With Every Beat of My Heart

Summary: It’s a small world.

Author’s Note: I apologize if I hit stops and starts with this story, I have several others that are in progress, thanks to my usual problem with tapestry syndrome. Thanks for reading.

“Good morning, sir. Can I interest you in a sample of our white chocolate biscotti?”

“Thanks,” Logan said, taking one of the hard little pieces of biscuit from the glass plate. It crunched loudly in his teeth, confirming that he didn’t need to buy a whole piece. At least it had macadamia nuts.

“What can I get you?”

“Double latte, skim.”

“Any flavorings or cream?”

“Nah. Thanks.”

“Your name?”

“Logan.”

“That’ll just be a minute.” His barista was a perky college student with a sleek chignon and long bangs, pierced nose and a crown of thorns tattooed around her upper arm. She smiled at him and scribbled his name and order on a Venti cup.

The café was filled with jazz music and a miasma of various tea leaves and coffee beans, all battling for dominance of his nose. Logan selected a newspaper and flipped to the finance section while he waited. The weather was still warm, but in the morning, usually before nine, it felt like fall.

Minutes later, his musings were interrupted by the sound of his name. Logan folded the paper and set it aside, retrieved his coffee, and pocketed two sugars on his way out.

The outside seating at the café was beginning to fill up. Logan noticed more college students and several retirees populating the tables. He gave pause at the sound of a familiar voice drifting to him over the noises from the street. Slowly Logan turned and scanned the people, feeling a frisson of anticipation.

There. A rich, cheerful baritone with a southern twang. He saw him from the back, chatting on a tiny mobile phone. His thick chestnut brown hair glinted in the morning sun, stirred slightly by a gentle breeze. He threw back his head and laughed, something that he seemed to do easily. Maybe frequently.

Logan’s feet followed his voice before he even thought of anything to say. He wove his way through the tables, heedless of the fact that his coffee break was nearly over.

By some act of providence, his chatter stopped on a note of confusion. He lowered his phone and stared at it. “’Allo? You dere? Shit!” he hissed. “See if Remy renews his contract, den, droppin’ his calls…” he grumbled. Logan’s lips twitched as he lingered behind him. He watched the young man page through his contacts list and decided to reach out before he attempted the call again. Logan drifted alongside him, just over his shoulder. He noticed what looked like a closed sketch pad lying on the table in front of him. Logan cleared his throat.

“Uh…hi.” The young man whipped around at the sound of his voice. His expression was quizzical, brow raised.

“Bonjour,” he drawled. “Um…does Remy know you?”

“Not in so many words, bub,” Logan explained, hoping he didn’t sound foolish. He still looked confused. “We, uh, met. At the dinner thing. The one at the hospital…well, the hotel, the hospital held it…” Various emotions flitted over his handsome face, but it finally dawned on him. His grin was slow and wide, and Remy stood up, clapping his phone shut and cramming it into his pocket.

“It’s so good ta see ya. ‘Course Remy remembers de dinner.” He took Logan’s hand as he offered it, but didn’t stop there. Logan found himself engulfed in another brisk, strong hug. If he thought it was awkward sharing a gesture like that in public, he said nothing. He chuckled under his breath at his exuberance. He returned it with a firm clap on his back and carefully freed himself. “James?” he asked.

“Logan. I go by my middle name.”

“Whateva floats yer boat, mon ami. Call me Remy,” he offered. He pulled out one of the chairs at his table. “Siddown fo’ a few.”

“Can’t. Gotta get back ta work, but I just wanted ta, um, say hi, ya know?”

And for a brief moment, Logan didn’t know what he wanted.

Remy was radiant with health and good cheer, and he was very, very attractive. His personality held a certain charm and charisma that not many people possessed, something that drew people to him easily, to talk, to confide or to celebrate.

Logan was full of questions. Questions that kept him up at night, ever since he received the invitation to the dinner in the mail.

What kind of life did Jean’s heart save? What was this man like whose chest it was beating inside of now? It niggled and pricked him.

“Dat’s a shame,” Remy sighed, brow furrowing with genuine regret. “I know…I know dis is awkward, mec, an’ I hope ya don’ get too mad at Remy fo’ sayin’ as much, but ever since my surgery…I just want…I wanna know more about you. More about where it came from.”

Logan grew pale. Remy realized he said too much.

“M’sorry…I know dat sounded like shit-“

“I gotta go. Enjoy yer coffee, and yer day.”

All Logan knew was that he had to get away. He left Remy staring openmouthed after him. Kicking himself.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. An unsettling hint of guilt crept over him as he watched the stocky, compact man take long strides down the street, punching the walk light at the corner.

Logan’s pulse was erratic and pounding in his temple for the next eight blocks.

More about where it came from.

It should have made him happy, shouldn’t it? He said what Logan wanted to, voiced his own wishes back at him. Hadn’t he wanted to know more, too, about how he’d fared since…

It was too soon. It was still so raw, hurt so much. Logan mastered the urge to drop everything and shut down.

He still couldn’t talk about Jeannie, not in any depth. All it did was hammer home what he lost. Telling him “more about where it came from” meant sharing the pieces of his heart that Logan hadn’t yet picked up, whether it was telling the young man about Jean’s obsession with old movies or how her scrapbooks ran them out of the house. Logan still talked to Jeannie, sometimes. He still saw her in his mind’s eye whenever he heard her favorite songs or smelled the summer roses. He hadn’t pruned the American Beauties that were growing wild in the side flower bed for weeks; they were going to become a tangled bramble if he didn’t touch them soon. They were Jean’s babies, her pride and joy.

Betsy looked up from the ledger at the front desk as he stomped inside. His hard shoes thumped across the polished wood planks. She gave him a quizzical look. “That was fast.”

“Hnh.”

“Hnh?” she repeated, furrowing her brow. “What’d you bring me?”

“My smilin’ face.”

“And it just looks so sunshiny bright,” she agreed, even though her own smile dropped. She sat back in her chair as she watched him divest himself of his light jacket and plunk the cup on a nearby table. He went through the motions of work, checking orders and the accounts receivable log, putting away books of sample swatches, anything to keep his hands busy. “Busy bee.”

“Makes the day go by faster.”

“You haven’t been here that long.” The store opened at eight-thirty, Monday through Saturday.

“You the time clock police?” She bit back a tart rejoinder and let it go, chewing on the end of her pencil.

“Shipment’s coming in at eleven.”

“Excitement,” he whooped, with little enthusiasm. Betsy sighed.

“What happened?”

“Nothin’. Why’d anything hafta happen?”

“You were fine before you left. Then you come back and, you’re…this. Whatever this is.”

“Whaddya think ‘this’ is, darlin’?”

“PMS?”

“Geez. What is it with you broads and-“ His words were cut off by the phone. Betsy picked up and trilled, “Salem Furniture Studio?” Logan walked off, mimicking her under his breath. Betsy flipped him the bird.

Logan took his place out on the floor as customers trickled in. He was in the middle of offering a middle-aged couple two different color options of a leather LazyBoy recliner they were eyeing when he heard the delivery truck pull into the lot.

“Oh, here we go,” he muttered under his breath.

“I can’t get this in the raspberry suede?” the older woman prodded hopefully, pointing to a different recliner altogether in the room display model.

“Not without getting that actual chair, ma’am, no. I’m sorry.”

“I really like that color,” she mused, “but just not that chair. So there’s nothing you can do?”

“I’m afraid not.” Her husband encouraged her to look at the book of samples. She was still unconvinced.

“It’s a shame. This pink matches the drapes I’m making up for my den…”

…and she was a talker. Logan groaned inwardly and simply smiled.

He could take it out on the delivery guy. That was his only consolation.

“Would you excuse me?”

Logan stalked out the back door, past Betsy’s now empty desk. The breeze ruffled his hair and set his necktie fluttering as he took in the sight of Betsy hurrying up to the truck’s window. Clearly she’d read his mind. Logan could count on her to give him hell.

“I know I’ve talked with you before about this,” she shouted over the din of the large motor. The odor of exhaust was stark and unwelcome after the aromas and savories in the café, or even the mild air freshener piped into the main salon of the store.

“We’ve got a problem here. See those trucks? They need room ta get out, cuz they’ve got customers ta visit and installations ta make,” Logan added as he approached. The burly blond behind the wheel grinned and leaned out the window, scratching the side of his nose.

“Ain’t my fault ya have this tiny little excuse fer a lot in the first place. I ain’t gonna give myself a longer walk ta move this stuff into yer store room. I don’t want the hassle, and you don’t want my union filing the work comp claim if I strain somethin’ comin’ an’ goin’, y’know?”

“Then turn your truck around,” Betsy suggested, as if he was a child of five.

“Been over that before too, sweet cheeks,” he shrugged. “Ya get outta my way, I get this done quicker. I get it done quicker, I move my truck outta yer lot. We’re both happy, and ya don’t hafta ruin that pretty little face with a frown.” Betsy’s blue eyes were full of fuck-offs. Before she could say anything else, the engine cut off and he stuffed the keys into his breast pocket.

When he got out, Logan saw how rumpled he was, as usual, presumably from starting his day at the crack of dawn. “Vic” was embroidered on his Dickie’s work shirt. His blue eyes looked hooded beneath his red trucker hat. His thick blond hair was pulled back into an unruly ponytail that reached to the middle of his back

He brushed too close to Betsy on his way into the store room to collect the hand truck.

“Sod,” she muttered under his breath. She turned to Logan. “This is the highlight of my day.”

“I ain’t lettin’ ya have any heavy objects,” Logan warned her.

“A sharp one, then.”

“I ain’t lettin’ ya go ta jail on his account, either.”

“For what? Flattening his tires?”

“Defeats the purpose,” Logan reminded her. “Wanna make him leave sooner, ain’t that the point?”

“Got any coffee?” Vic bellowed over his shoulder as he galloped the ramp into his truck and unloaded a side table.

“There’s a little left,” Betsy replied. Her tone spoke As if in volumes.

“Go ahead and bring me a cup when I’m finished? I take two sugars, but leave it black.”

“Go,” Logan muttered to her.

“He didn’t just say that.”

“Yer not surprised. This ain’t any different than any other day. Ya’ve got more worthwhile business inside, darlin’. See if that couple’s still there any show ‘em some samples. Yer good at finessin’ the wives. Already softened ‘em up for ya.”

“You’re a prince,” she tsked. “Fine, then. I need the commission.” She made her way back into the store.

Logan heard Vic’s low whistle as he made another trip up the ramp. He saw him watching Betsy hungrily, eyes glued to her hips in her short, tapered skirt.

“Nice,” he leered.

“Eyes up, pal,” Logan growled. “Don’t take all day finishin’ this up.”

“I’m gettin’ paid by the hour,” Vic shrugged.

“We ain’t the ones payin’ ya. And yer job don’t include harrassin’ my office manager,” Logan pointed out.

“It’s a free country. She comes in to work, lookin’ good enough ta eat, and I ain’t got a right ta look?”

“That ain’t it. Ya don’t get off talkin’ ta her like she’s a friggin’ maid. Woman’s educated, an adult and deserves respect.”

“Got plenty o’ respect fer her,” Vic shrugged again. “I respect the fact that God gave her good genes. Did you see that sweet ass? Ya just wanna bite it…” He made a low growl for emphasis. Logan couldn’t believe Vic was trying to trade locker room talk in the lot with him. Was he deaf?

A half hour later, Vic was inside with his clipboard, tallying the items he’d delivered and comparing it with the order printout on Betsy’s database. To Vic’s credit, everything was accounted for, and he patiently moved everything where Betsy asked, leaving the store room tidy. As he closed the ramp and slid the truck hatch with a loud slam, Betsy came back outside. Logan watched in amusement as she waited for him to approach as she held out a steaming Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“Now ain’t that nice, darlin’,” Vic crooned, eyeing Betsy up and down as she held out the drink. Betsy’s smile was smooth and insincere. His fingertips brushed hers as he took the cup. He took a swallow and grunted in approval. “Sweet and strong, with a little bite. Just how I like my coffee,” he remarked. “And my women.”

“Guess you’re out of luck, then. Enjoy the coffee. Have a nice trip. Ta.” Vic winked. He saluted her with his cup as he climbed back into his truck. On his way out of the lot, he blared his horn and waved. Betsy merely smiled. Logan sighed.

“Ya spit in it, didntcha?”

“I didn’t have any arsenic.”

*

Remy was still troubled two days later. He sighed, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in his swivel chair. The sketch on his work table pleased him so far, but he wasn’t in the mood to continue working on it.

His phone jangled from the side table.

“You gonna get dat?” Mattie called upstairs. It sounded like she was in the kitchen, no doubt watching her stories.

“Don’ worry ‘bout it, Tante.” He picked up the handset. “Dis Remy.”

“I’m kidnappin’ ya,” Anna Marie warned him without preamble.

“Gonna leave Mattie a ransom note?”

“I’ll even cut up letters from magazines ta spell it out and include some pretty pictures,” Anna promised. “Unless she wants ta come along. I’ll bring the rope and she can help me tie ya up an’ throw ya in the trunk.”

“Where did ya need ta go?”

“Just window-shoppin’. Wanna check out a new futon fer mah guest room.”

“Why not a regular bed?”

“Cuz Ah had mah heart set on a futon.”

“Ain’t de most comfortable sleep.”

“It’s mah guest room,” Anna sniffed petulantly. “So ya comin’ or what?”

“Need some time outta de house,” Remy admitted. His sketch nagged him. He had yet to ink it and scan it. His next exhibit was two weeks away, and he needed to update his print shop account online and add it to his gallery. His prints were often his bread and butter, but this black and white study was the kind of work he liked to show in live venues, for that rare buyer who wanted something original. But he dismissed it. This time, he’d just sell the prints. Remy was restless; it was too tempting to procrastinate, and an afternoon with Anna fit the bill.

“Get yer act tagethah and sweet butt in gear, shoog,” she said. “Ah’m comin’ over in twenty.”

“Ya didn’t say where we’re goin’.”

“That shop down the road from Starbucks.”

“Which store, an’ which Starbucks, petit? There’s only a dozen of ‘em.”

“That furniture studio.”

“Aw, now Remy knows which one ya mean. Dat one? Seems kinda small, dontcha t’ink?”

“Ah like their window displays. They might have a nice one. Ah’m not gonna go ta one of those discount warehouses and get some cheap piece o’ shit.” It was on the tip of Remy’s tongue to say Yet you’re buying a futon. “Ah need yer eye fer color, shoog. Help me pick out a nice one. We can take Mattie, too.”

“She’s watchin’ her stories.”

“Can’t sweet talk her into comin’, huh?”

“Ya can try.”

“Bye,” Anna said, giving him an air-kiss into the receiver. Remy sighed and hung up.

He washed his hands and put away his mechanical pencils and vinyl eraser. Remy stretched and headed into the bathroom to comb his hair. The sunlight streaming in through the window was tempting; he really did need some time out of the house. Anna was his favorite partner in crime, the person he enjoyed getting into mischief with most.
Despite the fact that she was his ex-girlfriend of five years, they still bickered like an old couple and told each other everything.

Remy found Mattie in the middle of a struggle with the pickle jar. He came up beside her and took it from her, twisting it open with a loud pop. “Here ya go.”

“Thanks, sweet pea,” she said fondly. Remy kissed her temple and began helping her make sandwiches from the ingredients she had laid out on the counter. “Want one?”

“Ya know it, Tante.” Everything Mattie laid her hands on tasted good, something he always told her. Mattie stacked the wheat potato bread slices with layers of honey cured ham and roast beef, slices of ripe tomato and romaine lettuce. Remy mixed a pitcher of instant lemonade; the pink Country Time powder tickled his nose as he scooped it, making him sneeze.

“Bless you.”

“T’anks,” he muttered. He cracked half a rack of ice cubes into the juice; they clinked in the pitcher as he stirred it and Remy automatically helped himself to a glass.

Remy was in the middle of nagging Mattie to take her afternoon dose of her pills when the doorbell rang. “Dat’s Anna. Wanna go to the furniture store fer a bit?”

“Non,” she said, shaking her head and popping a piece of muenster cheese into her mouth. “M’fine where I am, chere.”

“Sure?”

“Positive. I’ve got Luke an’ Laura t’keep me company.” Mattie was addicted to General Hospital. Remy sighed as he answered the door. Seconds later, Anna was beaming as she swept inside.

“How’s mah favorite girl?” Anna kissed Mattie’s cheek.

“Lookin’ too skinny, baby. C’mon an’ eat.”

“Remy an’ I can grab a bite downtown!”

“Naw. Pull up a seat an’ let me save ya some money. Ya want mustard an’ mayonnaise?” Remy and Anna shared a smile; Mattie knew best, and there was no point in arguing. They’d grown used to losing. Mattie was Mattie, and that was that. She bustled around the kitchen, making another thick sandwich and piling Anna’s plate high with corn chips. Remy poured the lemonade and they made short work of the sandwiches. Anna Marie and Mattie clucked at each other like hens while Remy did the dishes.

“What’re ya shoppin’ for, baby girl?”

“A futon.”

“Those seem nice. Why, d’ya need a bed?”

“Naw. Just somethin’ pretty that I can put in mah guest room in case anyone sleeps over. But Ah don’t want somethin’ that looks like a bed.”

“Why not?” Mattie snorted. Remy chuckled.

“Ah just want a futon!” Anna cried, shaking her head. “Why’ve Ah gotta keep explainin’ mahself???”

Remy and Anna Marie heckled each other the whole way out the door. The drive was typical, consisting of Remy automatically changing Anna’s radio station to his own favorite.

“See how much of yer fingers ya come back with if they keep sneakin’ over ta change that dial, shoog.”

“What? I ain’t doin’ anyt’in, petit. Just fixin’ yer radio, it wuz makin’ an awful noise.”

“Ah think ya were mistaken.”

“Naw…wait. Dat wuz music ya were listenin’ to? My bad.” Remy hated Anna’s love of hip hop and vapid dance music, cringing at the selection of discs she had tucked in a folio in her window shade. He made a sound of disgust at the choices she had to offer, including Britney Spears and Justin Timberlake. No former Mouseketeers for him, thank you very much. Remy tuned it to an oldies rock station and tapped his fingers to a Def Leppard song he wore out on his cassette player in high school. Anna snorted.

They parked two blocks from the store. Remy fed the meter for a half an hour.

“Ah hope they have somethin’ decent.”

“Looks nice enough.” Remy admired the window displays. They showcased “safe” furniture, the kind of sets that included everything, including potted palms and lamps with oversized shades. Remy was relieved they didn’t have “distressed” tables for a change; who wanted a new table with strategically placed “dings” and dents in the wood? It was a waste of money, in his opinion, to take a perfectly good, expensive dining table and beat it with a length of chain and a crow bar to make it look creatively used. That was what he felt he was paying a store for when they wanted him to buy crap like that. He wasn’t fond of knotty pine, either. Give him a good quality cherry wood table any day. Remy’s tastes ran toward old-fashioned elegance with simple textures and clean lines.

Once inside, however, Remy changed his opinion. The store was bigger than it looked from outside, and Anna studied its offerings in awe.

“They’re keepin’ all this a secret, tossin’ that plain stuff out front,” she mused. She admired a selection of Tiffany lamps in their lighting section. Remy enjoyed watching the rainbow prisms reflecting off the mirrors arranged around the crystal chandeliers.

“Can I help you?” A sales clerk approached with an easy smile. Remy suppressed a grin at her purple-tinted waves of hair.

“We’re jus’ enjoyin’ yer displays,” Remy told her.

“Ah wanna find a nice futon.”

“Ah. Furnishing a guest room?”

“Yup.” Anna threw Remy a smug look.

“You can fold it up when no one’s sleeping on it. They’re very versatile.”

“See?” Anna was smug. Remy was amused.

Anna found what she was looking for almost immediately, settling on a full-sized model with a pine frame. Their clerk was enthusiastic about the sale and guided Anna through the other bedroom furniture selections, suggesting a pair of bedside tables and new lamps. Anna was a power shopper.

“Sir? Are you interested in anything here today?”

“Non, mademoiselle,” Remy answered. Her smile was appreciative, Anna noticed.

“Are you two married?”

“We get that question a lot, but nah.” Anna looped her arm around Remy’s neck. “He’s just mah partner in crime.” Remy gave Anna’s rear a swat. She poked him in the ribs, making him hiss. Betsy rolled her eyes.

“Hey, Bets, have ya seen that…” Logan’s words died on his lips.

He came out of the office in the back of the shop, hunting for the accounts receivable file for August. He walked in on a scuffle between a young couple who should have known better to act up like that in public.

Remy?

Betsy looked on, amused, while Logan looked for his escape.

It was too late. Remy looked up at the sound of Logan’s voice and pulled himself from Anna’s head lock. He sobered, but a hint of a smile toyed with his lips.

“Ya all right? Ya findin’ everything all right?”

“Oui,” he explained quickly. “Needed a futon. She did.”

“Hi,” Anna murmured, waving. Her cheeks were pink.

She was a cute girl, in Logan’s opinion, even though her hair was even more flamboyant than Betsy’s. She had lustrous auburn hair cut in a chin-length pageboy with long bangs, but they were dyed a platinum blonde so fair they looked white.

“Just a futon? Listen, if yer lookin’ for affordable bedding, we’ve got a special on a full-sized set in the back. It’s a Serta? Might be more comfortable than a futon. Those things are murder on yer back, darlin’.” Anna threw up her hands in disgust.

“And we’re back to this again. Thanks, shoog, but Ah found what Ah wanted.” She softened her pout slightly when she noticed Remy staring at the older man with interest.

“I didn’t know ya worked this close ta the coffee shop,” Remy said.

“Just a short walk. Helps me get my exercise, I guess. Not much, but everybody needs ta stretch their legs.”

“Nice shop.”

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Logan chuckled. “Practically live here. Tempted to just bring in some blankets and sleep on the floor models.”

“Don’t mind de customers comin’ in an’ seein’ ya in yer PJs?”

“Heaven help us all,” Betsy smirked as she rang up the sale.

“That’s enough outta you.” Logan waggled his finger in her direction. Betsy stuck out her tongue.

“Days where Ah wish Ah could show up ta work in mah jammies.” Anne wrote out the address for the delivery ticket and handed it off.

“Saturday’s fine?” Betsy asked.

“Yep.”

“It’ll look nice in your room.”

“Gotta drag my sweet cheeks here ta the bed an’ bath store ta find a duvet.” Remy sighed heavily and rolled his eyes.

“Ya really need me ta do dat now, petit?”

“Why not?”

“Remy wants a coffee. Wanna get home soon and finish de sketch I started, too.” Logan drifted back toward the back of the store again, but Remy’s voice stopped him. “Wanna stretch yer legs, mec?”

“Eh?”

“Starbucks?”

“Don’t wanna take ya away from anything.”

“Pfft.” Anna waved her hand dismissively. “Ya can take ‘im. He’s gonna gimme a sob story ‘bout how Ah’m draggin’ him ta look at girly bedspreads.”

“Cuz ya are,” Remy pointed out.

“Exactly. And instead of bein’ a good lil’ puppet and shuttin’ yer yap while Ah shop in peace, it’ll be an hour-“

“Two hours,” he corrected her.

“…of askin’ me ‘why kint ya jus’ get dis one an’ be done wit’ it, chere?’” She folded her arms and cocked her brow.

“If Mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy,” Logan remarked. “Spend some time with yer lady friend.”

“She ain’t no lady,” Remy laughed.

“Ass,” Anna sniffed. “And Ah am just a friend. Been down that other road before.” Remy’s eyes drifted back to Logan.

“Can’t talk ya into a coffee break?” Logan searched himself for the right words, a polite enough rejection, but came up empty.

“I can hold down the fort,” Betsy said.

“Where do ya know each other from?” Anna asked suddenly.

“Met at a dinner,” Logan said.

“He did me a favor. One I can never repay.” Logan cleared his throat, which suddenly felt tight. “Mec…can I talk to ya fo’ a sec? Over dere?”

“Sure.”

“Rem, I’ll be over here.” Betsy and Anna chatted by the Tiffany lamps while Logan led the way back toward the courtesy desk in the back.

“Remy wanted ta just say…sorry. Guess I got too familiar the ot’er day wit’ my questions.”

“It’s…all right. Some days it’s harder than others, ya know? It’s still hard ta talk about…ya know.”

“Oui.”

“So…how’ve ya been doin’, since yer surgery?” Remy beamed.

“Right as rain. I’ve never felt better.” Logan looked at him oddly for a moment.

“Jeannie always used to say that. Right as rain.”

“Nice day fo’ a walk?” Logan hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

It was a nice day, indeed.