Your lawyer? That’s cold. These are personal deals.”

“We no longer have a personal connection.”

“Someday you’ll understand. Maybe if you got to know Bobbi—”

“No!”

His hands flipped up. “Maybe that was the wrong thing to say.”

“Damn right it was.” I snapped my fingers. “Give me my keys. Where are my clothes?”

He took out his key ring and gestured. “Your things are in those suitcases and clothes bag. The shoes are in the tote bag.”

I looked toward the bags. We bought the matching set of Gucci luggage for a trip to Alaska and used them when we traveled together.

Putting down the bat, I reached for the keys. This had become a standoff, a tie, game called on account of pain. I just wanted it over. I walked toward the bags.

“Let me know if anything is missing. I was surprised she managed to get all your things into those bags.”

Anger pricked me like a sharp needle and I whirled toward him. “She packed my stuff?”

His response to my rising voice was a shrug. He approached the bottle of wine and glasses, oblivious to the anger that zoomed through my veins. “Yes...”

“You let Bobbi touch my clothes?”

His nod was a high, fat pitch over the middle of the plate. “Let’s have a glass of wine and I’ll take your bags to the car.”

My hold on the greasy emotional rope released, and I gripped the bat. As I slid into a hot boiling pot of anger, I swung for the fences.