A Time to Gather (7 page)
Rosie said, “Mr. Beaumont, there’s blood on your shirt. Are you all right?”
“Hm?” He looked down at his white shirt. “Oh, that.” He held up a hand, a large bandage across its palm. “Just a little accident. We dropped some plates on the hearth and I was picking up shards of glass. Cut myself.”
“‘Dropped’ plates on the hearth?” Rosie asked.
“Actually, they may have been thrown.”
Felicia made a huffing noise.
He looked at her. “What?”
“Isn’t this humiliating enough, having the police come to your door? Why would you say anything about plates being thrown?”
“Because you pitched them at my head, Felicia.”
“Only after you shouted at me, Erik.”
Obviously the argument wasn’t finished.
“Officer Grey.” Felicia twirled on her heel. “I don’t want to talk to him anymore. I’d like to go home now. Can I do that?”
“That sounds like a good idea. Unless either of you want to file charges?”
“File charges?” She laughed, a tinkly sound. “Of course not! We just had a minor spat. We’ll make up tomorrow.”
“Mr. Beaumont?”
“Yeah. Ditto.”
“Ma’am, do you have a car?”
“Yes.” She waltzed to a coatrack and lifted a white furry thing from it.
“Officer Delgado will escort you to it.”
“That would be sweet, but . . .” She batted her eyelashes.
Rosie batted her own, not quite believing what she was seeing.
Matthews said, “To tell you the truth, Officer Grey, I’d feel safer with a man. I’m parked way down the block and it is the middle of the night.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be happy to walk with you.”
Rosie cleared her throat. Bobby hustling off with a woman was never part of their game plan if they could help it. It provided too much opportunity for the appearance of impropriety.
He mouthed, “It’s okay.”
She made her eyes go wide. He raised his brows in reply, telling her not to worry. She imagined he couldn’t wait to brag to his wife.
Men!
Speaking of men in that exasperated tone . . .
There was Erik Beaumont, shuffling off toward the kitchen. He was barefoot.
A confused mishmash of emotions hit Rosie. In another day, she could have fallen for a guy like Beaumont. Correction: She
had
fallen for a guy like him. Scratch that noise. Never again. He was a waste of oxygen.
But she understood enough about human nature to catch on that Beaumont was one hurting puppy. That led to compassion. And that unlocked the door to her Adopt the Hopeless Club, prompting her to pray silly things like, “Swamp him with Your love.”
Bobby’s voice echoed in her mind.
“Balance, Rosie. Find the balance.
Don’t give up on him, but don’t lose your mind over him either.”
Rosie sighed to herself and headed to the kitchen.
E
rik was pulling a brandy snifter from a cupboard, his back to her.
“Mr. Beaumont.”
He turned. “Thought you left.”
“No. I need to make sure you’re all right.” She walked over to him. “Can’t go off and then have you bleed to death. Bad publicity for the department, you know. By the way, you are still bleeding, sir.”
He held his bandaged hand up again. Blood had soaked through the wrap. “It’s nothing.”
“Let me see it. Why don’t you sit down?” She pulled latex gloves from her back pocket and put them on.
He sat at a nearby glass-and-chrome table.
Kneeling in front of him, she took his hand and began to lift the wide bandage.
He said, “You seem vaguely familiar.”
“You don’t recognize me?” She smiled to herself, remembering that was the question he asked her.
“Should I?”
“DUI. About ten days ago.”
“Eww. That was an ugly night. Sorry. I wouldn’t recognize my own mother if she’d been the one arresting me.”
“I think you need stitches.” The half-inch gash was deep and crossed the fleshy part of his right palm. “We can transport you to the ER. You could take a cab home.”
“No. It’s fine.”
“Well, let me wrap it better than this.”
“Then will you leave?”
“Promise. Where—”
“Top cupboard, left of the sink.”
She found a first-aid kit and carried it to the table.
“You creak and clink when you walk.”
“Yeah.” She knelt before him again. “I don’t see any broken plates on the hearth.”
“One good thing about Felicia is she cleans up her messes. Guess I should have let her do it by herself.”
Rosie found everything she needed in the kit and went to work on his hand. “So I was wondering, Mr. Beaumont, why is it we meet twice within two weeks? Your neighborhood is part of a large area I patrol, but
I’ve been at it for over a year and have never seen you before.”
“I guess up until now I’ve been a very good boy.”
“Or you just haven’t gotten caught.”
“Did you always want to be a cop?”
“Nice change of subject.” She smiled. “No, I did not always want to be a cop.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Bad guys like you. Drove me round-the-bend bonkers what they got away with. I quit law school. Figured making arrests would be a lot more fun than practicing corporate law.” She paused. “Making a charge stick can be a challenge though.”
“The mayor is a friend of my dad’s. That’s how I got out of the DUI.”
“I heard.”
“Bet that drove you round-the-bend bonkers.”
“Soon as I finish bandaging your hand, I’m going to shoot you in the leg.”
He laughed.
She looked up at him. His eyes were greenish, his teeth white and the kind of even that came only from orthodontic work. His black hair was just long enough to be mussy. She glimpsed the little boy he must have been.
Nuts.
She really didn’t care to see him in that light.
When he stopped laughing, she said, “Did you always want to be a bad guy?”
“Every good boy wants to be a bad guy. You should know that, Officer.”
“But what makes them want to? I can never understand that part.”
He didn’t reply.
She placed another butterfly tape across his cut. “If these don’t hold, you better see a doctor in the morning. A couple stitches might be necessary.”
“My dad is a putz. Felicia’s cheating on me. NBC hired someone else.”
She unwrapped a large bandage. “So what you’re saying is other people’s behavior makes you want to be a bad guy?”
“I’m not blaming them. That stuff simply proves good guys don’t win. Why should I bother?”
“Because the world needs more good guys, especially ones in the public arena.” She pressed the bandage into place. “There. You really should let the air get to it tomorrow, but keep it covered for now. My EMT skills are not the greatest. It’ll probably all fall apart and gangrene will set in.”
He chuckled. “Thanks anyway.”
“Sure.” She gathered the wrappings, closed up the first-aid kit, and peeled off her gloves. “Trash can?”
“Under the sink.”
She deposited the trash and returned the kit to its proper place. “Okay, as promised, I will leave now.”
He followed her to the door. “What’s your name again?”
“Delgado.”
“You’re Latino.”
He didn’t need a name to go with her appearance to figure that one out.
A lifetime of hearing racial references had tuned Rosie’s ear to nuance. She discerned tones. Erik Beaumont’s carried a hint of surprise, as if her heritage precluded her role as a cop.
No problem.
No problem if she gave herself to the count of five.
She started counting.
It stung. It always did. But she recalled her parents’ admonition, drilled into her psyche from an early age. She didn’t have to let someone else’s prejudice define her.
Five.
“Latin
a
.” Rosie winked. “Got my green card and everything. See you.”
He held up his injured hand and smiled. “DUI and medical attention. Let’s hope you don’t see me again.”
“Amen to that.” She opened the door. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
He shut the door behind her.
A few yards down the hall, she halted and turned to gaze at his door. Several deep breaths later, the stomp dance going on in her chest finally slowed.
“Lord,” she spoke aloud, “he’s a prig. A first-class prig. You’re going to have to get somebody else.”
L
exi lifted her brush from the canvas and stepped back several paces to study the painting. Full orchestral music rebounded off the walls, some high-velocity piece with the words “fire” and “dance” in its title.
The recomposed rhinoceros was thinner than the first one. Emaciated even, with countable ribs. Nothing at all like the real animal in the photo she’d snapped.
She didn’t often stray quite so far from the photos. It forced her to create out of thin air and taxed her limited abilities. She lost balance in the process. Cohesiveness.
Blame Kevin.
Blame Danny.
Blame Max.
Blame Zak.
Mostly blame Zak.
In the week and a half since Kevin shipped out, she had come to terms with her brother-in-law’s exit. The wedge Danny had driven between himself and her would go the way of a lifetime of spats, its intensity fading. She doubted that Max’s uncharacteristic display of
fatherly concern
would be repeated.
Life went on. Grateful for a break from family, she buried herself in landscape work by day, painting by night, and wishing Zak would call.
He had, that morning. Sort of. He texted a message to her cell phone. “Dinner, our beach, six p.m.?” Her workday pretty much ended at that point. She left the office early, changed into sweats, and jogged off the tension.
“Their” beach was a stretch in Solana, the midway point on the freeway between their homes. Dinner would be at a casual hamburger place. Nothing all that special. Nothing worthy of “date” status.
Still, Zak had contacted her. He wanted to see her.
Dinner never happened. He greeted Lexi in an exasperated tone, something along the lines of, “You’re going to jog yourself to death, and, oh, by the way, Abbey the ex doesn’t want me to see you. She knows you saved my life. She’s just a little insecure.”
It was all civil, all shrugs and yeah, sure, she understood. No problemo.
In the hours since then she had consumed enough carrots to feed an army of rabbits for a week and lost herself in reconstructing the rhinoceros.
Now she dabbed her brush on the palette, into a glob of charcoal-gray paint, and wondered how many ribs a rhino had.
Through the pounding music, she became aware of a tiny voice.
She cocked her head, listening.
“Pick up the phone!” Danny. His muted shout came from the answering machine in the other room. The phone ringer was turned off, explaining why she hadn’t heard it.
She set down the brush and hurried from the studio, twisting the volume knob to low as she passed the CD player.
“Lexi!”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” In the living room, she picked up the cordless phone. “What?”
“Turn on the news!”
Erik.
Her stomach twisted into a knot. “What’s wrong?” She lunged for the remote next to the television and turned it on.
“He’s going to flip out this time. Is he still on the air? I’m getting
in my car.”
“Just a sec. It’s coming on. What’s wrong?”
“Just listen. I’m heading to the studio.”
The familiar image of Erik and Felicia filled the screen. “He looks okay.”
“Listen to his voice.”
“Felicia’s talking.”
“They should keep her talking and get him off.”
“Shh.”
The “Darling Duo of Newscasts”—as they’d been dubbed in a local magazine article—was engaged in casual banter, segueing from one report to another.
“Well, Felicia,” Erik was saying, “as you know . . .”
Lexi said, “He just called her ‘Flee-
sha
.’ His smile is goofy. Now he’s got his elbow on the desk. He’s about buried his chin in his bandaged hand, like if he doesn’t hold up his head, it’ll fall off.”
Danny groaned. “They’re not cutting to a commercial, are they? They are going to let him make a complete fool of himself.”
“Great for the ratings.”
Danny swore under his breath.
Her twin never swore.
“Lex, meet me at the studio as soon as you can. We gotta get him out of there.”
“Okay.”
Danny broke the connection.
Mesmerized, Lexi remained in front of the television. It was obvious that Erik was feeling no pain. But as usual, he projected the charm that was second nature to him. Maybe the general public would not notice.
Felicia noticed, though. Her complexion flushed. She interrupted Erik again and again. She stuttered.
“Erik!” she said at last in a loud, strident voice. “It’s time for a commercial break!”
“Right you are, Flee-
sha
. Stay tuned, folks.” The camera picked
up a full-face shot of him, his eyes all but closed, his mouth a grim line. “Next segment, we’ll learn exactly how long Ms. Matthews has been two-timing me.”
At last, a commercial replaced the newsroom.
The entire thing took less than three minutes.
Wow. One could commit professional suicide in the blink of an eye.
Ouch.” Rosie cringed at the television.
From his recliner, her father grunted. “I think my hearing is going bad.”
“No, it’s not, Papi.” She muted the volume. “Erik Beaumont really did say what you heard.”
“That his girlfriend is two-timing him? That is not a nice thing to say in front of the whole world.” Esteban rose from his chair. “He is not a nice man. Look at his hand, all bandaged up. How did that happen?”
She wasn’t about to answer. The less he heard about her work, the better.
He plopped down on the ottoman next to her. “You think he was digging in his garden?” He snorted a noise of disbelief. “He does not have the look of a man who digs dirt or scrubs his kitchen sink or cooks his own food. No, he injured his hand while up to no good.”
Rosie knew her dad was a smart cookie, but sometimes she was truly surprised at his ability to read people.