After Hours. Karen Kendall

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      She gazed inside at his house, which he laughingly referred to as the hovel. It wasn’t one, but the ancient old-person furnishings like the avocado-green couch and the gold-and-orange-and-brown crocheted afghan hadn’t been what she’d expected.

      She’d thought his living room would be dominated by a massive wide-screen television, wall-to-wall carpet and a big, ugly black leather couch. Nothing could be further from the truth. The floors were scarred pine and the TV was a relic from the 1960s, tiny and sporting rabbit-ear antennae that made it look like a martian’s suitcase.

      The kitchen was something out of a time warp, too: old-fashioned cabinets with 1950s handles, an unspeakable stove and a refrigerator that she’d swear was powered by squirrels running on a wheel. The only “modern” addition was a gray plastic answering machine, its wires trailing from the wall-mounted phone.

      The slick decorator-chosen furnishings of most pro ball players weren’t in evidence. No bearskin or tiger-head rug. No trophy case. No revolving round bed under a mirror.

      “Where are your things?” she asked him. “These must have come with the house.”

      “Gorgeous, aren’t they?” He chuckled. “All my stuff’s in storage. I’ll bring it in when I’m done remodeling the place. We’ll be making a huge mess, knocking out walls and redoing the roofline. I’d rather trash the poor old geezer’s furniture than mine—and I have to sit on something.”

      “So we’re both making a new start,” Peggy said. “You came down here from Gainesville, I came down here from Connecticut.”

      “Yeah,” he said. “I never want to be financially dependent on the whims of a team owner or an athletic program again.”

      She had to ask. “So did you leave a girlfriend behind?”

      His arms stiffened. “No. No girlfriend. There were a few women who kept trying out for the position, though.”

      She slid under his arms and under the water. When she surfaced, she shook water out of her eyes. Treading water, she said, “Trying out for the position?”

      He shrugged. “I know how arrogant that sounds. Sorry. But it’s true. There hasn’t been a shortage of women in my life, most of them annoying and with no identities of their own. They want me to validate them somehow, and that disgusts me. I don’t want to be used—not for money, not for status, not for an identity. I guess that’s the reason I’m still single and most of my old teammates are married.” Troy changed the subject, unwilling to dwell on the fact that he no longer had money or status. Now he was just a guy who mowed his own lawn, like everyone else.

      “So why did you come down here from Yankeeland?”

      She rolled onto her back in the water and stared up at the stars. “To get away from the stupid, lying bastard whom I almost married.”

      “Care to share any details?”

      “B-league hockey player, steroid user, gambler, loser. Replaced the stone in my engagement ring with a “nicer” one, a big honking CZ. But I knew about his gambling debts and figured it out.”

      “Nice.”

      “Yeah. The funny thing is, I never even wanted a diamond in the first place. I’m not really into that stuff. But Eddie insisted. I think he didn’t want to look bad in front of his friends. Of course, he ended up looking worse than he could have imagined—though a couple of them called me a bitch and couldn’t understand why, if I never wanted a rock in the first place, I’d be bothered by a fake one. Eddie drove around with a bumper sticker on his Saab after that—‘Why buy her a diamond? She won’t live forever.’”

      “God. The guy sounds like a real charmer.”

      “Irresistible. I pine after him to this day,” Peg said dryly. She rolled to her stomach again and dove under the water. When she surfaced again, she told Troy, “It ended up being the best thing that ever happened to me. I love it here, the kooky mix of people, the internationalism, the sun and water. You’ve got the beach bums in their flip-flops, the show-offs dripping diamonds and designer duds, the students with their backpacks, the moms with their toddlers and the old guys with their cigars and Guayabera shirts.” She swam down the length of the pool, doing an easy sidestroke.

      On the return lap, she continued. “What I love most, though, is being part of After Hours. We have a little community there, whacky as it may be. It’s our corner of the world where we get to have fun working and make other people feel good. Transform them sometimes, other times just maintain their sanity in a crazy existence…a manicure can lift a woman’s spirits for the rest of her day. Or a great haircut. We get models coming in here on their way to the clubs, but we also get exhausted moms who wouldn’t make it through their weeks without a massage. I have one who can only afford it every six weeks or so, on the change she collects in a jar. She can’t tip much, but I adore her. It makes me feel good to make her feel good.”

      Troy had an odd expression on his face and his gaze had grown distant. “Peggy,” he said, “I need to tell you—” He broke off as the phone rang inside the screen porch. “Who the hell is calling me at 1:00 a.m.? This can’t be good.”

      He hoisted himself over the edge of the pool and strode, wet and naked, toward the porch. She was riveted by his body, sleek and silvery in the moonlight. The broad shoulders, the long lean legs, the powerful musculature of the whole. Maybe I hate jocks and football players, but I sure do like to look at them nude.

      “Hello?” Troy answered the phone. “Samantha, what’s wrong?” He swore. “Call the cops!” He listened a moment more. “You know what? There comes a time when you just can’t worry about that. He’s doing it to himself. Call them.” He swore again. “I’ll be right there.”

      “Troy?”

      “I have to go. My asshole brother-in-law has just shown up at my sister’s house drunk. He’s trying to kick in the door, and she won’t call the cops because of the kids. Anyway, it’s still half his property, so I don’t know what the cops could do unless he’s actually threatening her or them. Right now all he’s trying to do is see them.”

      “I’ll come with you.” She was out of the pool already, and hunting for her clothes on the porch.

      “You don’t want to get involved in this.”

      “The girls—maybe I can help with them.”

      “Sam’s there, and she’s their mother.” He was already headed for the door, keys in hand.

      Peggy ran after him, half-dressed. “She may not be able to handle her own emotions, much less theirs!”

      “Fine. Whatever.” Even under these circumstances, he opened the passenger-side door for her, though he almost threw her inside. They were squealing out of his driveway in seconds.

      She finished dressing in the car, and pulled her hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band she found in her tote. Troy’s face had set into hard lines, his jaw clenched.

      “Does your brother-in-law have a gun?”

      He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Christ, I hope not.”

      “Has he ever raised a hand to your sister?”

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