Just Around The Corner. Tara Quinn Taylor
living with them anymore, hadn’t been since I turned sixteen and got a job at the grocery store. I rented a one-bedroom apartment with my first paycheck.”
“At sixteen?” Her voice had lost its calm.
The warmth was still there. Matt didn’t get it.
“Who’d rent to a sixteen-year-old kid?”
“An old lady who’d taught him in the fourth grade and had a room over her garage.”
“Are you still in touch with her?”
He shook his head, slowing as he came to the second bridge. The way was free. He could go. “She died ten years ago.”
A happy woman. Her star pupil had still been shining.
It had been another year before he would’ve killed her with disappointment.
“And in all this time, you’ve never heard from either your mother or your sister?”
“Not a word.” They hadn’t actually been on speaking terms. Not after that last big fight when he was sixteen and he’d told them what he thought of them and the life they were living. When he’d denounced everything they stood for, refusing to have anything more to do with them.
He’d not only been incredibly young, he’d been foolish. He’d thought that if he distanced himself from his family, he’d lose the stigma of being related to them. He’d thought he’d stop paying for their choices, their actions.
But he’d been judged by his association with them just the same.
He understood that now. He was a Sheffield and he couldn’t escape his past.
But that wasn’t going to happen to his child. No child of his was going to be judged by his father’s sins. Or made to suffer for them.
If he was certain of nothing else in life, he was certain of that. He’d die before he’d allow another generation to be hurt by the stigma of criminal convictions and jail time. Of coming from losers. And going nowhere because of it.
“Did you have any other family? Aunts, uncles, ousins?”
Oh, yeah. “My dad’s younger brother.”
“He couldn’t take you in?”
“At the time he was serving ten years for auto theft….”
THE RESTAURANT WAS amazing. That was the only word Phyllis could think of—amazing. She stared, her eyes darting all over the room. It was a rustic old place, and she could easily believe it had been there for more than a hundred years. A good part of the building hadn’t been, Matt had told her, as it had burned in a fire in 1987. But some of the original structure still stood.
There was nothing fancy about the wooden tables and chairs crammed too close together, the cheap tablecloths. Yet it was perfect. They were seated immediately, which Matt said was fortunate since the restaurant didn’t take reservations.
At the moment, her stomach was cooperating. She didn’t feel even a twinge of the morning sickness that had been causing her such misery over the past few weeks.
“I’ve never seen so many dollar bills in my life,” she said for the third time. Since arriving at Tortilla Flat, all their conversation had centered on the restaurant. Every available inch of the inside walls were covered with bills, mostly American one-dollar bills, but other paper currency, as well. Some foreign. Even some checks.
Though she sensed that their conversation—their real conversation—was far from over, Phyllis was glad for the respite.
Matt had one hell of a lot of pain bottled up inside him. Phyllis hadn’t felt anything that potent in more than a year. Probably not since she’d first met Tory Sanders, struggling with grief for her sister and fear of her ex-husband. She knew that if the situation with Matt was different, if she’d met him at another time, in another way, if she hadn’t slept with him, she could probably have helped him.
She would’ve liked to try. Underneath all the keep-off signs, Matt Sheffield was an intelligent, gentle man. A kind man. At least judging how he’d been with her. And with his students during her symposium.
“People come here from all over the world and leave the money,” Matt said after their waiter had taken their drink order, imparted a bit of Tortilla Flat history and left. Matt indicated the newspapers the man had set in front of them.
“The rest of the history is right there, and the article on the second page is the menu.”
The place was crowded, with every one of the fifteen or so tables taken and people milling around in the gift shop just beyond.
“The bills all have names on them,” Phyllis said.
“Or business cards tacked to them.”
“How many of them do you think there are?”
“I wonder every time I come here, but I have no idea.”
“A million maybe?”
“I doubt it. But I know it was a lot more than anyone wanted to lose when the place burned in ’87.”
“The walls were covered like this back then, too?”
“More so, from what I’m told. I guess the bills were four and five thick in some places.”
He looked so comfortable sitting there, sipping from the iced tea the waiter had brought. The perfect host.
Phyllis could hardly believe this was the same man she’d known in Shelter Valley. Or the one she’d driven up with.
He’d shed his jacket, revealing his broad shoulders in the denim shirt he was wearing. It was tucked into another pair of the snug-fitting jeans that had driven Phyllis to insanity that fateful Saturday afternoon.
His black hair and eyes were just as captivating. And those hands, resting so easily on the table…
She guessed it was time they returned to the business at hand. Before she forgot that all it could ever be was business.
“So,” she said, leaning forward, hands folded on the table. “Back to medical history. Any allergies in your family?”
“None.”
“You aren’t allergic to any medications?”
“Not that I know of.”
She could do this. Breeze right through without ever really focusing on what was going on. Just get the information and process it later.
“What about blood type?”
“I have one.”
Startled, Phyllis brought back her wandering gaze to land on him. He was grinning. The effect was devastating.
Phyllis smiled back. “I assumed so. You wouldn’t happen to know what it is, would you?”
“B positive.”
She was A positive, which would be just fine.
And then she ran out of questions.
The waiter finally stopped at their table on one of his many trips past. They gave their lunch order. He was having a burger. She’d chosen the taco salad. After that she just sat. And pretended there weren’t a million things she wanted to know about him.
She could tell herself that she should ask them in order to safeguard her child’s future. But she didn’t. She was a psychologist; she knew those tricks.
She was familiar with the various and often complex rationalizations the mind devised, rationalizations that let you do what you wanted when you knew you shouldn’t. Focusing on the one reason it was all right to proceed while ignoring the four reasons it wasn’t.
Such rationalizations had caught her once—and trapped her.
She wasn’t going to