CHAPTER TWO
. . . .
. . .
Gus tapped on 1703. Not as firmly as he should have, but then he wasn't entirely sure what awaited him inside.
Juliet pulled the door open. She'd been crying—was still crying—and her pretty face was damp and flushed. "If you're looking for money or credit cards, get lost."
"I'm not," he assured her. "I... I thought I should come check on you. Shawn's pretty rattled."
She stood back and let him enter. "You mean hungry?"
He found a place to stand by the TV, not too far from the door if he needed to run. "He's always a little hungry. I think he has a tapeworm."
Juliet blew her nose. She looked exhausted but resolute.
He had to ask. He knew it was true, but it couldn't be true. "Did you... did you really get married today?"
She sank onto the edge of the bed. "So it seems."
He couldn't make sense of it. Putting aside his Goldschlager-induced quickie marriage to Mira years ago, he and Shawn had promised to be each other's best man. And while Shawn was impulsive, he'd barely even begun to entertain thoughts of moving in with Juliet (so far as he admitted to Gus), so what the hell happened to make him want to elope?
Shawn appearing at the same resort he was visiting with Kelli, now, that didn't surprise him at all. It was rude and invasive but it was Shawn. Gus had even warned Kelli ahead of time they might not have the weekend to themselves, but so far she was taking it in stride.
But for Shawn to show up with his new wife—to begin his married life there? Then? And then want to come over and watch TV without her on their first night? After an awkward meetup in the resort restaurant where it was obvious Juliet was increasingly unhappy and unsettled?
He would never understand how his near-brilliant friend, his impossibly observant friend, could overlook the feelings of those closest to him. No, not overlook—not see at all.
Juliet looked at him, smoothing one tear off her cheek. "I wish you would tell me the secret, Gus."
The secret.
THE secret?
"Uh, what secret?"
"How you put up with him. How, in thirty years, you've put up with the constant... everything. Everything he gets away with."
"He's a good guy, Juliet. You know he is."
"I do," she agreed sadly. "I fell for him because I thought he was a good guy under all that charm and dazzle. But maybe I was wrong."
"You're not wrong." He sat beside her on the bed. "You know he has a good heart and he cares about people. He loves you. He even loves me and his dad. You know it. He's just got some... quirks we've learned to... tolerate."
She stared at him, her big blue eyes laser-beams of disbelief. "Quirks? I don't think so, Gus. A quirk is... preferring to wear mismatched socks. Or only eating yellow foods. You can learn to tolerate quirks. But what Shawn does is more like hiding dead fish behind the sofa every few days, or putting red dye in the laundry, or... or racking up debts on someone else's credit card," she added pointedly. "Those aren't quirks. Those are relationship-killers."
Gus knew he couldn't try to defend Shawn here; there were plenty of dead fish incidents in his memory. He was more alarmed by the expression on her face. "Are you saying he's killed your relationship?"
Juliet hesitated. "I'm saying I don't know how it's possible that yours is still alive."
It didn't escape him that she'd avoided answering the direct question.
"Juliet. I've known him thirty years. He's my best friend. There've been a lot of times I wanted to walk away from him, yeah. But he's always been there for me when it counted and that's... that's why I hang in. It's why Henry hangs in too—plus he's his dad and he kind of doesn't have a choice."
She studied her hands, idly turning a tissue over. "Well, I have a choice."
Holy hell, he thought. This is way too serious for just me to handle.
He stood up. "I'm going to get Shawn back down here. You guys need to talk."
To his surprise, she laughed. "What do you think was going on before he went to your room? He won't talk about this, Gus. He either honestly doesn't understand the problem, or he's so determined to pretend there is no problem that he's making the problem worse. And don't tell me you don't know exactly what I'm talking about. For every argument I've had with Shawn, you've had a hundred."
He felt sick. "You still need to talk."
"Not tonight. I understand if you want him out of your room. I'm sorry he brought us here and I hope you know I had nothing to do with it. He lied about where we were going and I believed him. But don't send him down here, because I can't do this anymore tonight. I just can't." She blew her nose and went to the window, her shoulders slumped.
Damn you, Shawn, for being... you.
"At least give me another hour or so," she added quietly, not turning around.
"Okay. I'm... I'm sorry, Juliet. This can work out. You have to believe it. He loves you."
"I know." Her voice was still low, and very, very sad.
But it wasn't enough, he knew, as he left the room. And being Shawn was about to cost Shawn dearly.
. . . .
. . .
Trust your gut.
Her gut was telling her two things. One, she really could not have another conversation with Shawn tonight. Two, call Carlton.
She'd been in the process of composing herself to make that call when Gus had knocked, and maybe the delay was helpful. She'd seen the awareness in his dark eyes that this was a wall she couldn't climb over, at least not right now, and he understood it like no one else. It helped solidify her certainty about getting out as fast as she could.
Calling Carlton, who thought she was a self-deluding whackaloon and had essentially told her so this morning, was much less daunting.
She pressed the button. It was ten-thirty, not too late.
When he answered—his usual terse "Lassiter"—she imagined there was an edge to his voice left over from their argument, and it killed her to realize anew how right he'd been.
How... steady he was. How—even in irascibility—Carlton was about truth.
And how the hell much she needed that.
In fresh tears again, she half-sobbed his name.
"O'Hara," he said more gently. "I'm sorry about this morning. Look, you know I'm an opinionated jerk, but I had no right to—"
"Stop," she managed. "You were right and I was so damn wrong and please, please, if you could just come get me, I'll tell you all the ways I was wrong."
"Come get you? Where are you?"
"The Clarita Valley Resort."
A pause. "Where the hell's that?"
"It's near Castaic Lake. North of Santa Clarita."
"Santa—O'Hara, that's eighty miles from here. What are you doing in Castaic?" He sounded puzzled and alarmed but she wasn't hearing I won't come that far, and that was good.
"I... I need you to come get me. Please. I know it's a long drive, but I can't stay here. I did something incredibly stupid today, and I don't know how I can make it up to you but if you would just come get me, Carlton, I'd be so grateful."
"Of course I'll come," he said gruffly. "I just—"
"Or maybe if you want you could just wire some money here? So I can get a bus? Or, God, I'm such an idiot, I could probably go to the local police and get someone to—"
"O'Hara," he interrupted. "Stop it. I'm on my way. Just tell me what's wrong while I find my keys. Do I need to bring my service weapon? As if I wouldn't anyway?"
Dear God, he was trying to calm her down. He had no idea what was wrong but he knew enough to try to calm her down so she could focus.
This made her cry again.
"Juliet," he said softly. "Please."
She drew a shuddering breath. "I married Shawn today, Carlton. I don't even know why anymore."
His silence was stunned; she could sense it.
"Please. Please just come. I'll wait by the fountain out front and if you change your mind and want to wire the money instead, I understand." She blew her nose, but the tears wouldn't stop.
He was grim. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
She knew he was shocked, and probably angry, and by the time he showed up he'd have shut down like Fort Knox, but he wouldn't fail her.
Carlton would never fail her.
. . . .
. . .
Gus returned to his room, where Shawn had taken up residence on the bed, eyes glued to the TV while Kelli, starting to show the tell-tale signs of Shawnitis, sat back in one of the chairs. She looked at him with great relief when he came in.
He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
"Shawn. Come out here in the hall a minute."
"Oh! I'll go," Kelli said at once, already getting up.
"That's okay. I'll never get his full attention if he's near a TV. Shawn!"
Shawn reluctantly tore his gaze from the screen. "What? Did you get the credit card?"
"Come out here," he repeated, holding the door open.
With great reluctance, Shawn rolled off the bed and trudged out to the hall. "What, Gus. You know I need pizza by midnight or I go into pepperoni withdrawal."
Gus let the door close behind them first, and they stood in the quiet hall. "Shawn, Juliet is very upset."
"She'll calm down. I don't even really know what she's mad about."
"You're lying and you're bluffing." Gus frowned. "You get it, don't you? You got married today. That's your new wife crying down the hall!"
"She's crying?" He looked startled. "Why is she crying?"
"Maybe because on her wedding night, her new husband would rather be with me and my girlfriend? Or because apparently you lied to her about a bunch of stuff?"
Shawn's gaze was brief, and then wandered to his feet. "She knew I wasn't perfect a long time ago."
"She doesn't expect you to be perfect. She expects you to be honest."
"Well... you expect me to be honest too and we get along fine anyway!"
"Juliet's not like us, Shawn. She's a regular person."
"I'm a regular person! I screw up, I say I'm sorry, you forgive me, Dad forgives me, and I do better."
"You hardly ever do better, and the truth is..." Gus took a breath. "We don't always forgive you. We just... put things aside." He tried to gauge if Shawn got it, and judged he did not. "What you need to remember is that one day, that pile of things we've put aside might just collapse on top of you."
Shawn's gaze returned to his. "Jules loves me."
"Yeah, she loves you. Hell, Shawn, I love you, and you know your Dad does. But he and I, we have a lot more invested in you, over a lot more years."
"She loves me," he insisted, as if that made all the difference in the world.
It should have, too.
"It's not enough. Not for someone like Juliet."
Shawn sighed. "I'll go talk to her."
"Not right now. She asked for a little time." He glanced at his watch. "At midnight, you go back to the room and try this again."
"Midnight. Got it."
"You have to work for this one, Shawn. You understand?"
"Yeah. I understand."
Gus hoped he did. He hoped to God Shawn didn't screw this up, even though he was pretty sure it was already too late.
. . . .
. . .
Juliet was restless. She imagined Carlton was speeding to get to her, but it would still take him a while and she was beginning to feel nervous about Shawn returning before Carlton showed up.
You should talk, said her rational mind rationally.
Talking is what got me here. Listening, believing, trusting.
You weren't even sober when the talk started, RatMind insisted.
That's not exactly a good argument for talking to him now, is it? "Oh sorry I was drunk let's pretend it never happened"? And I wasn't that drunk. I was just tipsy and stupid.
Semantics.
She had to get out of there. She grabbed her wallet, keys and phone and looked around the room to see if there was anything she needed—but there was nothing else. She had nothing else when they arrived. He'd promised they were only there for the night and she wouldn't need clothes again until morning, hubba hubba, and they didn't have rings because the whole thing had happened so fast. He'd muttered something about his grandmother's ring being back at his dad's house (something else he wouldn't have to pay for), so all there was to take out of the room was already on her person.
Including regrets.
Juliet almost ran down the hall, putting distance between herself and Room 1740, and pulled open a side door which led to the pool.
There were some late night swimmers, partiers, no one who paid any attention to her, and she went out the far gate toward the front of the property, where lay the fountain she'd mentioned to Carlton.
She sat on the edge, right in front, hoping that if Shawn by some chance went to the main entrance and looked out, the fountain itself would conceal her.
Faint spray from the splashing water hit her back and arms but she didn't mind. It was cooling, refreshing, and if she'd thought hotel security would allow it, she'd stand in the fountain to completely wash away the last few hours.
And this morning, too.
. . . .
. . .
"We should call Psych in on this case." She seldom said Shawn's name anymore, since it tended to set Carlton off faster.
"We're doing fine. It's called police work."
"Police work means using every tool in the box to solve a case, Carlton."
"He's a tool all right," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair.
"There's no need to say things like that. I'm just trying to help get this case solved."
"You're trying to take a shortcut, and that never works with him."
"What's wrong with a shortcut, if justice is done? Are you calling me a lazy cop?"
"No," Carlton snapped, "I am not calling you a lazy cop. I'm saying that what seems like a shortcut by calling in Spencer and his pet only means that five or six people get accused instead of the right person once. I'm saying you and I actually have to work harder after that to build a case which will stand up in court because of his claims to be psychic—you don't see the D.A. putting him on the stand, do you? I'm saying we can solve more cases on our own without his interference, and I can't believe I have to keep defending this position!"
Without thinking it through, she retorted, "Maybe it's because you're wrong. Other people like him, you know. Maybe if you tried liking him, you wouldn't have so much animosity toward the process."
"The process? The process?" Carlton loomed over her, his eyes a glacial blue. "The process of breaking and entering, tampering with witnesses and evidence, making a public spectacle of himself and incidentally denying any credit to those of us who make him look good by doing all that behind-the-scenes boring stuff like proving the case? That process?"
Juliet stood her ground, glowering up at him with as much heat as he was showing her.
Carlton huffed and strode away, but she was certainly not done. She ran after him, and caught up when he was even with the conference room door. Grabbing his arm and pulling him in, she glared into his angry face and said, "Listen to me. You have got to—"
He cut her off. "O'Hara, let me ask you a question. When did it become necessary to 'like' someone you work with? When did that become a deal breaker? The job is the job. Catching the bad guys is what we do. It's what I do, anyway, and I have never once thought it was essential to be nice to your boyfriend so you can feel better about 'the process' of him ass-hatting his way to an arrest we have to bust our butts to make stick."
Juliet was stung. "This is not about him being my boyfriend, and you've always had a problem with him."
"Yeah, I have," he agreed readily, eyes still blazing. "And what the hell difference does that make?"
"It means you have a closed mind where his abilities are concerned!"
"Oh, don't you even bring my closed mind into this. I have a problem with Spencer because in the first place, he's a fake and an ass. In the second place, I've had to stand by and watch him nearly decimate our careers—our ability to catch those bad guys I mentioned a minute ago—for the last seven years and I'm more than a little tired of it. I'm also more than a little tired of my partner speed-dialing him every time a case is the least bit challenging."
"That sounds like you calling me a lazy cop again," she said icily.
"No. I'm saying you show favoritism to the consultant you happen to be dating. I'm saying you put us down as a team in favor of him coming in and grandstanding."
"Then maybe we're not the team we should be." The instant the words were out, she knew it was a lie and something she should never have said even in jest.
Carlton's eyes darkened. "Well, it wasn't me who shut you out."
The silence was long and cold, and dammit, he was right.
"We've been through that," she said tightly, "and that's not the point. You should be able to put your differences aside and work with anyone."
"I do," he retorted. "Every time he bounces in here and makes eyes at you until you cave in and let him join the case, I work with him. I may not do it willingly, or with grace, but by God I work with him and if you're saying I've ever interfered with a case for reasons other than a genuine certainty he was wrong, let's hear them. Come on, O'Hara. Tell me I've been a bad cop while you've been hopping in and out of the rabbit hole with Mr. Gel-head."
A moment of clarity in the anger and hurt and embarrassment told her he thought she was an idiot. Not a lazy cop, not even showing favoritism: just a simple idiot for being involved with Shawn.
And not that he was entirely wrong, but her mistakes were her business, not his.
"I don't need your approval on my love life, Carlton."
He drew back, startled and annoyed. "What the hell?"
"That's what this is really about, isn't it? You thinking you know best about my romantic interests?"
"I don't understand thing one about your romantic interests, and they're irrelevant anyway."
"Then why does it keep coming up? Your hostility to Shawn every step of the way?"
"Because he treats me like crap, O'Hara! You've witnessed it a million times and never once told him to shut it! Of course maybe you agree with him."
"I do not!" she nearly shouted. "But you have to get over this, Carlton, this inability to see him as an ally rather than an enemy."
"I don't see him as an enemy. I see him as someone who gets in the way of doing our jobs. You might too, if you weren't too charmed by his antics to notice."
Juliet's mouth hung open.
"And just so I'm clear," he went on, his tone one of supreme derision. "A minute ago we were arguing about calling him in to help with a case we don't need help on, and now it's about me thinking you could do a whole hell of a lot better than that lying, shallow—"
He went silent—except for a hiss of pain—when she slapped him.
They stared at each other. She was horrified. He was shutting down.
His eyes a chilly blue, he let out a long breath and said, "You know what? I think maybe it's your own approval you really need."
Juliet walked out.
No… she ran out. He didn't call after her, and she couldn't blame him.
. . . .
. . .
If Carlton made good time, he'd be with her not long after midnight.
Two minutes after midnight, her phone rang.
Shawn.
She answered with great reluctance.
"Jules, baby, where are you? Are you okay?"
"I'm okay." She bit back the urge to ask if he was hungry.
"Listen, I'm not mad about you cancelling the credit card, though I must say, we're going to miss out on that sweet breakfast buffet."
Yeah. Because that was important.
"I'm going home, Shawn."
"What? No... what? You can't go home. This is our wedding night."
"This is the night of the day we got married. It doesn't seem much like a wedding night."
"Well, that can't change if you're going home. How are you going home anyway? Did you take Gus' keys—no, I've got them; damn, I was worried for a second."
Stealing someone else's car keys... yes. So nice to be judged by his standards. "I would never have taken them without his permission."
"Of course not. Neither would I. Listen—" He stopped at her laughter, presumably not hearing the bitterness in it. "Oh, good, you're feeling better. Look, let's meet up in the coffee shop and talk things out, okay?"
"I can't. I can't try to talk about this anymore. We should have done all this talking before we went into the county clerk's office."
Shawn was silent for a moment. "We have all the time in the world to talk now."
"It won't be tonight. I'll catch up with you in Santa Barbara."
"You'll 'catch up' with me? You make it sound like we're just buddies. We're married, Jules. I'm your husband. We have to talk about what's wrong because that's what married people do."
Communication advice from the Great Prevaricator.
Juliet was so tired. Tired of him, tired of herself, tired of this day. "Not now, Shawn. I just can't do this right now." She disconnected without waiting for a reply, pocketed the phone, and sank back into tears of confusion and pain and stupidity.
She could barely see the Ford Fusion when it stopped in front of her. She could barely make out Carlton's lean dark form as he got out and pulled her to her feet, but she held on to him tight and he let her cry for a few minutes until his dark blue tee was soaked.
He felt so warm and he smelled good and he represented sanity and strength and forthrightness and no one would ever call him perfect but in this moment, at this time, he was perfect.
Carlton's arms were strong around her, but after a while, he murmured her name—Juliet—and quietly urged her into the car.
. . . .
. . .