Love Unrehearsed

But for the sake of my own sanity, I had to remain neutral, even though I knew my relationship with Tammy was forever altered as well.

“Is she ever going to talk to me?” I could see the hurt, the longing for reconciliation, in Tammy’s expression.

I wiped my hands off on my bar rag and tucked it back into my pocket before reaching for Tammy’s printout. “I don’t know. I suppose you’ll have to work on earning her forgiveness if you want to be on speaking terms again.”

I felt my cell vibrate in my front pocket. I hated answering numbers that I didn’t recognize but I decided to answer anyway.

“Hello?”

A deep, husky male voice responded. “Yes, good afternoon. May I speak to a Miss Taryn Mitchell, please?”

Reporter? Stalker? Crazed fan? Hacker?

My mind ran through the possibilities.

“Who’s calling?”

“My name is Todd Brandwell. I’m calling from the chief medical examiner’s office in New York City and I’m trying to reach a next of kin by the name of Taryn Mitchell. Your number was listed as a contact.” Dread sank heavy into my gut. “Next of kin? I’m sorry, you say I’m listed?”

“Yes, if you’re Taryn Mitchell.” My throat constricted and panic swept through me. I started mentally listing the current locations of everyone that mattered in order of importance, beginning with Ryan.

He was in ll.A. He called me when he’d landed and I had just received a naughty text from him not more than twenty minutes ago.

Other possible names started to scroll. “I am.

What’s this about?”

“Miss Mitchell, I’m sorry to inform you that James Pantelanio passed away last night. If you could write down our office number—”

Suddenly I was able to breathe again, not recognizing the name. “I’m sorry. Who?”

“James Pantelanio,” he repeated, enunci-ating slowly. The Los Angeles address he recited wasn’t familiar, either.

“I’m afraid I don’t know him. I wish I could help.”

“He had another emergency number, which is registered to a Mitchell’s Pub. I’ve tried to contact that number as well but I am only receiving an answering service.” My heart lodged back up in my throat.

This person had both of my numbers listed.

The lengths some stalkers go to—

“Mr. Pantelanio is a seventy-two-year-old male, approximately five foot, seven inches, one hundred and forty pounds, dark peppered-hair.”

None of these descriptions—

“He was a heavy smoker. We believe he was also employed as a photographer, but we cannot seem to locate any employment—”

“Wait. You said ‘James,’ correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

My heart sank. Could it be? “I think I do know him. Can you please send me a photo?” Ten minutes later I was looking at the driver’s license of the man who had once saved my life, who’d dropped to his knees in the slush and snow, and had given me CPr after I’d been hit by a car. I couldn’t stop the tears from pouring, knowing that the sweet Italian celebrity photographer known to all as Jimmy Pop was dead.

Chapter 23

Wedding and Ashes

“He’s in a small, mahogany box. It’s actually quite lovely.”

Ryan sighed. He wasn’t overly thrilled about me going to New York to claim the remains of a deceased celebrity photographer, especially one who’d been chasing him for the last three years, but I was the only one who had come forth to even say they knew the guy so I’d felt obligated. But Marie had gone with me on the two-day trip, which made Ryan relax. “And what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m thinking about putting Jimmy Pop on the top shelf between Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker.”

That got him to laugh. “Perfect place for him.”

I leaned against the back bar. “I thought so. I figured he can keep an eye on the place.

I have three of his Nikon cameras, too. The coroner gave me everything that was on his person. I even have three copies of his death certificate. Why would he list me as his ‘in case of emergency person,’ Ryan? It makes no sense. We barely knew each other.”

“I don’t know. Maybe he just didn’t have anyone he could trust?”

I drifted my finger over the pewter cross that adorned the lid, feeling the anguish looming in my chest that you feel when people you care about die. It resembled the cross that was given to me before they closed my father’s casket. I drew in a deep breath.