By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda (23 page)

Who the hell was she?

Was it possible?

His mind went tumbling back to a certain
midnight in a tumbledown apartment overlooking Narragansett Bay.
He'd been lying on his bed, waiting for Sara to come out of the
bathroom where she'd been doing things with a diaphragm. He
remembered how she looked when she emerged: shy but willing, a
feast for him to behold. She had a great body. It was on the
old-fashioned side and just made for loving, and he remembered
thinking that he was on the verge of having the best night of his
life.

He remembered saying, "You all set,
then?"

But he could not, for the life of him,
remember her answer.

Not her exact words. They had seemed
reassuring at the time—but then, she could have said, "Oh, sure; I
have a bottle of vinegar in my purse," and he would have been just
as reassured. He didn't really care if she was protected or not.
All he really cared about at that moment was getting her between
him and the sheet. Everything else was just words.

He raked his memory, trying to dredge up the
exact ones she'd used.
Uh-huh? You bet? Fer sure? Darn
tootin'?

Just how safe were diaphragms, anyway? Could
they pop, like rubbers?

Could she have lied? Could she have said
nothing at all, and could he have made up a lie in his head for
her? Had he been that damned horny for her?

Could sperm wiggle their way home around
that kind of barrier? Were diaphragms just a truly lousy concept in
birth control?

Was Abigail Johnson Bonniface somewhere
around twelve years old?

Ben was in a sweat now. He shut his computer
down and made himself get dressed and drive to city hall and spend
the morning in the dusty, dreary basement there, poring over deeds
and assigns, trying to track an ex- spouse's hidden assets, trying
to understand how Abigail could possibly think that being a PI was
cool.

By the time he walked out it was raining; by
the time he got home he was soaked. He had a simple reason for
returning to his apartment instead of trying to cozy up to the
neighbors of his client's ex-spouse to find out where the bum might
be hiding: he needed to change into dry socks. So he peeled off the
wet ones and while he was at it, he turned on his computer.
Abigail's e-mail glared at him, demanding action.

Delete.
Delete delete delete her from
his thoughts. Whoever she was, she was an unnecessary intrusion
into what he laughingly called his life. He didn't ask for the
e-mail. He didn't want the e-mail. He had better things to do than
to wonder all day who Abigail Johnson Bonniface was.

He deleted the e-mail, shut the laptop down,
and went back out to do his job. He got in his car, turned on the
ignition, swore, turned off the ignition, went back to his
apartment, and turned on the computer.

He had to go back and poke through the
e-mail trash folder, something he didn't like to do on
principal—trash was trash—but he retrieved Abigail's last e-mail
and, for whatever reason, hit the reply button. Best not to use her
name; best to be simple and to the point.

Who are you?

Sincerely,

Ben McElwyn

Before he could second-guess himself, he hit
the send button. Off it went. At least the damn ball was finally
out of his court, and he'd be able to get some sleep.

Night came, and he tossed and turned.

****

Abigail came home from school and went
immediately to her computer to check her e-mail. She hadn't been
able to get online for nearly twenty hours, and she was almost sick
from the frustration of it.

She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers
as she waited.
Please, please, please let there be a bmac5
today.

She opened her eyes and there he was: bmac5.
It was a miracle! She opened the e-mail in a state of ecstasy but
was instantly crushed to see such a short message. It was
practically rude. She'd done everything she could think of to be
intriguing but not clingy, and this is all he could come up with?
Six words? He probably had an admin write it for him. It was
so
insulting. She felt like a panhandler who had just had
someone throw a crummy quarter in her cup.

Deciding to give him a taste of his own
medicine, she composed a response:

I think, your daughter.

Sincerely,

Abigail

She sat back and folded her arms across her
chest. How would he like getting
that?

Should she send it? Really, actually send
it? It would teach him
such
a lesson.

No, she decided, after thinking about it. It
was too abrupt. He could have a heart attack or something. Anyway,
he hadn't even said if he was the Ben who knew Sara—although if he
wasn't, then he probably wouldn't have answered at all. Or maybe he
was just plain curious.

Either way, Abigail resolved not to send the
e-mail. She would stick with her original plan. First he had to
tell her if he knew Sara. Then, and only then, would Abigail tell
him who she was.

A shave-and-a-haircut knock on her door told
her that her stepfather was on the other side of it. "Abby?" she
heard him say. "You in there?"

"Yes! No!" she said, hitting the send button
in her panic. Off went her answer through cyberspace, leaving
Abigail too shocked to think. She had enough sense to get rid of
Ben McElwyn's e-mail, but that was about it. When her stepfather
came in smiling, she was speechless.