Phoenix Heart (22 page)

“Chuck.”

“Yeah.”

“Put Cheryl on.”

“Who is this? Melanie? Melanie, are you all right?”

“Chuck, put Cheryl on.”

I heard Cheryl in the background, telling him to give her
the damn phone. “Melanie, thank god. Are you ok?”

“Yes, fine. Cheryl you’ve got to let Maggie know I’m okay.”

“I will. But are you?”

“Yes, yes. Cheryl, have you told anyone anything?”

“No.”

I sagged against the brick wall behind me. “Thanks Cheryl.”

“Where are you? I hear traffic.”

“It’s better I don’t tell you.”

“I’ve been calling your phone and texting you. Why haven’t
you answered?”

“I left it in the hotel room. I didn’t want anyone tracing
it.”

There was a long pause. “I guess you didn’t go screaming
into the night.”

“No, I didn’t. Look, I’ll be out of touch for a few days. Everything’s
going to be okay.”

I heard Chuck’s voice, then Cheryl’s angry, “Who cares?”

“What?”

“Chuck wants to know if Andrew’s okay.”

I closed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Are you with him?”

“Yes. Not at the moment, but yes. Cheryl, the men who were
chasing him, they shot him.”

“Call the police, Mel.” I heard Chuck’s protest and she
angrily shushed him.

“No! I can’t call the police. I promised.”

There were several seconds of static, and then: “Mel, are
you sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

I shivered in the cold breeze blowing in from the Bay. “No, but
it’s a little too late to worry about that now. I’m in, and to tell you the
truth Cheryl, I’m not all that sure that I can get out.”

“He won’t let you?” she asked, outraged.

“No,” I whispered. “I won’t.”

I pushed Saturday’s paper aside and dropped Sunday’s on the
counter. The tone of the article had changed and story had moved to page one. My
photo was bigger this time, an unflattering one that had been taken by the
contest publicist while I’d been stunned by the news of winning my trip. I
looked cold and vacant-eyed. The writer had begun to hint that I wasn’t an
unwilling participant in the scheme, that from the information they’d gathered,
I’d had ample opportunity to get away from Dr. Richards, but instead, had
helped him time and again. The writer hinted the bank had begun an
investigation into my work activities. They’d found the limo driver, Mr. Kent,
and while clearly he had not been overly helpful, he had told the truth that
Dr. Richards had been in his limo with me, and that we’d both seemed be in “some
sort of difficulty.” The hotel employees, when pressed, had changed their story
somewhat. Now I wasn’t nervous and obviously under duress, but rather, I’d been
calculating, using them to get me and Andrew out of a nasty situation, that had
I wanted to leave, I could have at any time.

But the innuendo and sly tone related to me was nothing
compared to the outright disgust in the words about Andrew. Even when they
blamed me, they made certain to assure their readers that it had been Andrew
who corrupted me, Andrew who was playing at the game of being a scientist, only
at the University because of daddy’s money, not capable of an original thought
in his empty head. The quotes from J. P. Harrison were apologetic in that vein:
he should have recognized earlier on that Andrew was incapable of the research
and study necessary to become a scientist. He hinted he had been under undue
pressure to move Andrew on through his dissertation. He’d been against the
granting of the Ph.D., but had had no choice. The tone was penitent, humble,
with just enough self-deprecation to make it totally believable.

Near the end of the story, a short quote from Chuck angrily
disputed all the implications as slanderous lies, but the reporter carefully
described Chuck as a “young, shaggy-haired graduate student whose blonde
companion is a friend and former coworker of the missing Melanie Brenner.”

I leaned on the kitchen’s tile counter, looking down at the
paper, feeling the confusion and weariness fighting with the doubts the insisted
on trying to resurface. And if I, who knew Andrew, still had doubts, I could
see now why he had run. If I, who… cared about him couldn’t bring myself to
trust his story, how could a scandal-hungry public?

Under my left hand, the Saturday newspaper photo of Andrew
stared up at me. That moment frozen in time: him just starting to laugh,
dressed in a tux, just walking into a party, the light in his eyes clearly
evident even though the photo was a poor black and white reproduction of the
same color magazine shot that Cheryl had shown me in
People
an eon ago. The
newspaper had been sloppy in trimming the photo so that Caren Granzella’s
fingers were still visible, resting on Andrew’s arm.

I shoved the paper away. The morning sun was coming through
the window over the sink. I moved over into the light, closed my eyes and let
the heat bake into me. Even standing upright, I could feel myself start to doze
and drift.

A thump outside, followed by a loud chattering, roused me. In
the backyard, three birds fluttered upward, screeching back at the white
Persian who stood in the center of the wrought iron table, twitching his tail,
staring up at them in frustration.

I grinned. “Round four hundred to the birds.”

After I’d stashed the groceries, I took the rest of my supplies
and headed up the hall, past the living room, to the bedroom.

Sunlight entered through the French doors and lay in a long
cross-hatched rectangle across the room and over the bed. Andrew lay on his
back across the mattress, the blankets twisted around him so that one long leg
and his chest were bare. I knelt on the mattress and felt his forehead. It was
cool to the touch. In the morning light I could see a pink flush beneath the
stubble of his beard. I pulled the sheet gently out from under his leg and
straightened it over him.

I stood and yawned and stretched until I felt my back crack.
I started to run my fingers through my hair and drew them back in disgust. Andrew
had his sponge bath, but about as close as I’d come to a real bath was a two
minute shower the day before.

A shower. Suddenly, nothing sounded any better than a very
long, very hot shower. I dug in the grocery bag, pulled out shampoo, soap and a
package of disposable razors. Glory.

Half an hour later I walked from the bathroom, a towel wrapped
around my hair, wearing only the giant crab t-shirt which hung down to
mid-thigh. Andrew was still asleep. I carried my freshly washed underthings
outside and draped them over one of the wrought iron chairs, then yawned and
rubbed at my hair with the towel as I walked back in, spread a blanket near the
patio doors and sat down cross-legged in the sunshine. It was gloriously warm. Through
the French doors I could see the blue sky through the grey-green fronds on the
branches of the little mimosa tree that stood in the garden. Light glinted off
the leaves of an elephant ear palm that sat at the tree’s base. I closed my
eyes. I sat on a beach in the Caribbean, no, Bermuda. The sand beneath me was
warm and soft, the wind blew through the palm trees, the waves ran up the
shore, retreated, the crackle of the rocks on the sand audible as the water
tumbled them over, then pushed them back.

I combed out my hair, not opening my eyes. Finally, I eased
down on the floor, stretched out on the blanket and was almost instantly
asleep.

The sun had moved halfway across the room by the time I
woke. I lay on my back and stretched my arms over my head lazily, then sat up
and ran my fingers through my hair, lifting it up, fluffing it out. I stretched
again, letting my hair fall through my fingers. God, I felt good. It was the
first real sleep I’d had since we’d arrived, and it had been deep and
wonderful. I looked out into the garden, blinked, and then, belatedly
remembering where I was and why, turned quickly toward the bed.

Andrew sat, propped by pillows against the wall, watching
me.

“Hello,” he said.

“Andrew!” I jumped up and ran to the bed. His eyes followed
me. I knelt as gently as I could on the mattress and brushed my hair
impatiently out of the way. “You’re awake!”

“Yes.” He reached out and lifted my hair up and let it drop
down my back. His fingers brushed my shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I managed to say. “How do you feel?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Remember those Road Runner
cartoons where Wile E. Coyote would fall off a cliff?”

I nodded and laughed.

“And then an anvil would land on him?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then the piece of cliff that he’d been standing on
broke off and fell on the anvil that had fallen on him?”

“Yes.”

“And then he’d crawl out from under the anvil and boulders
and the Acme truck would come around the corner and flatten him?”

“Yes! All right! I’ve got the point,” I laughed.

He nodded. “I don’t feel quite that good.”

“Even so, I’m glad you’re awake.”

He grinned. “Thanks. Now, one question. Where the hell am I?”

“This, my dear Dr. Richards, is your lovely garden apartment
rented by your long-suffering wife here.”

His eyes widened. “You managed to rent an apartment last
night? It had to be after eight o’clock when we left the hotel. How in the world
did you do it?”

I shrugged. “Bribery, deceit. And, Andrew, it wasn’t last
night.”

“What?” Andrew tried to push himself upright, winced and
fell back against the pillows. “How long have I been out of it?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“Good God!” This time he sat all the way up. “What’s been
happening? Is Lance okay? Has there been any trouble with the police? You’ve
been dealing with this on your own?”

“Andrew! Andrew, calm down. It’s okay.”

“It’s far from okay. Melanie, I am so sorry I dragged you
into this.” He threw back the sheet and I quickly looked at the ceiling.

“Holy… Where are my clothes?”

I heard the rustle of cloth and looked back down at him. His
face was flushed.

“Drying outside. I washed them.”

He began pulling his legs around to the edge of the mattress.

“Stop!” I jumped up and ran around to stand in front of him.
“Damn it! Andrew, it’s not going to do either one of us any good if you break
open your wound! Lie back and relax. Please.”

“I have to get up.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and
then looked up at me. “I, uh, need to go to the bathroom.”

“Do you want me to bring you something?” I said, as
matter-of-factly as I could.

“No! I mean, no, I can’t ask you.”

I turned, squatted down beside him. “Andrew, it’s Sunday.”

A red flush crept up his neck and colored his cheeks. “You
didn’t have to… I mean, I didn’t…”

I rolled my eyes and attempted a nonchalant grin. “No,
you’re right, you didn’t. For the sake of propriety, the gods prevented
anything from leaving your body for the last 48 hours. You didn’t even sweat.”

“But…”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, well you try waking up and realizing that I’d been
taking care of your naked body for two days and see how you feel.”

My cheeks flushed. My whole body flushed. I had one of those
instant mind movies: me lying on the bed, Andrew using a warm, soapy washcloth
to…

“Sorry,” Andrew said.

I shook my head and shrugged, but I couldn’t look at him. I
listened to a bird out by the patio, to the traffic on the street out front,
and then I heard him try to rise again.

“Stop, Andrew.”

“I’m getting up.”

I considered for a moment and then knelt down in front of
him. “Let me see the bandage,” I said.

He pushed the sheet down. He sat on the edge of the bed, the
sheet pulled across his lap, the rest of him bare, and I became very conscious
of the fact that I wore only a t-shirt and that my bra and panties were hanging
outside, near his shorts, drying. The wrapping was still clean and white; there
was no sign of leakage or bleeding.

“Pretty professional looking job,” he said.

“Harry—the bellman? Harry knew a medical student who needed
some extra money. She bandaged you and gave me a supply of antibiotics.”

“Remind me, if I ever get shot again, to have you around,”
he said.

I shrugged. “It was no big deal.”

“No big deal.”

I gently pushed on the bandage and watched his face. Not
even a wince. “Okay. We can try to get you up. But, if you feel any sharp pain,
we stop, agreed?”

No answer.

“Agreed?”

“No promises.”

“Hmm. Do you want your shorts or not?” I asked.

“Yes, of course.”

“Then I’d better get a promise that you’ll tell me if
something starts to feel wrong or you’re going to be jaybirding it to the
bathroom.”

“Jaybirding? Oh, as in naked as a?”

I nodded.

He stared at me and then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“Blackmail. I never would have thought it of you.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Yeah, well, think it.”

He laughed, but I couldn’t help but notice his eyes
flickered toward where my breasts moved under the t-shirt. Perhaps dramatic
gestures were not the best idea just at the moment.

Andrew managed his shorts. He was also stronger than I’d
thought he would be and only needed a little help from me with balance. The
main trouble was that when he put his arm across my shoulders and my arm went
around his waist, I might as well have been trying to hold onto a column of
flame. Never, never in my life had I even suspected that just touching a man’s
skin could make me react in such a way.

At the door to the bathroom he stopped. “I can take it from
here,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

I struggled to regain some measure of control. I forced
myself to look him in the face. “Okay, but if you pass out, fall over, crack
your head open and bleed all over the tile,
I’m
not cleaning it up.”