Mood Swing

Praise for RITA® Award-nominated author Jane Graves

“Graves is a solid storyteller with a confident, convincing voice.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Jane Graves is an author whose touch is magic when it comes to creating characters that the reader can identify with, characters that stay with you long after the book is finished.”

—Halifax Chronicle Herald

“For every mass-market author who made the leap to hardcover, a new talent rose to take her place: Jane Graves wowed readers with her wacky debut, I Got You, Babe.”

—Publishers Weekly, “The Year in Books 2001”

“This rollicking romantic comedy explodes off the starting block…Graves’s ready wit and charismatic characters are an abundant source of comic relief. Readers looking for a strong hero and a feisty heroine who face off against each other will enjoy this fast-paced tale.”

—Publishers Weekly on I Got You, Babe

“There’s no question that she knows how to create suspense; she’s the master of the cliffhanger chapter ending. What sets this novel apart from its peers, however, is not the suspense but the characters and their witty, warm-hearted interactions.”

—Publishers Weekly on Flirting with Disaster

Jane Graves

Growing up, Jane Graves dreamed of becoming a veterinarian, but her high school counselor told her it was “a difficult field for a woman,” so she should pick another career—perhaps something as a writer, since she had shown some talent in that area. Since her assertiveness didn’t come until later in life, Jane did as she was told and went to the University of Oklahoma, where she earned a B.A. in journalism in the professional writing program.

Now the author of fourteen novels, Jane is a five-time finalist for Romance Writers of America’s RITA® Award, the industry’s highest honor, and is the recipient of two National Readers’ Choice Awards, a Booksellers’ Best Award and the Golden Quill.

Jane lives in Texas with her husband of twenty-four years, a daughter pursuing her master’s degree, and a beautiful but goofy cat. She loves the writing life, so she’s glad her high school counselor pushed her into the right career, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

You can visit Jane’s Web site at www.janegraves.com, or write to her at jane@janegraves.com. She’d love to hear from you!

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 1

The problem started calmly enough one day when Susan Roth was having lunch in the hospital cafeteria, eating fast as she always did because somehow the E.R. never seemed to have enough nurses and she needed to get back. She’d just sat down, tossed her napkin in her lap and picked up her fork, when Dennis showed up and asked if he could join her. Unfortunately, she wasn’t the kind of person who had an arsenal of lies or excuses handy to avoid people she didn’t want to deal with, so she was stuck.

Dennis worked at the coffeehouse, in the strip center across the street from the hospital, where Susan went every day to get her morning dose of caffeine. He was maybe thirty-five. Maybe a little mental. Definitely had a nose the size of a rain-forest banana and enough body hair to survive naked on the tundra. But he had one characteristic that made him a barista par excellence: the ability to commit to memory an endless amount of overblown terminology and use it at will. And no wonder. Any man who can speak Klingon has no trouble remembering what venti half-caf mocha light whip means.

Dennis proceeded to make dumb, painful conversation about things Susan wanted to hear nothing about. His mother was of no interest to her and certainly not his mother’s arthritis. No, she didn’t think Earth had been seeded by ancient astronauts. And no, Revenge of the Nerds was not the most underrated comedy of all time. Once lunch was over, Susan felt as if she’d done twenty minutes of volunteer work with the socially challenged.

Then he showed up the next day.

She told herself not to worry, that Dennis wasn’t actually trying to hit on her. Guys like him rarely got up the nerve to pursue a relationship. Instead, they retreated to their mothers’ basements, where they got on the Internet and found virtual girlfriends who were guaranteed never to say no. That was what she told herself, anyway.

Then came day three.

“Wow, this is really cool,” Dennis said, as he chased a pair of lima beans around his plate. “It’s almost like we’re dating, isn’t it?”

Susan froze. What the hell was he talking about?

“Uh, no,” she said. “It really isn’t like that at all.”

“Yeah, I think it is. I mean, what is a date, anyway? A man and a woman eating together and talking? That makes this a date.”

“You talk, Dennis. I listen.” And only half of that statement was true.

“That’s okay. I like women who are good listeners. Not very many are, you know. It’s always all about them.”

Susan couldn’t fathom any woman having a willing conversation with Dennis, much less dominating it. He was one of those irritating, dysfunctional men who preyed on nice, polite, unassertive women who wouldn’t tell them to bug off.

Nice, polite, unassertive women like her.

Susan left the cafeteria and headed back to the E.R. in a Dennis-induced daze. A few hours later, Evie pulled her aside and asked her exactly how serious she and Dennis were. After all, she said with a sly smile, they were dating now.

Susan’s mouth fell open. “What are you talking about?”

“Come on, Susan. Don’t be coy. Patti from labor and delivery was getting coffee this afternoon, and Dennis told her he’s been having lunch with you every day. Patti told Sam, and Sam told me.”

“Dennis and I are not dating!”

Evie wiggled her eyebrows. “He thinks you are.”

“He also thinks he’s been abducted by aliens. Do you believe that?”

“Actually, yes,” Evie said. “It would explain a lot.”

Susan couldn’t argue with that. But she could argue with Evie’s intrusiveness. If not for the severe nurse shortage in this city, people as irritating as Evie wouldn’t even be employable.

Truth be told, though, Susan really didn’t know why Dennis was targeting her. He was no prize, but she’d never considered herself to be one, either. She was forty-five, and by her own admission no great beauty. She had brown hair she stuck in a ponytail most of the time, brown eyes, nondescript facial features. Cellulite was gaining a foothold in the places where stretch marks hadn’t already taken over, lovely souvenirs from the childbearing experience. Since her divorce a year and a half ago, just the thought of leaping back into the dating pool made her nervous. But if she ever chose to, she prayed to God that a whole school of Dennises wasn’t swimming around in it.

The next day, Susan ventured into the cafeteria a full hour later than she normally ate, only to have Dennis show up again. And when he started talking about their “relationship,” a sick sensation rose in her stomach. She could feel the groundswell of unfounded adoration. The ridiculous assumptions based on nothing.

The creation of a monster.

Be nice, Susan.

Even after all these years, her mother’s voice still resonated inside her head. Nice, nice, nice, which meant avoidance rather than confrontation, so the next day Susan steered clear of both the cafeteria and the coffeehouse.

That was when the phone calls started.

Dennis called twice the first day. Three times the next. At all hours of the day and night. He left messages every time, asking her in that whiny, plaintive voice to pick up the phone, even though it should have been clear to him that hell would freeze over first. How he’d managed to get her phone number, she didn’t know. He was probably one of those dangerously geeky guys who could hack into the White House computer system and start World War III.

After a few nights of not answering Dennis’s calls and then waking one rainy morning to a droning alarm and a demanding teenager, Susan’s nice-girl persona was fading fast.

“I forgot,” her daughter said, as she poured a bowl of Fruity Pebbles cereal. “I need to bring something for teacher appreciation day.”

Susan winced. Words such as those always brought back memories of that horrific evening when Lani was seven and announced, I need a costume for the health play by tomorrow. I’m supposed to be a box of dental floss.

“Something like what?” Susan asked.

“Like a dessert.”

“You know you can sign me up for anything we can pick up at 7-Eleven on the way to school.”

“They want a Bundt cake.”

“That’s the one with the weird pan?”

“Uh-huh.”

Susan grabbed the milk and knocked the fridge door shut with her hip. “They’re getting a box of Ding Dongs.”

Lani did that eye-rolling thing, the one that has driven mothers crazy since the first prehistoric kid was told to stop scribbling on the cave walls.

“I told you they want a Bundt cake.”

Susan checked her watch, as if she expected to see that a couple of extra hours had found their way into her day. “Time’s a little short, Lani. I don’t think I can whip up one of those in the next five minutes.”

“But it’s what they want.”

“If you’d told me about this last night—”

“I said I forgot.”

“But—”

“It’s what they told me to bring!”

Susan clunked the milk carton on the table. “It’s Linda Markham, isn’t it? She’s the one organizing this. This has Linda Markham written all over it. A Bundt cake. Good heavens. As if the rest of us have time to bake. It’s no problem for her, of course. She doesn’t work. She has a cook, a housekeeper, a gardener—”

Susan stopped short. Were Lani’s eyes glistening?

No. Not tears. No, no, no. Junior-high hormones could catapult even the most benign situation into a major crisis.

Susan held up her palm. “Okay, sweetie. Okay. We can stop at the grocery store. They might not have a Bundt cake, but we should be able to find something that’ll work.” And I’ll use excuse #17 for why I’m late to work.

Lani shrugged, but the tears kept coming.

“I told you I’d get the cake,” Susan said, trying to sound patient. “There’s no reason to cry about it.”

Lani sniffed and wiped her eyes, but still she was crying.

“I said we’d go to the grocery store.”

“I don’t care about the cake.”

“Then why are you—”

“Dad’s getting married.”

For several seconds, Susan just stood there, not moving. Don was getting married? She hadn’t had so much as a date in the past year and a half, and Don was getting married?

“When did he tell you that?”

“Last night when I had dinner with him and Marla.”

Marla. That woman made Susan absolutely crazy. Don had a lot of nerve dating a woman who was too nice to hate.

“Why didn’t you tell me last night?” And why didn’t Don tell me before he told our daughter?

Lani just shrugged.

“Well,” Susan said gently, “I guess we knew this could happen, huh?”

Another shrug.

“We really should be happy for him, you know,” Susan said in her best Mother of the Year voice, even though it was all she could do not to choke on the words. “Marla’s very…nice.”

Lani looked up, her eyes shimmering with tears. “But this means you and Dad really aren’t getting back together.”

Susan would have thought by now that her incompatibility with Don would have been clear to everyone on planet Earth, in distant galaxies and into the far reaches of the universe. How, after all this time, had it gotten past the one person closest to both of them?

Actually, it hadn’t. Lani knew. But, in the end, all she wanted was for Mom and Dad to occupy the same household again so everyone could at least pretend things were normal. What she didn’t know was that the longer two people pretended their relationship was normal when it was anything but, the worse it became for all concerned.

A few minutes later, Susan hustled Lani into the car, and on the way to the grocery store she explained again that reconciliation was never going to happen, which made Lani even more miserable. When they arrived at school, she’d dried her tears, but chances were that her classes that day were going to be a total bust. Lemon pound cake in hand, she started to scoot out of the car, only to turn back with a quizzical look.

“And who’s that guy who keeps calling in the middle of the night, anyway?”

That’s it, Susan thought. I have to do something about Dennis.

But once she got to the hospital, she’d lost track of that directive, with room in her mind for only one thought: Don’s getting married. And I’m not.

I don’t care, she told herself later that morning as she was extracting a peanut from a toddler’s nose. After all, it wasn’t as if she wasn’t prepared for it—Don and Marla had been seeing each other for over a year. And she really did like Marla, enough that Susan had considered warning her that if she was going to marry Don, she’d better like her men to be mindlessly inconsiderate and grossly insensitive. But love was blind. There was someone for everyone and maybe true love had won out. She wished both of them well.

Deep breath. Ah. There.

Susan felt so rational and adultlike that she could almost chalk up the sickening twinge in her stomach to indigestion rather than envy. It was Don’s life, after all, and she couldn’t expect him to be a monk for the rest of it. She had just hoped he’d continue to be a monk until she found a way to stop being a nun.

Around noon, Susan couldn’t face another of the vending-machine lunches she’d had for the past few days, so she ventured into the cafeteria. She waited until nearly one o’clock, but Dennis still showed up to make her bad day worse. Now she knew for sure that he had to be getting intelligence on her day-to-day movements from a source in the hospital. And she was pretty sure that source’s name was Evie.

As Dennis started talking, Susan knew she should call a halt to all of this, but she’d dealt with enough crap that day already and the last thing she wanted was to deal with any more. So once again she tried to tune him out, turning her attention instead to the piece of gravy-covered cardboard on her plate. But as she was choking down the last bite, as impossible as it seemed, his loony rhetoric took a quantum leap.

“So I was thinking that maybe on Saturday night you could come over to Mom’s house for dinner. How does that sound? She’s a pretty good cook, you know.”

Susan stopped short. “What did you say?”

“Mom told me to invite you to dinner.”

She looked at him incredulously. “I don’t even know your mother.”

“That’s the point. She always wants to meet the girls I date.”

Susan gripped her fork until her fingers turned white. “Dennis. We’re not dating.”

“Sure we are. We have lunch together all the time. Evie says a relationship is all about togetherness.”

Evie. Change one letter and she became Evil. Why had Susan never noticed that before?

“I’m busy on Saturday,” she said.

“Then Friday.”

“I’m busy then, too.”

“Then pick a day. As long as it’s not Sunday. That’s Mom’s bingo night.”

Susan couldn’t take this anymore. “I have to go.”

She rose and headed for the conveyor belt to dump her tray. Sure enough, Dennis got up to follow her, still yammering away, and all she could think about was how her ex-husband was getting married to a decent woman when the best Susan could do was the quintessential geek with bad hair, bad posture and bad breath, a man she was going to have to break up with even though they’d never dated in the first place.

Suddenly, all kinds of emotions swirled around inside her. Irritation. Apprehension. Resentment. Desperation. Regret over the past. Hopelessness for the future. A plan was forming in her mind to break into a Hershey’s chocolate factory at two in the morning and eat herself senseless, after which she would crawl into a corner, curl up in a fetal position and cry. At that moment, she was a psychologist’s Rolodex all crammed into one person, and that one person was ready to blow.

“So how about seven o’clock on Thursday?” Dennis said. “Any later and Mom’s arthritis starts to—”

“Don’t talk to me anymore.”

“But—”

“I said shut up.”

“But I need to be able to tell her—”

Susan slammed her tray down on the conveyor belt and spun around, skewering him with a furious glare. “Listen to me! I don’t want to go anywhere with you!”

When his eyes got all wide with surprise, Susan was sure she’d scored a direct hit. Then his face morphed into a goofy grin. “Yeah, Evie told me you always play hard to get. She said you like men who won’t take no for an answer.”

Evie was a dead woman.

He inched closer. “She also said you like a man who talks dirty.”

Susan had barely registered shock over that statement when Dennis, in the most graphic language imaginable, proceeded to tell her his fantasy about the nurse in the black hip boots and the naughty barista.

In a flurry of astonishment and disgust, Susan shoved him against a nearby wall, her hand at his throat. His eyes bugged open with surprise.

“Listen to me,” she growled. “I’m not your girlfriend. I don’t even like you. I’ve had it with you calling me at four in the morning. And the last thing I want to hear about are your sick fantasies!”

He tried to say something, but she tightened her hand on his throat, and he gagged and gasped instead.

“How would you like me to tell Mom what a deviant her son is? Huh? How would that be? Maybe I’ll call her at 4:00 a.m. and let her know all about it!”

“No! You can’t—”

“The hell I can’t. And if you so much as breathe another word like that to me again, I’m ripping off your balls and tossing them into that big old vat of soup in the kitchen, and I don’t give a damn what the health department says about it. Got that?”

Dennis’s eyes grew wide and horrified. “Are you crazy?”

“Yeah, Dennis. I’m crazy.”

“This is assault!”

“Assault? Assault? What you’ve been doing to me is assault! I never asked you to hang around, to call me at four in the morning, to be there every time I turn around!”

“I’m calling the cops!”

“Oh, bite me, you little twit!”

Ah, the words felt good, as if they’d been bottled up inside her for years, rattling the cage door, screaming to get out. When she finally let Dennis go, he stumbled out of the cafeteria with his forehead crinkled in Wookiee-like rage, and she couldn’t have cared less. She felt as if she’d just conquered the world. No other jerk would ever pull this crap on her again. She’d scored one for geek-oppressed women everywhere. Until Mr. Right came along, she was through dealing with Mr. Wrong. And she felt that way right up to the time the cops showed up in the E.R. and arrested her for assault.

If only she’d pulled Dennis into a supply closet before going postal on him, there wouldn’t have been any witnesses. He said/she said testimony never got a person convicted. But at noon in that cafeteria sat approximately fifty witnesses who didn’t know the whole story, but they were quite willing to spill the part they did.

But no matter what all those witnesses said, Susan hadn’t actually threatened to kill Dennis. She’d merely threatened to emasculate him and toss his balls into Baptist Memorial Hospital cafeteria’s soup of the day. Unfortunately, Judge Henry Till of the fourth district court of Dallas County hadn’t seen it her way. Leave it to a male judge to associate the loss of a guy’s manhood with death.

Of course, her handprint on Dennis’s throat hadn’t helped matters, either.

After a plea bargain—plea bargain, as if she were a real criminal—she emerged from the experience with an attorney bill that was going to keep her in the red for the next year, along with a request for her presence at an eight-week, court-ordered anger management class. All because a certain banana-nosed freak couldn’t keep his sick fantasies to himself.

Her coworkers were astonished. Lani was horrified. And Don was flabbergasted that his meek little ex-wife would go off on anyone. Apparently he had no idea what a time bomb he’d been dealing with for sixteen years.

So now, in the midst of having to deal with a demanding job, a nonexistent social life, an ex-husband tying the knot and a daughter crying over it, she was stuck in a class designed to teach her how to control her anger just when she was getting the hang of expressing it.

Yeah, life was definitely looking up.

CHAPTER 2

It was five after seven when Susan trotted up the front steps of Andrews Hall, one of the stark concrete buildings that comprised the campus of Henderson Community College. She guessed the court had struck a deal with the college to use its classrooms, which made her wonder if the other students in the building knew they were sharing facilities with hardened criminals who could go nuts and take hostages at any moment.

Once inside, she hurried down the hall to room 124, rounding the doorway to find a tiny classroom, where four of the desks had been arranged in a circle. Two women and a man were already seated. Given the briefcase beside the man and the admonishing frown he gave Susan when she entered the room, he was clearly the instructor. An endomorphic little person, he wore tattered slacks that had lost their crease years ago, a plain white dress shirt with cuffs rolled to his elbows and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. And on his head was a tuft of hair so flaming red it would stop traffic on the tarmac at Dallas Fort Worth International.

She scurried into a seat and slung her purse over the back of it. “Sorry I’m late. I had an emergency at the hospital—”

“Seven sharp from now on. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

No problem. Next time she’d just walk out at a quarter to seven and leave the acute arterial bleeding for the next shift.

“This is our class, ladies,” he said. “I’m thrilled there are so few of you. Some groups are so large we have to move to another classroom, which, of course, is indicative of the societal trend toward the manifestation of anger in unhealthy and aggressive ways.”

Of course.

“I’m Dr. Hugh Danforth. I have a Ph.D. in behavioral psychology. It’s my job to ensure that when our eight weekly sessions are up, you’ll have the tools you need to face stressful situations in a constructive manner and perhaps—” he stopped short, fanning all of them with a supercilious stare “—keep the amount of time you spend in a court of law to an absolute minimum.”

Susan felt her eyes crossing. She was in for eight weeks of this? Danforth was clearly one of those guys who stroked his chin a lot and looked pensive, as if his brain was constantly at work on some esoteric Theory of Great Importance even as he was forced to muck around with individuals who didn’t share his stunning intellect.

Danforth consulted his notebook. “Which one of you is Tonya Rutherford?”