Hiding in Plain Sight (15 page)

“For
him
?” She sounded truly astonished at the idea. “He's the guy. He's the one who's supposed to do that stuff.”

“This is the twenty-first century!” I said. “Things have changed. It all works both ways. Or at least, it
should
.”

“So you think I should…” She trailed off, hesitated a few seconds, and then turned to me questioningly. “What exactly are you suggesting?”

“I don't know. I don't know what he likes. I don't even think it really matters
what
it is, so much as the fact that you did something special.”

“Well, what kind of stuff do you do for Greg?”

“Well, for example, I dropped a little handmade invitation at Broderick's one night, asking him to come to my place after work. When he got there I had a candlelight
picnic set up in the backyard. He liked that a lot. Another time I got his dad to let me in his room when he wasn't home and I left a bouquet of helium balloons that I'd written mushy stuff on tied to his headboard.”

Betts seemed impressed with the ideas, but her mood turned sour again pretty quickly. “That works with you two because Greg does things like that for you all the time too. Derek never does.”

“Yeah, but someone has to
start
that kind of thing. I'd never have thought up the stuff I planned if it wasn't for the fact that Greg did special things for me first. If you still like Derek enough to try to make it work between you, then you might have to make the first move.”

“What if I do something like that and he thinks it's stupid and makes fun of me?”

“I guess if it really matters to you, you'll take that chance.” I honestly couldn't see him reacting that way, but I wasn't about to come right out and say so. If I were wrong, I'd never hear the end of it.

“You know what scares me?” Betts said suddenly.

“What?”

“I keep changing my mind.”

“About Derek, you mean?”

“Well, Derek right now. But it's been this way with every guy I've ever gone out with.” She sighed. “I like them a lot and then later on I don't even
know
if I like them any more.”

“How can you not know if you like someone?”

“That's the weird thing. Some days I think I'm still crazy about a guy, and others I couldn't care less if I never saw him again.”

“And that scares you?” I was having a bit of trouble following her train of thought.

“Yeah. Because, what if that keeps happening to me later on? What if it happens to me after I'm married?”

“I don't think that's likely,” I said, but I didn't know if I really meant it. Betts has always been pretty flighty.

“Why not?” She turned and faced me with a challenging look, like she was daring me to say the wrong thing.

“Because, you're still, uh, young,” I said, trying to sound like I had some idea what I was talking about. “So right now you're just finding out what you want, you know, in a guy. And by the time you're old enough to make a big decision like that, you'll have it all sorted out.”

“But what if there's one person out there who's meant for me, like a soul mate,” she said, “and I never find him because I haven't even figured out my own feelings?”

“You believe in soul mates?” I was surprised about that, but mostly I wanted to avoid answering her question.

“Maybe. Don't you?”

“I don't know. I think there could be more than one person you could love and be happy with, though I can't imagine feeling the way I do about Greg with someone else.”

Betts's attention was already drifting, though, and I could tell that she was thinking about what I'd said a few moments earlier and not terribly interested in my comments about Greg.

“Yeah, that's cool,” she said politely. “Anyway, I think I'll head back home now. I might think of some things to try with Derek, just to see if it makes any difference.”

We said good night and I headed home, weary from a long day and a longer week. I was suddenly very lonesome for Greg, and as soon as I got in the house I called him.

He was glad to hear from me, but the second time he caught me yawning, he laughed and said, “There's something I want you to do for me.”

“Okay. What?”

“I want you to say good night and hang up the phone. Then I want you to go to bed, but first, make sure your curtains are open so you can see the sky while you're falling asleep.”

“Why?”

“Because in ten minutes, I'm going out on the deck here, and I'm going to look at the moon. This way, we'll be looking at it together.”

I said okay, said goodbye, changed, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed just in time. It felt so peaceful and nice, curled up and looking languidly at the moon, knowing that, many miles away, Greg was looking at it too.

T
he last thought that had crossed my mind before falling asleep the night before was how nice it was going to be to sleep in. It would have been, too, if someone else hadn't had a different plan for the morning.

It started out with a rough tongue rasping the edge of my ear.

“Ernie! Stop it,” I hissed.

Ernie didn't stop. I mumbled something unfriendly at him and ducked my head down under the comforter. He took this move as the beginning of a new game, one in which he butted me with his head and walked back and forth across my covered head.

As determined as I was to ignore him and go back to sleep, it wasn't very long before his persistence had
me fully awake. I knew it was unlikely that I'd get drowsy again.

“You're a
bad
cat,” I muttered, crawling out of bed.

One thing about Ernie, he's pretty resistant to insults. With no sign of rancour, he rubbed his cheeks against my legs and purred loudly.

I focused on my alarm clock and saw that it was just a few minutes past seven. With a groan, I washed up and made my way to the kitchen, while Ernie did his best to trip me — running beside me with his little prance and managing to get in front or too close a half-dozen times on the way down the hall.

“I thought cats were supposed to be graceful,” I grumbled. Ernie meowed loudly, pacing in front of his dish. He seemed uninterested in any discussion on his clumsiness.

“I
should
give you beef this morning,” I went on, getting a tin of food from the cupboard. “What would you think of that? Oh, I know you like fish the best, but
I
like to sleep in on Saturdays and you don't care about
that
, now, do you?”

Ernie purred and meowed and looked impatient. What he did
not
look was repentant.

I plunked his dish back down after scooping a stinky blob of canned trout dinner in it, and he started gobbling like a furry black piggy.

I washed my hands for a second time and opened
the fridge. Mom had made a big citrus fruit salad, in one of her endless attempts to get Dad to eat healthier. It had chunks of oranges and mandarins and grapefruit. I decided to have some of that, along with yoghurt and a piece of toast, but I changed my mind at the last second and reached for the eggs instead.

I beat an egg into a shallow bowl, added a bit of milk, and dipped a couple of slices of bread into it. Then I dropped them into a sizzling frying pan, added a sprinkle of cinnamon, and felt my mouth start to water at the smell.

Once I'd eaten my French toast, wiped the table, and put my dishes in the sink, I found the grouchiness had pretty well passed. I looked around for Ernie, who had eaten and disappeared in short order.

He was curled up in Dad's leather chair in the living room — the chair he's been told repeatedly not to get into.
Any
other chair, we tell him, and he goes straight to the one he's not allowed in and tries to dig his claws into the surface. Luckily it's pretty thick, and so far he hasn't been able to penetrate it, but he still has to learn not to get up there.

I scooped him up and took him to my room. Now that he'd eaten, he was only too happy to flop down and settle in for a nap. I stroked his soft fur while he purred, loudly at first and then softer and softer until he'd sunk into kitty slumber-land, where he doubtless enjoyed dreaming about the next batch of bad things he could do.

I put my face against his velvety side, and in no time, I too had drifted back to sleep.

It was Mom who woke me the next time, although she didn't do it on purpose. She'd started dusting in the entryway and knocked over the umbrella stand. The clatter reached my room and sent Ernie flying to the floor and heading for cover. I knew I'd find him in his now familiar hiding place, behind the toilet in the main bathroom.

Since the ruckus had woken me as well, I figured I might as well give up on sleeping any more. I went and coaxed Ernie from his hiding place and then carried him with me to talk to Mom.

“Did I wake you, dear?” she asked as we came into sight.

“More like you woke him and he woke me,” I said, nodding at the cat.

“You woke
me
, too,” came Dad's voice behind me.

“Ah, none of you want to be sleeping the day away anyway,” Mom said cheerfully.

“I was up earlier,” I protested. “I even cooked breakfast and fed Ernie.”

“Cooked? Not with real heat?” Dad teased. “You didn't actually turn a burner on!”

“French toast,” I said, in the tone you use to tell someone “so there!”

“Boy, that sounds good,” he said, looking wistful.

“If you want, I'll make you some. Matter of fact, I'll make you both some,” I volunteered, thinking it wouldn't hurt to soften them up a bit before asking if Ernie could stay. It wasn't until I saw Mom's frown that I remembered the fruit salad she'd made for Dad. She's always worrying about his cholesterol and stuff like that.

“French toast sounds grand,” Dad said. He clasped his hands together prayerfully and turned to Mom. “Am I allowed, Darlene?”

“Oh, go ahead. You're going to anyway,” she said affectionately. “But don't slather it with butter, okay?”

“I promise,” he said. “You can even come and supervise.”

“You
need
supervision,” she said, but she was smiling.

I let Ernie down before we got to the kitchen and started getting things ready to make the French toast. Mom and Dad sat at the table waiting as I cooked, and I waited for an opening. It wasn't long coming.

“Did you find out how Ernie came to have such an unusual name for a cat?” Mom asked.

“Oh! I forgot to ask,” I said, making a mental note to do it when I went up to the hospital later on in the day. “I guess Mr. Stanley's news kind of threw me off.”

“News?” they asked in unison.

“Yes.” Deep breath. “It seems he's not going to be returning to his apartment as he originally expected.”

I'd expected an immediate reaction, but neither said a word. They sat and waited for me to explain.

“Uh, see, Mr. Stanley's daughter is afraid some-thing will happen to him, being there alone and all. It seems that he's fallen and broken bones before this one. Anyway, he'll be going into a seniors' home instead. You know, for his own safety and all.”

“Well, that's too bad,” Dad said. “I think it's hard for a person to give up their independence, though it sounds like it's necessary, all right.”

“I don't think it will be so bad,” Mom added. “They have activities and things, and he'll have lots of company. And in his case, since he's healthy aside from the brittle bones, he'd be allowed to go out for visits, days or weekends or even longer.”

“That would be good,” I said, surprised that neither of them had yet seemed to make the connection that Ernie was suddenly without a home to return to in a few weeks.

Naturally, Ernie chose that moment to amble over to the table and jump up.

“Hey!” Dad said. He scooted him off while I hurried over with a washcloth. “I don't think your friend Mr. Stanley overdid it teaching this cat manners.”

“You're right,” I said quickly. “I think Ernie would be a
whole lot
better behaved if he had a bit more, you know, guidance and stuff.”

“Well, I would certainly hope so,” Mom said, her eyes smiling. “Since it looks like he'll be staying.”

And that was it! No pleading or tears or promises or anything. I was too surprised to say anything, which gave Mom the chance to go on.

“You be sure to let Mr. Stanley know that we'll be happy to have him visit regularly so he can see this scoundrel. I'm thinking that dinners on Sundays when we don't have other commitments would be nice. Unless, of course, he's going to his daughter's or somewhere else.”

I was so happy and excited I could hardly wait for the afternoon to come so I could go see Mr. Stanley and tell him the news.

A
fter the kitchen was cleaned up from breakfast I went and did my room, which I must admit had gotten a bit untidy through the week. I've found it's best to stay a step ahead of Mom when it comes to my room, or she bugs me with comments like “A cow couldn't find her calf in there, Shelby” or “I'd think a young woman your age would take a little more pride in herself than that” or similar remarks.

Fortunately, she doesn't go in there often, but once in a while she'll knock and pop her head in and if it's pretty messy I'm in for it.

Once that was accomplished, there didn't seem to be much to do. Mom had already told me that while I was working through the summer, all I needed to help out with was dishes sometimes, and of course I was to keep my room clean. I guess she thought that since it
was summer holidays for me, having the weekends free was only fair. I didn't argue.

With my room organized, I figured it was as good a time as any to compile my scattered notes on the robbery into a more orderly collection. I got out a notebook and started transferring everything that was written in the smaller notepad I'd been carrying around as well as things I'd jotted on various scraps of paper.