Someone Like You

Her aunt grinned. “Nice wheels.”

Jill glanced at the gleaming black BMW 545. “It’s transportation,” she said with a shrug.

“Uh-huh. Lyle’s?”

“California is a community-property state,” Jill said primly. “As he acquired the asset after our marriage, it’s as much my car as his.”

“You took it because you knew it would piss him off.”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s my girl.” Her aunt glanced at Jill’s shirt and raised her eyebrows. “Takeout?”

Jill looked at the stain on the front of the hundred-percent Egyptian cotton custom-made shirt she’d shrugged on over her jeans. The sleeves hung well past her fingers and she could have fit inside the garment two and a half times, but this was Lyle’s special shirt that he’d ordered from Hong Kong at the tidy price of five hundred dollars. He’d owned four. The other three were tucked inside her suitcase.

“Burrito,” she said as she rubbed at the brownish-red smudge just under her right breast. “Maybe some hot sauce. I stopped at Taco Bell on the way down.”

“Tell me you ate in the car,” Bev said impishly. “Lyle always did have a thing against eating in the car.”

“Every bite,” Jill told her.

“Good.”

Bev held out her arms. Jill hesitated only a second, then flung herself into the smaller woman’s warm embrace. She’d been holding it together for two days, only allowing herself to deal with the logistics of packing up her world. All her emotions had been stuffed down until it was safe to let them go. That moment turned out to be right now.

Her face heated, her chest tightened and a shudder raced through her.

“I saw him doing it with her,” she whispered, her voice thick with pain and the tears she tried to hold back. “At the office. It was so disgusting. He didn’t even take his clothes off—his pants were hanging around his ankles and he looked ridiculous. Why wouldn’t she make him get naked?”

“Some women don’t have any self-respect.”

Jill nodded. “At least I always made him get naked.”

“I know you did.”

“But that wasn’t what hurt the most,” she continued, her eyes burning. “He stole my promotion. I’d been working so damn hard and I brought in all that business and he got my promotion and I got fired.”

The tears broke free. She tried to hold them in, but it was too late. They scorched her skin and dripped onto her aunt’s shoulder.

“And what I really d-don’t understand is why I’m more mad than hurt,” she said, her voice cracking. “Why do I care more about my job than my marriage?”

Jill asked the question rhetorically. She had a feeling they both already knew the answer.

“Want to scratch his car?” her aunt asked.

Jill straightened and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “Maybe later.”

“I made cookies. Let’s go have some.”

“I’d like that.”

Bev took her hand and led her toward the house. “I’ve been doing some research. I think I might be able to put a curse on Lyle. Would that help?”

With each step, Jill felt her pain easing just a little. Maybe Los Lobos wasn’t her idea of a good time, but her aunt’s house had always been a haven.

“A curse would be good. Could we give him boils with pus?”

“We could sure try.”

TWO HOURS LATER Jill and her aunt had split nearly a dozen double-chocolate-chip cookies and had knocked back several brandies.

“I don’t want to do anything malicious,” Jill said, pretty darned proud she could say malicious, what with the way the liquor had heated her blood and turned her brain to foggy mush. “So instead of outright scratching the Beamer, maybe I’ll just park it by the high-school baseball diamond. All those foul balls could make a real impact on it.” She giggled. “Get it? Impact? The two meanings of the word?”

Her aunt sighed. “You’re drunk.”

“You betcha. And I feel pretty good, if I do say so myself. I didn’t think I would. I thought I’d be depressed for days. I mean practicing law here.” She grimaced and felt her good mood slipping away. “Okay—that goes on the do-not-think-about list. Not my new practice here, although I use the term loosely. At least that’s just until I get a real job. Not Lyle. The divorce is good, though. I really want that. I want our marriage to never have been.” She reached for another cookie. “Could we vaporize him? Would that technically be murder?” She sighed. “Never mind. I know it would be. I don’t want to be disbarred. That would be too depressing for words.”

Cookie crumbs fell on her shirt right next to the damp spot where she’d sloshed her brandy. She brushed at the crumbs only to smear chocolate on the shirt.

“I need to go clean up,” she said, and put down the half-eaten cookie. “I didn’t shower before I left San Francisco this morning.”

As she spoke, she reached behind her head to grab her mass of curly, frizzy hair. While she’d showered the previous morning, she hadn’t bothered with her usual blow-dry, flatiron, forty-seven-hair-care-product regimen required to tame her impossible hair. As a result, she was left with a mass resembling Frankenstein’s bride after the woman stuck her finger in an electrical socket. On the attractive scale, she knew she approached absolute zero.

Jill pushed herself to her feet. Between not sleeping much in the past two days and the brandy, the roses on the wallpaper in the kitchen began to swirl.

“That can’t be good,” she murmured.

“You’ll feel better after a shower,” her aunt said. “You remember where everything is, don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. Top of the stairs.” Although right now the thought of climbing stairs made her dizzy.

A timer dinged at the same instant that someone knocked on the front door. Her aunt rose from the round table by the window and motioned for Jill to head for the front of the house.

“See who it is. I don’t trust you to remove hot cookie sheets in your present condition.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Jill walked down the hall, only plowing into the wall once. She got a vision of herself as a bumper car, which made her giggle. She was still caught up in the humor when she pulled open the front door.

There were only a handful of things that could have made her present situation worse: The death or injury of someone she loved, the belief that she would never escape from Los Lobos to work in a big-city law practice again, and seeing Mackenzie Kendrick while she looked like cat gack.

So it was a one-out-of-three chance, she thought, as she stared at the man standing on her aunt’s doorstep. Couldn’t she have just been struck by lightning?

Apparently not, she thought as she looked into dark blue eyes and studied the familiar, painfully handsome and strong features that made up his face. He looked older, but who didn’t? He could still make her toes curl and her heart convulse like the bouncing ball on a karaoke monitor. Or maybe that was the brandy acting out.

Last she’d heard, Mac Kendrick had moved to Los Angeles where he’d been zipping up the ranks of the Los Angeles Police Department. Last she’d seen of Mac, she’d been eighteen and he’d been home on leave from the army. She’d shown up in his bedroom, dropped her dress to the floor, offering her very naked self to him, and he’d promptly thrown up.

Memories like that put the end of her marriage in perspective.