Unlawfully Wedded

“I’m J. D. Porter,” he said, offering his hand. “I came with Tory.”

The doctor nodded, apparently approving on some unspoken level. “Nice of you to come along. I’m sure today has been particularly difficult for her.”

“Yes,” J.D. agreed quickly.

“Of course, she’d never admit it,” Trimble added with a wry smile. “But I’m sure you already know that about her.”

“Sir?”

“She has this incredible capacity for only focusing on the positive. Heaven help her if she ever loses that defense mechanism.”

J.D. stifled a groan. This guy sounded exactly like his brother. Why the hell couldn’t they just say it in plain English? he wondered.

“About her mother,” J.D. began.

The doctor nodded, making him wonder if the gesture was some sort of technique taught in medical school. Wesley nodded a lot, too.

“Mrs. Conway didn’t respond when she was informed of her husband’s fate,” Dr. Trimble said.

“Stroke?”

The doctor’s eyebrows drew together and he regarded J.D. with sudden interest. “Tory hasn’t explained her mother’s illness?”

J.D. shook his head. “You know Tory,” he said with a shrug.

His seemingly innocent remark appeared to relax the other man. “I suppose it’s still quite difficult for her to verbalize her feelings.”

“Very,” J.D. agreed.

“I’ve suggested counseling on several occasions,” he said as he placed the chart on the counter and pulled the glasses off the bridge of his nose. “Especially after her grandmother died. I felt, and still feel, that Tory is unwilling to accept the finality of her mother’s condition.”

“Cancer?” J.D. said.

The doctor smiled sadly. “Nothing quite so socially acceptable, Mr. Porter.”

“AIDS?”

The doctor’s laugh was even sadder than his smile. “Tory’s mother has suffered a complete and total personality break. It is my opinion that she will never recover.”

“Personality break?”

“Nervous breakdown times ten,” Dr. Trimble explained. “She hasn’t moved or spoken for almost fifteen years.”

“Sweet Jesus,” J.D. uttered between clenched teeth.

“I don’t think Jesus will listen if you speak to Him in that tone,” a familiar female voice said.

J.D. spun on the heels of his boots, feeling his face burn under the accusation in Tory’s eyes.

“I wasn’t trying to pry.”

“Not much.”

“I think it might be good for you to share your confidences with your friend,” Dr. Trimble told her.

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m in the company of a friend.”

J.D. heard the shuffling of paper behind him as the doctor continued. “I know this is probably an awkward time, Tory, but you need to contact the business office on your next visit.”

J.D. watched what little color there was drain from her face. Her thick lashes fluttered before her eyes closed tightly. Without making a sound, she sucked in several deep breaths and nodded to the doctor.

“I’m ready to leave,” she informed him in a frosty tone.

J.D. followed her from the building, knowing he should apologize, but unable to find the appropriate words. No more grant; no more father; and the next worst thing to no mother. The reality of her life pierced some private part of his heart. He unlocked the car door for her and held it open.

“I forgot my paper,” he said just as he slammed the door.

He disappeared into the building and came back ten minutes later with the paper tucked beneath his arm.

“I could have suffocated in here,” she told him when he slid behind the wheel. “If I were a dog, you might have thought to leave the window open a crack.”

“If you were a dog,” he told her as his finger flicked the underside of her chin, “you’d be better trained.”

* * *

TWO WEEKS AFTER the discovery of the body, Tory was dutifully back waiting tables at the Rose Tattoo. It was Friday, she thought with a resigned sigh. Payday for most folks, which usually meant decent tips for her. The week she’d taken off had cost her dearly. She’d be pulling double shifts for the rest of the month just to meet her bills. Forget luxuries like food.

“Evening, girlie.”

“Hi, Grif,” she said, smiling at the old man’s watery blue eyes. “The usual?”

“And keep ‘em coming.”

Sliding a napkin in front of him, she tugged the pencil from behind her ear and made a note on her pad. Grif—short for Cliff Griffen—had occupied that particular table every Friday and Saturday night for nearly twenty years. Tory liked him—liked the comfort his continuity brought.

Placing her tray on the side bar, she waited until Josh the bartender sauntered over, towel draped over one shoulder.

She said, “Dewars and water—”

“Easy on the water,” they said in unison.

“How is old Grif this evening?”

“Fine,” Tory answered just before popping an olive in her mouth.

“You aren’t supposed to do that,” Josh chided. “They’re for paying customers.”

Good-naturedly, she stuck out her tongue, careful to hide the gesture as she moved off, drink balanced in the center of her tray.

“Miss?”

“Be right there,” she promised the man before depositing the drink in front of Grif.

Quickly, she retraced her steps. “Yes, sir?”

“Our food?” he demanded in a huff.

“I’ll go check,” she said, offering a smile.

“We have theater tickets,” he announced, as if that alone would charbroil the salmon fillets faster.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She went directly to the kitchen, hoping the hostility she sensed from “Mr. Theater Tickets” wasn’t going to set the tone for the evening.

“My dinners?” she called to the chef.

He looked up from his grill and said, “Almost ready.”

Snagging a halved cherry tomato and popping it in her mouth, she got up on her toes and looked out into the dining room. “Theater Tickets” looked restless.

“C’mon, Mickey,” she yelled. “Customer’s waiting.”

Clutching her tray, Tory felt an odd tingling at the base of her spine. She turned slowly and saw him lingering in the doorway.

His dark head was tilted to one side, shrouding his eyes with a disturbing shadow.

“Miss Conway,” he drawled as he pushed himself away from the doorjamb.

“Mr. Porter,” she returned with false friendliness. She surveyed his clothing and added, “I didn’t know they made silk paisley ties in clip-on.”

His laughter was deep and the sound circled her like a caress. “Mind that sharp tongue, doll. You might cut yourself.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said sweetly, “but I’ve got more important fish to serve.”

“I think you mean fry.”

For once in her life, her timing was perfect. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Mickey placed the plates of grilled fish up on the serving counter. Placing them on the tray, Tory escaped the heat of the kitchen, trying not to notice the smoldering gray eyes that bore into her back.

Over the next several hours, Tory didn’t have time to think, let alone to wonder where J.D. was hiding. The pockets of her apron began to fill to a comfortable level of tips at about the same time her feet gave out. She was bone-tired and filled with relief when the crowd thinned to just a single couple and Grif, who sat nursing his fourth drink as he watched out the window.

“Need another?” she asked cheerfully as she leaned against his table.

“Not tonight,” he said in that raspy voice that spoke of too many cigarettes. “I’m going hunting in the morning. Ever hunt with a hangover?”

“Can’t say as I have,” Tory answered with a laugh. She patted the back of his callused hand, her fingers brushing the gaudy gold band on his pudgy pinkie. “I’ll ring you out.” She often wondered why he wore that awful ring when his clothing fairly screamed aging yachtsman.

Susan was perched on one of the bar stools, counting her tips. Tory smiled as she watched the methodical way her mystical friend placed all the bills in the same direction, matching the edges on all four sides. Susan’s reverence for all things metaphysical was surpassed only by her reverence for all things monetary.

“Have a good night?” Tory queried as she ran a check through the register.

“I had a walk-out,” Susan complained. “They stuck me with two rounds of shooters with beer chasers. I hate frat boys. No class.”

“No argument,” Tory said with feeling.

She gave Grif and the couple at her other table their checks and waited to collect their money.

Rolling her head around her stiff shoulders, Tory stood on one foot and cleared her throat. The bartender managed to drag himself away from a swaying redhead to strut to her end of the bar. “Could you ring these two before you play your nightly game of roulette?”

“I’m careful, Tory.”

“The CDC would probably beg to differ,” she countered, some of the teasing gone from her voice. “They would classify you as engaging in dangerous behavior.”

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it,” he retorted. “I’ll be happy to keep tomorrow night open for you.”

“She’s busy tomorrow night.”

Tory stifled her groan when she recognized that deep voice. She was too tired to spar with J.D.

She turned in a sleek, slow movement, tilting her chin so that she met his gaze straight on. “You’re right, J.D.,” she purred.

She knew the surprise wouldn’t register anywhere other than his eyes, so that’s where she kept her attention. She waited until the gray turned dark, almost smoky. “I’m working tomorrow night.”

She brushed past him, holding crisp bills in her fist. The bartender tried to hide his laugh behind his hand. Tory felt triumphant as she placed the change in front of Grif.

“What d’ya say to him?” Grif asked, nodding in the direction of J.D.

“I told him no,” she replied honestly.

“Good for you,” Grif grumbled, peeling off some of the bills before pocketing the rest. “But he don’t look too inclined to take no for an answer.”

That wasn’t her concern, she told herself as she lingered, clearing off the tables. She even checked Susan’s tables, delaying her return to the bar until she could find no other alternative.

She noted J.D. quietly watched her from his seat near the jukebox, taking the occasional pull on a long-neck bottle of beer. His scrutiny was wreaking havoc with her nerves. I’m just tired, she insisted to herself as she re-counted one stack of crumpled bills for the third time. She soon gave up and settled for an estimate of her earnings, then divided out the appropriate percentage for the bartender.

“Thanks,” she called down to him, waving the bills and tucking them beneath an ashtray.

“Are you finished?” J.D. asked.

“Time to go home,” she answered without looking at him.

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