Caught in a Bind (15 page)

I nodded, staring thoughtfully at his chest, about a foot from my nose. He wasn’t listening to a word I said. “I beat the cops to the story.”

“Mr. Whitsun from the Broughley Gallery is even thinking of coming back down from New York for the opening!”

The door in the back of the room opened, and Delia appeared. “Curt, dear heart, I need you.”

He dropped his arms from about me and turned. “In a minute. I’m almost done here.”

“Dear heart?” I looked at him with one eyebrow raised.

He flapped a hand negligently. “Sort of I-call-everybody-darling, only it’s dear heart.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better. Now did you hear me tell you that Tom Whatley is really Tom Willis?”

Curt squinted into the dark room, obviously trying to recast the conversation. He smiled brightly, his teeth white in the dusky gloom. “Yep. I remember. And this is supposed to mean something?”

I blinked. “Sure. Tom Willis was masquerading as Tom—”

Curt nodded. “I got that. But why?”

I shrugged. “It has something to do with the way Tom Whatley died in a drug bust, but we don’t know exactly what yet.” I grinned. “And I’m the one who discovered all this!”

He patted my shoulder. “That’s great, Merry.”

But it was more like patting your collie after he fetched for you about a hundred times in one afternoon and you wished he’d just give up and leave you alone. Curt wasn’t really paying attention to me, but looking at something behind me with an intensity I wanted for myself.

I turned and looked but saw nothing except the window display. “What’s wrong?”

“Not much. Don’t worry. It’ll be okay.” He walked over to the picture in the window. He leaned into the display and shifted the easel upon which the picture sat about a quarter inch to the left.

“There. That’s better.” He stood back, satisfied.

If he had bothered to look at me, Curt would have seen my mouth hanging open. I’d expected congratulations, applause, acclamation, adulation. Instead, he was fixated on the stupid angle of his picture.

The back-room door crashed open. “Curt, are you coming?” Delia demanded.

“Be right there,” Curt called.

“Right.” Delia’s sarcasm would have curdled the blood of a lesser man.

“Right,” Curt repeated, unfazed.

“Well, hurry up, lover,” she said, emphasizing
lover
. “There’s still much to do back here.” Somehow she made those words very suggestive.

“Lover?” I repeated, jaw clenched. “Is that like dear heart?” What I wanted to do was scream in the direction of the back room, “Don’t you dare call him that!” That would be after I screamed at him, “Will you listen to me?”

Curt, unaware of my anger, shrugged. “What can I say? It’s my charm.”

“Charm, schmarm.” I grabbed the door handle and gave him one last hostile glare. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

Curt looked bewildered. “Sure I have. Tom Whatley is—something. Missing.”

“Try dead.”

Curt looked surprised. “Tom Whatley’s dead? Poor Edie.”

“For ten years.”

“What?”

“Curt!” The tattoo of Delia tapping the floor in frustration or anger cut across the gallery.

“See?” I scowled at him. “I knew you weren’t listening!”

He looked down at me, his face thrown into sharp planes of dark and light from the open door to the back room. “And have you heard anything I’ve said?” His voice was hard.

“Yeah. You’re going to lunch with her highness tomorrow.” I pulled the door open. “Have fun.” I slammed the door as loudly as I could. With luck, the glass pane would shatter under the tension.

Fat chance. Safety glass had been invented for protection against temperamental idiots like me.

I was in the car reaching for the ignition before I realized I’d left my keys behind. In Curt’s pocket. I let my head fall back against the headrest. Not again! I thought of the humiliation of going back to Intimations and banging on the door and felt the heat rise. All my anger dissipated like mist before a strong breeze.

A knock on my window startled me. I swallowed a scream at the huge shape looming over me and reached out automatically to slam the lock down. I wasn’t fast enough.

The door flew open and my keys dropped in my lap.

“I think you’ll need these.”

It could have been worse. It could have been Delia come to gloat.

“Thanks, Curt.” I sighed. “Twice an idiot.”

“Thrice,” he corrected, ever the gentleman. “Move over.” I slid across to the passenger side and he climbed into the driver’s seat.

“What happened back there?” he asked. He sounded genuinely perplexed.

“We had a fight?”

“But what about? Delia?”

“I don’t think so, though I don’t like her calling you dear heart and lover.”

“It means nothing,” he said, reaching for my hand. He began rubbing his thumb back and forth over my inner wrist. “At least it means nothing to me.”

I felt better already. “I know.”

“Then what? I wasn’t excited enough about your story?”

“To the head of the class with you.” I reached out and straightened his collar. Then I brushed back the curl that always fell over his eye.

“But you didn’t pay any attention at all to my good news either.”

I was stung at his accusation. “Of course I did.”

“You call your crack about lunch with her highness noticing?”

Now it was my turn to recast our conversation. Try as I might, I couldn’t recall one nice comment about what was a great career opportunity for him. My shoulders sagged. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He smiled slightly. “I didn’t mean to diminish your big news either. You did a nice piece of investigative reporting to discover something like that.”

“Thanks.” My eyes filled with tears. “And I’m delighted for your opportunity. Truly I am. I know how much it must mean to you.”

I don’t know who moved first, but as make-up kisses go, this one had to be among the best ever.

We sat silent for a couple of minutes, arms about each other.

“Are we too different?” I whispered. “Or is this type of misunderstanding typical of all couples?”

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say typical, but I don’t know. I’ve never paid all that much attention to the dynamics
of being a couple.” He smiled and kissed my cheek. “I never had to before.”

All the lights in Intimations erupted into the night, golden, brilliant and demanding. Delia.

“I’ve got to go,” Curt said, pulling back. “Really.”

I nodded. “Have a wonderful lunch tomorrow.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night?” He squeezed my hand. “I promise to listen very carefully to your Tom story.”

“And I to your luncheon report. Can Delia spare you for the evening?” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “I didn’t say that last sentence. I didn’t. Or at least I didn’t mean it to be nasty.”

“Give me a kiss, darlin’ girl.” He leaned in and I complied.

As I drove home, I told myself over and over that we’d get this communication thing figured out. We would.

Oh, Lord, we will, right? What we’ve got developing here is too special to lose
.

Yes, we were different. We liked different things. We had different careers. But we were learning to love each other, and we both loved the Lord.

We could do this, I told my rapidly beating heart.

We would do this.

Right, Lord?

ELEVEN

“M
erry, you said to call.” It was William Poole.

I smothered a yawn as I looked at the clock. Almost eleven. “Randy?”

“Can you keep him for a couple of days?”

A couple of days? When I’d said he could come for tonight, I’d never given a thought to any longer. What would I do with him? What would I say to him? What if he lost it while here? I had visions of my furniture in kindling and the house ransacked. Then I remembered the quality of my furniture and the dearth of ransackable goods and acknowledged those thoughts for the excuses they were.

“Will Edie be in the hospital that long?” I asked for something to fill the stretching silence.

“I don’t know. But even if she comes home tomorrow, which she probably will, she’ll be in no shape to keep an eye on the kid.”

“What does he say about coming here?”

“He doesn’t get a choice. It’s you, or I’m taking him to juvenile detention down in Lima.”

Me or the juvenile facility. No pressure there. My heart beat against my ribs, and my stomach churned like a malted in a blender.

“I’ve got to go to work in the morning,” I said.

“Take him with you.”

“What about school?”

“There’s only a day or two before Easter break. He can miss the time or you can take him and pick him up. I really don’t care.”

“Are you at the police station?”

“Yes.”

I took a deep breath and jumped. “I’ll be right there.”
And Jesus, You’d better come with me!

Randy was not the finest of companions as we drove to his house for clothes and necessities, which I was interested to notice included his iPod and laptop computer as well as a PlayStation and numerous cartridges. He was sullen, embarrassed and angry.

“Do you have school tomorrow?” I asked as he packed.

Grunt.

“Do you have homework and stuff?”

He swung his backpack before my nose.

“Do you want to go to school or to work with me?”

Grunt.

“Is your car okay?”

Grunt.

And just because I couldn’t resist, “Don’t forget clean underwear.”

That didn’t even rate a grunt. We left his house in silence.

Looking at the situation from his fifteen-year-old vantage point, I understood his attitude. After all, I’d seen him slug his mother, fall to pieces and get dragged off by the police. Our common experiences were hardly the stuff of meaningful conversation and deep friendship.

“Have you had dinner?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“McDonald’s okay?”

He nodded.

I pulled up to the drive-through order mike. “What’ll it be?”

He stared straight ahead without speaking for a few seconds, tumultuous emotions pouring from him in waves. It was as if he were so consumed by internal conflicts that he couldn’t articulate a coherent thought.

Finally he growled, “Two Big Macs, two large fries, two large Sprites and two apple dippers. Don’t forget the caramel stuff.”

“Thanks, but I already ate,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

He looked at me blankly.

The boy of ten who took my money was definitely more fun than Randy. He might struggle to reach the cash register, but at least he knew how to smile.

Randy wolfed down the food as we drove and left the paper sack stuffed with trash on the floor of the front seat when he climbed out at the carriage house. He stared at the place in disbelief long enough for me to collect his trash. He barely blinked when I shoved it in his hand.

“Trash basket’s in the kitchen.”

“What is this building?” he asked. “It looks weird. And it’s not on the street. It’s on the alley.” I could definitely hear his lip curl in disdain on the last comment. I guess if I were getting a classy sports car for my sixteenth birthday, living on the alley would definitely look déclassé.

“It’s an old carriage house that’s been converted into four apartments. The mansion that it serviced was torn down long ago and those houses built where it used to be.” I gestured toward the residences fortunate enough to be on the street.

“My apartment’s on the first floor. I hope you don’t mind the couch, because that’s what you’ve got.”

He barely restrained a grimace.

“One thing you need to be aware of is that the bathroom has two doors, one in the living room—yours—and one in the bedroom—mine.”

“So?” he said, ever charming.

“Neither door has a lock.”

He looked at me like I had lost my mind.

We went inside, and I got out extra sheets and blankets and a pillow. From the linen closet I pulled a set of new, fluffy pink towels that I’d bought myself just last week. If he thought them unmanly, that was his tough luck. It was pink or use paper towels.

“This is Whiskers.” I scratched the boy behind his furry ears. “I got him at the pound, but he has decided that he won’t tell anyone of his lowly background. After all, he’s already come a long way, living on the alley. He suspects that it’s just a matter of time before he moves up to the street. Right, baby?”

Whiskers responded by butting against my shins. I stroked his back, and he purred in delight.

Randy held out a hand. “Here, cat.” The command had all the grace of a drill sergeant telling his men to stand at attention, but for some reason, Whiskers responded. He wrapped himself around Randy’s ankles, and the boy actually managed a smile.

I tried to think back to when I was fifteen. Had I been so sullen and withdrawn? Of course, my parents hadn’t divorced, my father hadn’t forgotten the date of my birthday, my stepfather hadn’t disappeared and I’d never flown into a rage and struck my mother, so it was difficult to make a comparison. I looked at the boy as he awkwardly petted Whiskers, and my heart broke for him.

Oh, Lord, he needs You so badly!

When I had his bed all arranged, I said, “You can watch TV if you want. Just keep the sound down so I can sleep, okay?”

He stared at me blankly in answer.

“Right.” I gave my fist a shake, a little homeboy sign to make him feel comfortable. “Now I know you can easily walk out of here during the night.” He started as I said that, making me wonder if he’d already been planning to leave. “However, let me tell you that I don’t think it would be a good idea. Enough people are upset with you as it is.” I looked him dead in the eye. “I’m trusting that you’re smart enough to know what’s the best thing to do even if it’s not the most fun or the most exciting.”

He looked over my left shoulder and out the window into the night, and made no response.

I bit back a sigh. “Tomorrow morning after breakfast we’ll call the hospital and see if your mom’s coming home. If she is, we’ll arrange a time to go get her. Until she’s released, you can come to work with me if you don’t feel up to school.”