The Hollow (8 page)

“And I'll be—” She pointed to her desk.

“Okay.” He started back. “Okay,” he repeated, then looked at the supply closet. “Oh boy.”

Four

AT FOUR FORTY-FIVE, FOX WALKED HIS LAST client of the day to the door. Outside, March was kicking thin brown leaves along the sidewalk, and a couple of kids in hoodies walked straight into the whooshing wind. Probably going up to the arcade at the bowling center, he mused. Squeeze in a couple of games before dinner.

There'd been a day he'd have walked through the wind for a couple of games of Galaxia. In fact, he thought, he'd done that last week. If that made him twelve on some level, he could live with it. Some things shouldn't change.

He heard Layla speaking on the phone, telling the caller that Mr. O'Dell was in court tomorrow, but she could make an appointment for later in the week.

When he turned she was keying it into the computer, into the calendar, he supposed, in her efficient way. From his angle he could see her legs in the opening of the desk, the way she tapped a foot as she worked. The silver she wore at her ears glinted as she swiveled to hang up the phone, then her gaze shifted to meet his. And the muscles of his belly quivered.

He definitely wasn't twelve on this particular level. Thank God some things did change.

It must've been the goofy smile on his face that had her cocking her head at him. “What?”

“Nothing. Just a little internal philosophy. Anything important on that call?”

“Not urgent. It was only regarding a partnership agreement—a couple of women writing a series of cook-books they believe are going to be bestsellers. Rachael Ray, step back, I'm told. They want to formalize their collaboration before they hit the big time. You have a busy schedule this week.”

“Then I should be able to afford Chinese for dinner, if you're still up for it.”

“I just need to shut down for the day.”

“Go ahead. I'll do the same. We can go up through the kitchen.”

In his office, Fox shut down his computer, shouldered his briefcase, then tried to remember exactly what state his apartment might be in.

Uh-oh. He realized he'd just hit another area at which he remained twelve.

Best not to think about it, he decided, since it was too late to do anything about it. Anyway, how bad could it be?

He walked into the kitchen where Mrs. Hawbaker kept the coffeemaker, the microwave, the dishes she'd deemed appropriate for serving clients. He knew she kept cookies in there, because he raided them routinely. And her vases, boxes of fancy teas.

Who'd stock cookies when Mrs. H deserted him? Wistfully, he turned when Layla came in.

“She buys the supplies with the proceeds from the F-word jar in my office. I tend to keep that pretty well funded. I guess she's told you.”

“A dollar for every F-word, honor system. Since I've seen your jar, I'd say you're pretty free with the F-word, and honorable about it.” He's so sad, she thought, and it made her want to cuddle him, to stroke the messy, waving hair. “I know you're going to miss her.”

“Maybe she'll come back. Either way, life moves.” He opened the door to the stairway. “I might as well tell you since Mrs. H doesn't deal with my apartment, and in fact, refuses to go up here since an unfortunate incident involving oversleeping and neglected laundry, it's probably a mess.”

“I've seen messes before.”

But when she stepped up from the tidy office kitchen into Fox's personal one, Layla understood she'd underestimated the definition of mess.

There were dishes in the sink, on the counter, and on the small table that was also covered with what appeared to be several days of newspapers. A couple boxes of cereal (did grown men actually eat Cocoa Puffs?), bags of chips, a bottle of red wine, some bottles of condiments, and an empty jug of Gatorade fought for position on the short counter beside a refrigerator all but wallpapered with sticky notes and snapshots.

There were three pairs of shoes on the floor, a battered jacket slung over one of the two kitchen chairs, and a stack of magazines towered on the other.

“Maybe you want to go away for an hour, or possibly a week, while I deal with this.”

“No. No. Is the rest this bad?”

“I don't remember. I can go check before—”

But she was already stepping over shoes and into the living room.

It wasn't as bad, he thought. Not really. Deciding to be proactive, he moved by her and began to grab up the debris. “I live like a pig, I know, I know. I've heard it all before.” He stuffed an armload of discarded clothes into the neglected hall closet.

Sheer bafflement covered her face, coated her voice. “Why don't you hire a housekeeper, someone to come in once a week and deal with this?”

“Because they run away and never come back. Look, we'll go out.” It wasn't embarrassment—hey, his place—as much as fear of a lecture that had him snatching up an empty beer bottle and a nearly empty bowl of popcorn from the coffee table. “We'll find a nice, sanitary restaurant.”

“I roomed with two girls in college. I had to call in the Hazmat team at the end of the semester.” She picked up a pair of socks from a chair before he could get there, then handed them to him. “But if there's a clean glass I could use some of that wine.”

“I'll put one in an autoclave.”

He grabbed more on his way back to the kitchen. Curious, Layla looked around the room, tried to see beyond the disarray. The walls were actually a very nice sagey shade of green, a warm tone that set off the wide oak trim around the windows. A gorgeous woven rug that might have been vacuumed sometime in the last decade spread across a wide-planked floor of deep, dark wood. The art on the walls was lovely—watercolors, pen-and-ink sketches, photographs. The room might've been dominated by a big, flat-screen TV, and a flurry of components, but there was some beautiful pottery.

His brother's, she imagined, or his mother's. He'd shown her his younger brother's pottery business from the road once. She turned when she sensed Fox come in again.

“I love the art, and the pottery. This piece.” She trailed a finger along a long, slender bottle in dreamy shades of blue. “It's so fluid.”

“My mother's work. My brother, Ridge, did that bowl on the table under the window.”

She walked to it. “It's gorgeous.” She traced the gentle curve of its lip. “And the colors, the shapes of them. It's like a forest in a wide cup.”

She turned back to take the glass of wine. “How about the art?”

“My mother, my brother, my sister-in-law. The photographs are Sparrow's, my younger sister.”

“A lot of talent in one family.”

“Then there are the lawyers, my older sister and me.”

“Practicing law doesn't take talent?”

“It takes something.”:.Your father's a carpenter, isn't he?"

She sipped her wine. “Your father's a carpenter, isn't he?”

“Carpentry, cabinetmaking. He made the table Ridge's bowl's on.”

“Made the table.” Now she crouched to get a closer look. “Imagine that.”

“No nails, no screws. Tongue and groove. He's got magic hands.”

She swiped a finger over the surface, through the dust. “The finish is like satin. Beautiful things.” Eyebrows lifted, she rubbed her finger clean on the sleeve of Fox's shirt. “I'm forced to say you should take better care of them, and their environment.”

“You wouldn't be the first. Why don't I distract you with food?” He held out a paper menu. “Han Lee's China Kitchen.”

“It's a little early for dinner.”

“I'll call ahead, tell them to deliver at seven. That way we can get some work done.”

“Sweet and sour pork,” she decided after a glance at the menu.

“That's it?” he asked when she handed it back to him. “Pitiful. Sweet and sour pork. I'll take care of the rest.”

He left her again to make the call. A few minutes later she heard the sound of water running, dishes clinking. Rolling her eyes, she walked into the kitchen where he was attacking the dishes.

“Okay.” Layla took off her jacket.

“No. Really.”

“Yes.” Rolled up her sleeves. “Really. One-time deal, since you're buying dinner.”

“Should I apologize again?”

“Not this time.” Her eyebrows lifted. “No dishwasher?”

“See, that's the problem. I keep thinking I should take out that bottom cabinet there, have one installed, but then I think, hey, it's just me, and I use paper plates a lot.”

“Not often enough. Is there a clean dish towel somewhere?”

“Oh. Well.” He gave her a befuddled frown. “Be right back.”

Shaking her head, Layla stepped up to the sink he'd deserted and took over. She didn't mind. It was a mindless chore, oddly relaxing and satisfying. Plus there was a nice view from the window over the sink, one that stretched out to the mountains where the sunlight sprinkled over the steely peaks.

The wind was still kicking at the trees, and it billowed the white sheets hanging on a line in the yard below. She imagined the sheets would smell like the wind and the mountains when they were tucked onto their bed.

A little boy and a big black dog ran around a fenced yard with such joy and energy in the gallop she could almost feel the wind on her own cheeks, rushing through her hair. When the boy in his bright blue coat leaped up to stand on his swing, his fingers tight on the chains, the thrill of height and speed pitched into Layla's belly.

Is his mother in the kitchen making dinner? she wondered dreamily. Or maybe it's the dad's turn to cook. Better, they're cooking together, stirring, chopping, talking about their day while the little boy lifts his face to the wind and flies.

“Who knew washing dishes could be so sexy?”

She laughed, glanced over her shoulder at Fox. “Don't think that's going to convince me to repeat the favor.”

He stood where he was, a badly wrinkled dishcloth in his hand. “What?”

“Washing dishes is only sexy when you're not the one with your hands in the soapy water.”

He came forward, put a hand on her arm. His eyes locked on hers. “I didn't say that out loud.”

“I heard you.”

“Apparently, but I was thinking, not talking. I was distracted,” he continued when she took a step away from him, “by the way you looked, the way the light hit your hair, the line of your back, the curve of your arms. I was distracted,” he repeated. “And open. What were you, Layla? Don't think, don't analyze. Just tell me what you were feeling when you ‘heard' me.”

“Relaxed. I was watching the little boy on the swing in the yard. I was relaxed.”

“Now you're not.” He picked up a plate, began to dry it. “So we'll wait until you are.”

“You can do that, with me? Hear what I'm thinking?”

“Emotions come easier than words. But I wouldn't, unless you let me.”

“You can do it with anyone.”

He looked into her eyes. “But I wouldn't.”

“Because you're the kind of man who puts a dollar in a jar, even if no one's around to hear you swear.”

“If I give my word, I keep my word.”

She washed another dish. The charm of sheets flapping in the wind, of a little boy and his big dog dissolved. “Did you always control it? Resist the temptation?”

“No. I was ten when I started tapping in. During the first Seven, it was scary, and I could barely keep a handle on it. But it helped. When it was over, that first time, I figured it would be gone.”

“It wasn't.”

“No. It was very cool to be ten and be able to sense what people were thinking, or feeling. It was big, and not just in the wow, I've got a superpower kind of thing. It was big because maybe I wanted to ace a history test, and the smartest kid in history was right there in the next row. Why not reach in, get the answers?”

Since he was drying dishes, he decided to take the extra step and actually put them away. She'd be calmer if they continued with the chore, if all hands were busy. “After a few times, a few aces, I started feeling guilty about it. And weird because I might take a peek into a random teacher's head to see what they were planning to toss at us. And I'd get stuff I shouldn't have known about. Problems at home, that kind of thing. I was raised to respect privacy, and I was invading it right and left. So I stopped.” He smiled a little. “Mostly.”

“It helps that you're not perfect.”

“It took time to figure out how to deal. Sometimes if I wasn't paying enough attention, things would slip through—sometimes if I was paying too much attention, ditto. And sometimes it was deliberate. There were a couple of events with this asshole who liked to razz me. And . . . when I got a little older, there was the girl thing. Take a quick sweep through and maybe I'd see if I had a shot at getting her shirt off.”

“Did it work?”

He only smiled, and slid a plate into its cabinet. “Then a couple weeks before we turned seventeen, things started happening again. I knew—we knew—it wasn't finished after all. It came home to me that what I had wasn't something to play around with. I stopped.”

“Mostly?”

“Almost entirely. It's there, Layla, it's part of us. I can't control the fact that I might get a sense from someone. I can control pushing in, pulling out more.”

“That's what I have to learn.”

“And you may have to learn to push. If it comes down to someone's privacy or their life, or the lives of others, you have to push in.”