You Only Live Nine Times, page 14
Rachel sipped her sangria, watching as Marc leaned back in his chair, saying something that made Tommy's shoulders tense. The restaurant seemed to recede around her, the ambient noise fading as she focused on the scene unfolding at Marc's table. Something in Marc's expression had changed—a subtle hardening around his eyes, perhaps, or a tilt of his head that spoke of calculation rather than conciliation.
Tommy shifted in his seat, his posture becoming more rigid. Then Marc stood abruptly, pushing his chair back with a scrape that carried even to where Rachel sat. Tommy rose as well, his movement more deliberate, as if giving himself time to regain control.
The two men faced each other, Marc's lips moving rapidly, his expression now openly mocking. Tommy's hands clenched at his sides, then relaxed, then clenched again. Rachel began to rise, sensing disaster. If she got to Marc’s table quickly enough, perhaps she could defuse the tension and draw Tommy back to their own table. They could calmly discuss whatever it was Marc had said to anger him, and then they’d find a way to laugh it off and enjoy the rest of their evening.
But she was too late.
Whatever Marc said next caused Tommy's face to contort with sudden rage. His fist connected with Marc's face, the crack of the blow silencing the entire restaurant. Marc reeled backward, clutching his nose.
Sabrosa erupted in chaos. Diners gasped and pushed back their chairs. Servers rushed forward, unsure how to intervene. Griselda appeared from the direction of the hostess stand, moving with surprising speed for someone in four-inch heels.
Rachel sat frozen for a second, not entirely able to believe she’d actually seen what she just saw. Then instinct took over and she was on her feet, weaving through the maze of tables toward Tommy. He stood over Marc, fist still clenched. His expression was equal parts shocked and gloating.
Danny emerged from the kitchen, immediately taking charge with calm authority. He helped Marc to his feet, efficiently directing Griselda to bring ice and towels. Then he turned to Tommy and politely, but firmly, asked him to step outside.
"Let's go," Rachel murmured, taking Tommy's arm. His right hand was already swelling, his knuckles reddening where they'd connected with Marc's face. "What happened?" she asked as she led him toward the door.
"I can't talk about it," Tommy said tersely. "Not here, anyway."
Outside, the balmy night air did little to cool Tommy's anger. He paced the sidewalk beneath the string lights illuminating Hibiscus Road, flexing his injured hand. "He called me a hack, Rachel. He said I’m the kind of ‘journalist’,” Tommy’s fingers made scare quotes in the air, “who prints whatever story gets handed to me whether it’s true or not.” Tommy's voice was tight with a mixture of anger and what sounded like fear. He continued pacing, his steps quick and agitated on the smooth white pavement. “He said Isabella’s only backing me for the Daily News job because she needs a dupe like me in that position.”
Before Rachel could respond, Griselda emerged from Sabrosa. Her expression was composed, but Rachel could see the tension in her slender frame. "One of the bussers is taking Marc over to Coacoochee General," she informed them. "Danny convinced him not to call the police right now, but..." She shrugged expressively. "No promises about tomorrow."
Tommy cursed under his breath, running his uninjured hand through his hair. "I really messed up, didn't I?"
"Danny smoothed things over." Griselda's voice was professional, although not unkind. "But I wouldn't plan on dining at Sabrosa for a while if I were you." She glanced back at the restaurant. "I need to get back inside. We've comped everyone’s dessert to make up for the…entertainment."
As Griselda disappeared back into the restaurant, Rachel noticed a few photographers hovering nearby. No doubt they recognized "Mr. Nightlife" and were hoping to document the aftermath of the restaurant drama for their various 'zines and fledgling websites.
"We should go," Rachel said gently. "Unless you want to be tomorrow's sole topic of conversation from here to South Beach."
Tommy nodded grimly, and they turned in the direction of Title Wave. Hibiscus Road bustled with its usual evening vitality. An overcrowded party spilled from Gallery Moda out onto the sidewalk, and every so often a bar would open its doors to pour live salsa or throbbing techno into the night air. Amber streetlights cast alternating bands of light and shadow across Tommy’s face as they walked. Rachel noted how he cradled his injured hand against his chest, the knuckles already darkening with bruises.
They'd barely made it a block when Rachel spotted a familiar figure approaching from the opposite direction. Brock Winfield strolled toward them. He wore a jacket in a particularly unflattering shade of brown that made his complexion appear sallow in the streetlight, and his face contorted into a grimace of practiced enthusiasm when he saw them.
“If it isn't Mr. Nightlife himself!" Brock lifted a hand in greeting. He pointedly refused to look at Rachel, clearly hoping he could ingratiate himself with Tommy while not deigning to acknowledge her presence. "What a delightful—"
He stopped mid-sentence as they drew closer, his gaze dropping to Tommy's swollen knuckles, then traveling up to take in Tommy's disheveled appearance and tightly controlled expression. Brock’s eyebrows shot up with a theatrical surprise that couldn't quite mask the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.
“What in the world happened to your—” Brock suddenly stopped himself, then stepped aside to let them pass. "Please,” he said, “don't let me keep you."
Rachel felt Tommy stiffen beside her but kept walking, her hand firmly on his arm as they moved past Brock without another word. She deliberately kept her eyes down, to lessen the risk of being recognized again, and didn’t lift them until Sabrosa was well behind them.
“What was Marc talking about?” Rachel finally asked when they were far enough from prying eyes and ears.
Tommy shook his head, his usual smooth confidence fractured. "I don't know. Or maybe I do, but…” He stopped to lean against a wrought-iron railing that separated the sidewalk from a small tropical garden. The yellow glow from a nearby tiki torch caught the worried lines around his eyes, making him look older than his thirty-two years. "Look, it's complicated. And not a conversation for tonight. Right now, I just want to ice my hand and pretend this whole night never happened."
They reached the front of Title Wave, the bookstore dark but for the blue security light winking through the closed shutters. Rachel stood on the sidewalk, the same spot where Daisy's body had been found just days before.
"Call me tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yeah," Tommy replied, but his tone lacked conviction. Rachel watched as he continued down Hibiscus Road, his usual confident stride almost hesitant now. He didn't look back, and Rachel waited until he turned the corner before retrieving her keys from her purse.
A troubling thought surfaced in Rachel's memory: Tommy had argued with Daisy at the book signing, too. Rachel recalled seeing them huddled near the cash register, their expressions tense, their conversation urgent and heated. And then, the very next morning, Daisy had died unexpectedly on the sidewalk outside Title Wave.
Now Tommy had lost control with somebody else.
Stop it, Rachel told herself firmly. This is Tommy we're talking about. Tommy, who'd sat at her bedside and made her laugh for hours when she had the flu. Tommy, who'd spent a whole day helping her paint her living room walls in dove gray. Tommy, who Vashti had taken a liking to faster than Rachel had ever seen with any new person.
She remembered the April day when Tommy had first wandered into Title Wave, barely a week after she'd started. She'd been entering a stack of newly arrived books into the store’s inventory system, her fingers unfamiliar with the register, her heart still raw from her breakup with Henry.
"Whatever that is, I'll have one, too," he'd said, nodding at the steaming mug of chamomile tea she'd made herself.
Their conversation had flowed so easily. They’d commiserated over mutual heartbreak—Tommy had just broken up with the man he’d been living with for two years—but talk had quickly turned to their shared love of Cajun food (and the complete lack of it anywhere in South Florida), the transformation of Coacoochee from forgotten outpost to world-famous hotspot, the way they’d both ended up there feeling slightly out of place among the glam crowd.
Something about Tommy's presence had made her shed the armor she'd been wearing since the breakup—the reflexive shrug, the studied indifference. She hadn’t expected to see him again after that first day; there was, after all, no good reason for someone like Tommy to take an interest in Rachel. She wasn't cool or connected, certainly not the type who could help advance the career of an ambitious social columnist.
But Tommy had shown up only a few days later with an invite to a gallery opening, insisting it would be "tragic" for her to miss it. She'd protested on the grounds of having nothing remotely chic or stylish enough to wear, and Tommy had laughed.
"Everyone there will be too busy looking at themselves to notice what you're wearing," he'd assured her.
He'd been right, of course. That night had become the first of many when Tommy would guide her through Coacoochee's sparkling nightscape, introducing her as "my brilliant friend Rachel" to people whose faces she recognized from magazines, treating her opinions as if they carried weight in a world where she'd felt weightless.
In the darkest days right after Henry, Rachel had sometimes wondered if there was something fundamentally uninteresting about her, some essential dullness that had driven him to seek excitement elsewhere. Tommy had swept away those doubts simply by treating her like someone worth knowing—even when her life had seemed to be in ruins.
Rachel now had the sinking feeling that Tommy’s life was the one falling apart. His impulsive action tonight had only made matters worse, creating a public spectacle from what had previously been subtle whispers and private threats.
Rachel hurried up Title Wave’s side staircase. She found herself suddenly eager for the comfort of her own bed and the uncomplicated affection of her three cats.
Vashti couldn't remember the last time she'd seen the sunrise. Waking up early was something she associated with worrying—and what was there for Vashti to worry about? True, she had unsettling memories of intense suffering when she was very young. In the earliest days after her rescue, she'd worried constantly that something might separate her from Rachel and send her back to that place of starvation and loneliness. She’d stay awake until dawn, perched on Rachel's pillow, watching the rise and fall of her human's chest to reassure herself that Rachel was still there, still breathing, still hers.
That was a long time ago. Vashti had known for a while that Rachel wasn’t going anywhere—that she was the firm rock upon which Vashti would build the rest of her life. But now, as she watched the first rays of daylight brush the living room in golden hues, Vashti reflected that perhaps it didn’t pay to get too comfortable. You forgot what it felt like—that tight, uncomfortable sensation in your chest and belly. You forgot how it felt to worry.
And worry she did. About Brock and his thinly veiled threats. About Tommy's uncharacteristic violence at Sabrosa the night before. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself," Rachel had confided to the cats when she got home. Then she’d washed her face and gotten into bed, where she’d tossed and turned all night. Vashti’s green eyes had remained open, gleaming in the darkness, hours longer than they usually did—before she, too, had drifted into a restless, too-brief sleep.
“You're up early.” Scarlett emerged from the bedroom and padded across the living room to join her sister at the window. “Thinking about your boyfriend?”
“Tommy’s not my boyfriend,” Vashti replied automatically, though without her usual indignation at Scarlett's teasing.
Scarlett settled beside her, their reflections a study in contrasts against the window glass. “Tommy can take care of himself, you know.”
“Like he did at Sabrosa last night?” Vashti countered. “Breaking Marc's nose was hardly in his own best interests.”
“Depends how you look at it, I guess. I’d have given Marc a good slap in the face ages ago.” Scarlett brought up her right front paw and chewed at an itchy spot. “Remember back in July when Homer attacked those three vet techs just for trying to take a blood sample?”
The memory drew a reluctant purr of amusement from Vashti. Homer—small, blind, seemingly defenseless Homer—had transformed into a tiny tornado of claws and teeth when the vet technicians attempted to stick him with a needle. It had taken all three of them, plus Dr. Andi, to subdue him, and they'd still emerged with impressive scratches.
“He was so small they thought it would be easy,” Vashti recalled. “They never saw him coming.”
“Exactly,” Scarlett said. “Everyone has their limits.”
A flutter of movement outside caught the cats’ attention. Stewie the mockingbird had landed on the windowsill, his beady eyes fixed on Vashti through the glass.
“Why so glum, princess?” he squawked. “Didn’t get your beauty sleep? Or were you too busy thinking about—" he shifted into an uncannily accurate impression of Vashti’s own voice: “Tommy! My precious Tommy!”
Vashti's ears flattened against her head. “Go away, Stewie.”
“Make me!” The mockingbird preened, secure in the knowledge that a closed window separated them. “I hear things, you know. People talk right in front of me all the time. The things I could tell you about this town…”
“So tell us something useful for once,” Scarlett snapped.
But Stewie just cackled and flew away, his mocking laughter lingering in the morning air.
Homer appeared from the bedroom, stretching languorously as he navigated the familiar path toward his sisters. “Was that Stewie I heard?” He moved more slowly than usual as he began his morning face-grooming ritual. Clearly, Vashti thought, Homer had slept as badly as she and Rachel had.
“Just being his usual irritating self,” Scarlett replied.
Homer laid down next to them, his sensitive ears picking up the slightly faster beating of Vashti’s heart. “You’re worried,” he observed. “Rachel’s worried about Tommy, too.”
It would be another two hours before Rachel finally emerged from the bedroom. Her eyes were shadowed, her movements sluggish as she prepared for the day ahead. The usual morning ritual of tea and breakfast was performed in distracted silence. Homer had to nudge his empty bowl meaningfully toward her with his nose—twice!—before she remembered to feed them.
"Come on, guys," she finally said, gathering her keys. "Let's go open up."
The morning passed slowly. Rachel spent most of her time restocking shelves, while the three cats settled into comfortable spots and fell into deeper naps than they usually did during their “working” hours.
Shortly after noon, Tommy arrived, looking as haggard as the rest of them felt. Dark circles beneath his eyes contrasted sharply with the bright blue of his shirt. The knuckles of his right hand were puffy and discolored.
“Tommy!” Vashti abandoned her pouf in Self Help and hurried toward him, rubbing against his legs in greeting.
“Hello, beautiful.” Tommy’s voice lacked its usual energy as he bent to stroke her back. “At least somebody’s happy to see me.”
Rachel emerged from between the bookshelves. “How’s the hand?”
“Hurts like hell,” Tommy admitted. “And Isabella’s been calling all morning. Apparently, breaking someone’s nose in public is bad for my image.” His attempt at humor fell flat.
Tommy’s arrival had awakened Homer, who was drowsier than usual—so it took him longer than it normally would to realize that something about the woman browsing nearby had changed subtly with Tommy’s entrance. Her breathing had become more controlled and purposeful—not the relaxed inhales and exhales of a casual browser, but the measured breaths of someone paying close attention while pretending not to.
“Hey! Psst!” Homer called to Scarlett, who had found a secluded catnap spot over in Florida History. When Homer could tell by the change in Scarlett’s own breathing that she was awake and alert, he said, “Something’s off about that woman in Mysteries. Can you see what she’s doing?”
“She’s not actually looking at the books,” Scarlett confirmed. “She’s watching Tommy.”
Vashti had most of her attention focused on Tommy, but she too had noticed the browser. The woman wore jeans and a simple white blouse, appearing casual enough, but her feet were planted in what Vashti recognized as a ready stance. It reminded her of Hot Mike—the quiet alertness of someone trained to respond quickly.
“We should get Rachel’s attention,” Vashti said. “Something about this woman doesn’t seem right.”
“Let Homer do it.” Scarlett liked Tommy more than Homer did, but ultimately she didn’t care all that much about anybody except for Rachel, herself, and (albeit reluctantly) her two feline siblings. Sometimes she imagined how deliciously quiet the world would be if everyone else in it disappeared. Scarlett’s mouth opened wide in a yawn as she added, “Homer loves attention, anyway.”
“Oh, fine.” Homer was uncharacteristically cranky; he, too, was feeling the effects of a sleepless night. “You two always make me do everything just because I’m the youngest.” With an annoyed sigh, Homer stalked across the store to the Staff Picks table at the end of the Mysteries aisle. Then, with a precisely calibrated leap, he jumped toward the top of the table—only to encounter a stack of books taller than his jump. Books and Homer promptly tumbled to the ground in a series of audible thumps.
“Oh no, look at the mess I made,” Homer deadpanned. “Because I’m so blind and clumsy.”
Rachel had been pouring Tommy a cup of coffee in the café when the sound caught her attention. “I’ll be right back,” she told him, and hastened over to the Staff Picks table. The mystery woman knelt on the ground, gathering the toppled books and stroking the back of a “startled” Homer.
