Chapter 19
Friday, June 27
Ryder bent his tall frame over the low sink and splashed cold water on his face. It wasn’t until he’d gotten a fancy apartment in LA that he’d recognized how dated the bathroom was in this old house. As soon as his First Responder checks started rolling in, he’d help his mom remodel it any way she chose.
He squinted into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes. Bed was calling him back, but he’d been thrashing in the sheets for hours unable to sleep, waiting for dawn to break.
Down the hall, the coffeepot clinked against his mother’s mug, signaling that she was up. Finally he could ask her the questions that had been swirling through his head all night long.
He padded out to the kitchen to find her pulling orange juice from the fridge.
“Good morning. Can I pour you some?” she said, the carton poised.
“Yeah.” The word came out as a croak, the mere effort sending him into a coughing spasm.
“Whew. You look kind of rough. How’s your throat?”
Both knew what inhaling brush smoke could do to a man’s lungs.
“Fine.” He hacked again and took a swig of juice. “Agh!” The juice burned like acid going down, prompting more maternal doting.
“Maybe skip the juice today.” She got a new glass and ran the tap. “Drink some water. If that doesn’t clear up by tomorrow, I want you to go see Dr. Cortez.”
“It’s got to—cough—clear up. I got a race to run.”
“Oh, Ryder! The half-marathon! Here, try something warm,” she said, pouring him a coffee.
“Are you hungry? It’s only seven. Bridget and the boys won’t be up for another hour, but I can make . . .”
Ryder shook his head, went to the window, and peered out between the white ruffled curtains.
Then he turned back to face her, leaning against the Formica counter.
“I won’t be home for supper tonight. There’s a kickoff dinner for the race, up at Diablo.”
“I see. Will Chardonnay be there?”
“Everyone will be there.”
He couldn’t wait to lay eyes on her again. Her killer body, her hypnotic blue eyes. And she actually had some deep thoughts under all that silky blond hair. The woman was the whole package.
But his mom was giving him one of her worried looks again.
“Mom. What?” He spread his arms and raised his brow. “What is it that everyone has against me and Char?”
“What do you mean? Who else said something?”
“Dan. Yesterday he was filling my head with all sorts of rumors about the St. Pierres. Warned me not to trust them.”
She hesitated, then spoke, choosing her words carefully.
“It’s not that I dislike Char, dear. Far from it. I just don’t like that your agent used her for a publicity stunt.”
“Mom, I told you. Amy does what she’s paid to do—what everybody does. There’s nothing inherently wrong with publicity.”
“There’s nothing wrong until somebody gets hurt. But unfortunately, in this case she’s making money by exposing people’s misfortune. Digging up their private lives . . . their mistakes, and their family’s mistakes.”
Ryder set his empty glass in the sink. “What mistakes? What’s so awful about a photograph of a single man giving a single woman a kiss good night?”
“Because it wasn’t her choice, that’s why. You ambushed her.”
He threw up his hands in concession. “I know. You’re right, Mom. But we talked about it, and we’re past it now.”
Thoughtfully, she looked down at the table, then changed tack and rose.
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Let me get you some breakfast . . .”
Ryder shoved off from the counter, the sudden movement igniting a fresh hacking spell.
“Not hungry yet.” He cleared his throat. “Maybe when the others get up. Think I’ll go study my lines for an hour.”
He wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his script this morning, but he wanted to be alone to revel in his anticipation over seeing Char tonight.