And she always sent money orders that were mailed from Manhattan.
After eighteen months, she was about three-quarters through what she owed, but at least Robbie was safe and with her, and that was all that mattered. "You are better than her."
Marie-Terese refocused. "Excuse me?"
"That waitress just dropped all the food on her tray." Robbie pointed to the little TV screen. "You would never do that."
Marie-Terese looked over at an ad featuring a harried woman having a bad day working at a diner. Her hair was a frizz bomb, her uniform spackled with ketchup, her name tag off-kilter. "You're a better waitress, Mom. And cook."
Abruptly, the scene changed so that Harried Waitress was now in a pink bathrobe on a white sofa, submerging her aching feet in a vibrating pool. The expression on her face was pure bliss, the product obviously relieving her aching soles.
"Thanks, baby," Marie-Terese said roughly.
The commercial flipped into order-now mode, an eight-hundred number appearing under the price of $49.99 as an announcer said, "But wait! If you call now, it will cost you only $29.99!" While a red arrow started to flash next to the price, he demanded, "Isn't this a steal?" and the happy, relaxed waitress came back on and said, "Yes, it is!"
"Come on," Marie-Terese cut in. "Time for a bath."
Robbie slid off the stool and took his plate to the dishwasher. "I don't need help anymore, you know. I can take my own bath."
"I know." God, he was growing up fast. "Just make sure you - "
" - do behind the ears. You tell me alia time."
As Robbie hit the stairs, Marie-Terese turned the TV off and went to clean the pan and bowl. Thinking back on that ad, she wished like hell she were just a waitress...and that all it would take to make her stress go away was a tub you plugged into the wall.
That would be absolute heaven.
Three tries were a charm.
Finally, Jim woke up in a hospital bed: He was stretched out on white sheets, with a thin white blanket pulled up to his chest and little handrails jacked up on either side of him. And the room fit the bill, too, with bland walls, a bathroom in the corner and a TV mounted on the ceiling that was on, but muted.
Of course, the IV in his arm was the real giveaway.
He'd only been dreaming. That shit about those four dainty wing nuts and the castle and everything had just been a weird dream. Thank. God.
Jim lifted his hand to rub his eyes - and froze. There was a grass stain on his palm. And his face hurt like he'd been punched.
Abruptly, Nigel's aristocratic voice sounded in his head so clearly, it was more than a memory: Seven deadly sins. Seven souls swayed by these sins. Seven people at a crossroads with a choice that must be made. You enter their lives and affect their path. If they choose righteousness over sin, we prevail.
Jim took a deep breath and looked toward the window that had a gauze curtain pulled across it. Dark out. Perfect for nightmares. But as much as he wanted to go with the whole it's-only-a-dream thing, the shit was so vivid, so fresh...and men might get hairy palms if they were pumping themselves off, but grassy?
Besides it wasn't like he'd been master of his domain with any great frequency. Especially not the night before, thanks to that brunette. Hello.
Trouble was, if this was the new reality, if he'd been to a parallel universe where everyone was a cross between Simon Cowell and Tim Gunn, if he'd accepted some kind of mission...how the hell did he proceed -
"You're awake."
Jim glanced over. Stepping up to the foot of the bed was none other than Vin diPietro, the general contractor from Hell...who was evidently the boyfriend of the woman Jim had...yeah. "How you feeling?"
The guy was still wearing the black suit that he'd had on when he and the woman had shown up, and also the same bloodred tie. With his dark hair combed back and just a dusting of beard across his hard face, he presented himself to be exactly who he was: rich and in charge.
Surely it wasn't possible that Vin diPietro was the first assignment.
"Hello?" DiPietro waved. "You in there?"
Nah, Jim thought. Can't be. That would be above and beyond any call of duty. Over the guy's shoulder, the commercial that was on the TV suddenly showed a price of $49.99 - no, $29.99, with a little red arrow that...considering where Vin was standing, pointed right at his head.
"Shit, no," Jim muttered. This was the guy?
On the TV screen, some woman in a pink bathrobe smiled up at the camera and mouthed, Yes, it is!
DiPietro frowned and leaned over the bed. "You need a nurse?"
No, he needed a beer. Or six. "I'm cool." Jim rubbed his eyes again, smelled fresh grass, and wanted to curse until he ran out of breath.
"Listen," diPietro said, "I'm assuming you don't have health insurance, so I'll cover all your bills. And if you need to take a couple of days off, I won't dock your wages. Sound good?"
Jim let his hands flop down on the bed and was grateful to see that the grass stains had magically disappeared. DiPietro, on the other hand, was evidently going nowhere. At least not until he had a sense of what Jim might sue him for. It was so frickin' obvious that the guy was not bedside offering up his no doubt limitless credit card because he gave two shits about how Jim was feeling. He didn't want a workers -comp action against his corporation.
Whatever. The accident was not even on Jim's radar; all he could think of was what had happened the night before in his truck. DiPietro was exactly the kind of man who'd have a Blue Dress on his arm, but the coldness in that stare meant he was also the type who could find imperfection in a perfectly beautiful woman. God knew the SOB saw faults in everything that happened at the site, from the way the cement settled in the basement foundation to the tree clearing to the grading of the acres to the position of the nail heads on the framing boards.
No wonder she'd sought out someone else.
And if Jim had to handicap which of the seven sins diPietro was guilty of, there wasn't much of a contest: Avarice was stamped all over not only the guy's designer wardrobe but his car, his woman, and his taste in real estate. He liked his money, this one.
"Listen, I'm going to get a nurse - "
"No." Jim pushed himself up on the pillows. "I don't like nurses."
Or doctors. Or dogs. Or angels...saints...whatever those four lads were.
"Well, then," diPietro said smoothly, "what can I do for you?"
"Nothing." Thanks to the way destiny had reached up and nailed Jim in the balls, the question was what he could do for his "boss."
What was it going to take to turn this guy's life around? Did Jim just berate him into a massive donation to a soup kitchen? Would that be enough? Or, shit, was he going to have to get this silk-suited, M6-driving, misogynistic motherfucker to renounce everything material and turn his ass into a monk?
Wait...crossroads. DiPietro was supposed to be at some kind of crossroads. But how the hell was Jim supposed to know what that was?
He winced and massaged his temples.
"You sure you don't want a nurse?"
Just as frustration put him on the verge of an aneurysm, the images on the TV switched and two chefs appeared on screen. And what do you know. The one who had dark hair looked like Colin and the blond guy next to him sported the exact same bossy expression Nigel had. The pair were leaning into the camera with a covered silver tray, and when the lid was popped off, a dinner plate with some kind of itty-bitty fancy food on it was revealed.
Goddamn it, Jim thought as he glared at the TV. Don't make me do that. By all that's holy -
DiPietro put his face in Jim's field of vision. "What can I do for you?"
As if on cue, the chefs on TV grinned, all ta-da!
"I think I., want to have dinner with you."
"Dinner?" DiPietro's eyebrows rose. "As in...dinner."
Jim resisted the urge to flip off the chefs. "Yeah...but not like dinner, dinner. Just food. Dinner."
"That's it."
"Yeah." Jim shifted his legs around so they hung off the edge of the bed. "That's it."
Reaching over to the IV in his arm, he peeled the tape off the insertion and popped the needle free of his vein. As saline or whatever was in the bag by the bed started to leak onto the floor, he went under the sheets and grunted as he pulled the catheter out of his cock. The electrical pads on his chest were next, and then he leaned to the side and quieted the monitoring equipment.