Stitches In Time (15 page)

Rachel waited to open the door for Adam, whose arms were loaded with two good-sized cartons and a shopping bag full of mail—mostly catalogues, Rachel observed. Stowing them in a corner, he murmured pathetically, "I
was going to the grocery store, but 1 have to thaw out first."

"You were only out there for five minutes."

"That was four and a half minutes too long. Brrrr."

"There's no need for you to go to the store. The freezer is stuffed with leftovers from the party. Including cookies. Cheryl took most of the ones she made, but she left a few boxes for us."

"Why didn't you tell me that when I was trying to be hospitable?"

"Why should we waste Cheryl's cookies on people like Mrs. Wilson? We'll go shopping tomorrow," she added, remembering the roll of film. Even on Christmas Eve she could probably find a place that would develop it in an hour. "Sit down.
I
want to talk to you."

"What about?" Adam fumbled nervously with his beard.

"That damned beard, for one thing," Rachel said, to her surprise. Adam's beard certainly hadn't been the most important thing on her mind.

"What's wrong with it?"

"You look like a Neanderthal."

"It keeps my face warm."

"You could at least trim it. Oh, hell, why am
I
talking about your beard? What plans have you made for tomorrow night?"

"1 don't have any plans for tomorrow night. I just didn't want to go to that party." His eyes widened ingenuously. "Did you?"

"No. Though it might have occurred to you to ask me before you turned down the invitation. You said 'we,' and Kara assumed you were speaking for both of us."

"Where do you want to go?"

"
I
don't want to go anyplace!
I
just want to know what you're going to do."

"Whatever you're doing," Adam said simply.

"Oh."

"That's what Tony told me. Stick with her." Adam admitted, "I didn't take the situation seriously at first, and I had promised Pat I'd check out the Esbat, and I figured you'd be okay here for a few hours, with the dogs and the house locked up. I'm sorry about that. It won't happen again."

"What made you change your mind?"

"The knife. I don't like the way this guy is behaving. Kara thinks he's not after the quilts anymore, he's after you. I'm beginning to agree with her."

"Thanks for cheering me up."

"Would you rather we patted you on the head and told you not to worry? You can't even tell that comforting lie to a child these days, it's too dangerous to allow him to feel safe. God," Adam said, with sudden bitterness. "What a world it is."

"Yeah."

"So from now on you're stuck with me. Whither thou goest I will go. With strict observance of the proprieties, of course," he added. "I won't insist on sleeping with you."

"Oh," Rachel said blankly. "Thanks."

"You should thank me.
I
snore. Not all the time, just when I'm tired."

It was hard to tell what was going on under the beard; the vibrations could indicate a smile or a leer or a sneer. Rachel decided it was safe to laugh. "I meant, thanks for playing bodyguard. I'm not going to be heroic."

"Good. I respect courage and the principles of modern feminism, but this situation has nothing to do with either. If
I
were in your shoes I'd demand protection too. So let's consider our schedule and enjoy the festal season, undeterred by grinches of any variety. Christmas Day we're spending with Pat and Ruth. We better go
shopping tomorrow, I haven't got anything for them yet."

"I haven't either," Rachel said guiltily. "I'm glad you reminded me."

"You've had other things on your mind."

"That's no excuse."

"Well, we'll do it tomorrow. Maybe you can give me some ideas. I never know what to get for women, they have such peculiar tastes."

Rachel laughed. "What did you—"

The telephone interrupted her and reminded her of a broken promise. As she might have known, the caller was Cheryl, spouting questions. When she could get a word in, she said, "I was about to call you. Kara just left, and Adam and I got to talking . . . Yes. Yes, he's here. Everything is fine. Mrs. Wilson identified the things and Tom—"

Cheryl knew what had happened; she had already had a long talk with Kara. Cheryl didn't scold her for failing to report, but Rachel would have preferred a lecture to the outpouring of warm sympathy and concern.

"Really," she said, as soon as she could get a word in, "there's nothing to worry about and absolutely no need for you to cut your holiday short. Adam is here and he's been ..." She glanced at Adam, who was mouthing silent comments. "He's been ... Do you want to talk to him?"

Adam handed her a bottle of wine and a corkscrew and took the phone. "We're about to get drunk," he announced. "So talk fast. She'll have the cork out in a second and if I let her get a few drinks ahead . . . What? No. Yes. I said so, didn't I? All right." He handed the phone back to Rachel and retrieved the bottle.

"What did you do to him?" Cheryl demanded.

"I don't understand."

"He's talking! And making insulting remarks. It usually takes him at least six months to get to that point with
another man, much less a female. What did you do, put a spell on him?"

"I'll tell you about it some time," Rachel said.

She had to endure more friendly teasing from Cheryl, and an even more uncomfortable, if brief, discussion with Tony. It was only her guilty conscience, she told herself, that lent double meanings to some of his statements. He was glad she and Adam were getting on so well.

Rachel was on her second glass of wine and Adam was investigating the leftovers in the refrigerator when the telephone rang again. She recognized Tom's voice before he identified himself.

"Are you watching the news?" he asked.

The question jolted Rachel out of her mellow mood. "I forgot. Is it... Will there be something on about..."

The words and the tone of her voice alerted Adam; muttering under his breath, he went to the television set and switched it on.

"Channel four." Rachel repeated what Tom had said, and Adam settled down in front of the set to watch. The announcer was talking about a local resident whose neighbors had complained about his Christmas decorations. The ten thousand bulbs shining all night long kept them awake, and they were tired of listening to endless repetitions of "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas."

"They'll repeat the story at six," Tom said, when Rachel had reported this. "I—uh—I didn't get a chance to talk to you today. Alone, I mean."

"No," Rachel agreed. She was watching Adam, who appeared to be absorbed by the story about the Christmas decorations. She had no doubt as to whose side he was on.

"I thought maybe we could have a drink tomorrow night, or maybe an early dinner. I'm going to my sister's later, to help them put the toys together—you know, the ones that say, 'Some assembly required.' My brother-in-law is a good guy, but he doesn't know a screwdriver from a wrench. But I'm not supposed to show up till the kids are in bed, so I thought maybe ..."

"I'd love to," Rachel said.

"Great. Suppose I pick you up at five."

Adam turned toward her and began waving his arms urgently.

"It's on," Rachel said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

The police officer who was being interviewed wasn't Tom; she realized she shouldn't have expected to see him, he was probably in the wrong department or not important enough to rate public exposure. The grizzled veteran who was probably a captain or deputy sheriff made the most of the pathos of the story and asked for the cooperation of the viewing audience. He didn't mention Rachel's name or the name of the shop, but he emphasized that "several" people had seen the presumed thief.

Adam switched off the set. "What is it you'd love to do?" he asked.

"None of your business."

"As your bodyguard, I am entitled to know your future plans," Adam said with great dignity. "When is he picking you up? Are you going shopping with me tomorrow?"

Adam insisted on shopping at the biggest and gaudiest mall in the area, which involved a twenty-mile drive that took twice as long as usual because too many other people had left their shopping until the day before Christmas. He also insisted on driving. They hadn't gone a block before Rachel realized she had made a serious error in letting him get behind the wheel. He handled the car as if it were a Jeep or Land Rover, hitting bumps and potholes at full speed, and never yielding the right of way. She managed
to talk him into removing his mittens so he could get a firm grip on the wheel, but her other remonstrations had little effect.

"Haven't driven in the States for a long time," Adam explained. "Takes a while to change old habits. Don't worry, I'm an excellent driver. Never had an accident."

That seemed improbable. Rachel closed her eyes and abandoned the subject. "How do you feel about malls?" she asked. "Most of the men
I
know avoid them like the plague."

"They're fascinating studies in sociological development." Adam fumbled in his pocket and withdrew a crumpled piece of paper. "I start screaming with claustrophobia after about an hour, though. Let's get organized.
I
made a list."

Rachel opened her eyes, but she got only a glimpse before he covered the paper with his hand. "You're not supposed to see what I'm getting for you," he explained indignantly.

"
I
didn't. Manure for Ruth?"

"She's a dedicated gardener," Adam explained.

"Yes, but . .. You aren't going to find manure or any other gardening things this time of year."

"Oh." Adam looked chagrined. "Any suggestions?"

"You're on your own, buster."

They had to circle the parking garage for twenty minutes before they found a space, and they wouldn't have gotten that one if Adam had not outbluffed two other drivers. One of them got out of his car, prepared to debate the case, but when Adam emerged and rose to his full height, his beard bristling, the combative gentleman beat a hasty retreat.

Otherwise Adam was the soul of courtesy, stopping to pick up a parcel a woman had dropped, holding the door for laden shoppers.

"I'll meet you here in an hour," he said. "Right inside the door."

"Make it an hour and a half."

The stores were crowded, the clerks harried, and the merchandise limited, but carols blared from the loudspeakers and people were in a holiday mood, good-natured and smiling. Even the cheap decorations, the swags of plastic holly and gold tinsel, had a tacky, insouciant charm. After Rachel had dropped off her film she squared her shoulders and plunged into the crowd. She knew it wouldn't be easy to find appropriate gifts; the others were well-to-do people with excellent taste.

Except Adam. She rather enjoyed selecting gifts for him—a new pair of mittens, a heavy cap with ear flaps, a bright tartan muffler and, the piece de resistance, a pair of socks with a smirking blonde female on one and a grinning Santa on the other, with a concealed tape that played "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus." The presents she chose for the others were boring but safe—gloves, scarves, stationery.

When she returned to the photo shop the pictures weren't ready; she had to wait another fifteen minutes, and since she was already late she didn't examine them closely, only shuffled quickly through the pack to make sure they had come out. Hurrying to the door, she saw Adam waiting. His promptness surprised her a little; even more surprising was the fact that Adam the unsociable was deep in animated conversation with another man. Then the latter let out a booming laugh that rang out over the Christmas music, and she recognized Pat MacDougal.

"Look who I found," Adam said happily.

"Wrong. He didn't find me, I found him—wild-eyed and aimlessly wandering." He held out his hand. "Hello, Rachel. Somebody should have warned you not to go out in public with this—"

Rachel shifted her shopping bag to her left hand and offered her right. As he took it in his, he stopped speaking so suddenly that the last word ended in a gasp of expelled breath, and his grip tightened like a tourniquet. Rachel cried out.

He released her at once. "Sorry. Don't know my own strength." He was smiling, but he had stepped back, a quick, involuntary movement, and his narrowed eyes, intent on her face, were cold and unsmiling.

Adam stared at Pat. "What's the matter?"

"What's the matter with what? Take him home, Rachel, he's becoming incoherent. See you both tomorrow."

He moved quickly and rather clumsily, shouldering his way through the crowds of people, not looking back.

He knows. Watch out for him.

The words sounded so distinctly Rachel glanced over her shoulder to see who had spoken. No one was looking at her or talking to her. Except Adam, and he was saying something quite different in quite a different tone of voice.

"Quick, let's get out of here before she sees me."

"Who?" Rachel grabbed her shopping bag and let him tow her toward the exit.

"One of the Wiccas." He let out a breath of relief when they reached the parking garage unaccosted. "
I
was at that meeting under what you might call false pretenses, and I'd just as soon not—"

"You used a false name?"

She meant it as a joke until she saw his sheepish expression. "One of them might have known who I was. As I told Tom, they're a well-informed lot, they read the literature, and—well, uh . .."

"What would they do, curse you?"