The Still of Night (4 page)

Morgan killed the music with the turn of his key and climbed out. The spring mountain air was crisp and clean, untinged with the balmy brine of his own home, the view majestic—towering crags over dark, prickly green slopes. It lacked the motion of his ocean view, but its very stasis spoke of perpetuity. It was too much to take in as a whole.

It lost meaning in the smallness of the human brain. It needed to be broken down into understandable pieces.

He thought of Noelle’s paintings, the watercolors she’d done of small scenes, a gully veiled in pine roots with columbine and rockroses beneath. A single aspen masquerading as a grove, whose webbed roots gave rise to every trunk and leaf. He remembered when she had arrived two summers ago, draped in mystery and too broken to respond to his attentions.

“How are you, Morg?” Rick extended his hand.

They grabbed each other in a brotherly hug. “Never better. Got any beautiful guests we can fight over?”

“If I had any, they’d be all yours.” Rick grinned.

“Yeah. Guess you’re out of the market. Not that you were ever in it.” Sober, celibate Rick.

Rick jutted his chin toward the car. “Traded in your Vette?”

“It’s at home. I couldn’t pass up this retro dream. Screamin’ V8 on a Lincoln chassis; it’s a cloud rocket.” Morgan looked around the yard and caught sight of a sullen-faced teen on the stoop of the nearest side cabin. “Who’s the kid?”

“Todd. He’s up with his family.”

“He looks happy about that.”

Rick sent him a side glance. “He’s got problems.”

Morgan nodded, then got to the important question. “Where is she?”

Rick cocked his head toward the door. “In the house.”

Morgan followed his nod. “You mind?”

“Go on in.”

Morgan’s mouth quirked as he headed up the broad pine log steps. Rick was cocky to send him in on his own. But then, what did he have to worry about? Morgan pushed open the door and scanned the vaulted main room with the curved staircase at the end.

He’d seen the room remodeled but not redecorated. That must be Noelle’s doing—the colored throws, the woven wall hanging above the plain pine cross over the mantel, watercolor landscapes on the walls and the one she’d done of Rick and the ranch. Morgan remembered that one. She’d painted his portrait, as well, and presented it two years ago at Christmas. He’d never had it framed or hung it, though. He closed the door behind him.

“Rick?” Her voice came from the kitchen.

He strolled that way and leaned on the doorjamb. “Nah, he’s in the yard. But I’m here.”

She spun from the sink with a peeler in one hand and a potato in the other. “Morgan!”

Her hair was honey-colored silk on her shoulders, her eyes the clear gray-green he remembered too often. Her smile was warm and unaffected, and he trailed his eyes down. His glance flashed back to her face.

“Well.” He sauntered over and kissed her cheek. “Rick didn’t waste any time.” He breathed her scent. “When’s the little cowboy due?”

“September fourth.”

He stepped back half a pace, assessing her. “How are you?”

“Fine.” She must know he meant that in more ways than one. So the horror of her childhood kidnapping and later battering was behind her, and Rick and she were on their way to happily ever after. Or did that really exist? At any rate, she was coping, and she looked happy. Leave it to Rick.

“Mind if I stay awhile?”

“Can you stand the quiet?” She turned, rinsed the potato, and set it aside.

“For a while. Be good to rev down some.” He leaned on the counter. “Surprised?”

“Actually, no.”

“Why not?”

She waved the peeler toward the side counter by the phone. “Your forwarded mail.”

He glanced over. “You mean the U. S. Postal Service beat me here?”

She nodded with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Okay, so I had a little detour in Vegas.” He didn’t tell her how cheap and meaningless it had seemed, though he’d taken in some great shows and had a successful time at the blackjack table. “You know what I think? I think the three … no, the four of us”—he waved his hand toward her belly—“should hit the Roaring Boar. Friday night on the town, a little dinner, a little dancing …”

She laughed. “Same old Morgan.”

“Think we can shake Rick loose?”

“Maybe, but I’m not as light on my feet as I used to be.”

He stepped close and took her hands. “I bet you still dance like a dream.” He heard Rick clear his throat behind him but didn’t let go.

Rick clamped his shoulder. “How’d I know you’d be making a play for my wife?”

Morgan let her go. Had he been? Not seriously, but maybe he’d wanted to see if there was a little flicker there. Noelle reached for Rick’s hand and drew him close. “Morgan wants us to go dancing tonight.”

“Uhhuh.” He bent and kissed her softly.

That’s right, Rick, rub it in
. “What do you say? Do we all go, or shall I just take Noelle?”

Rick turned. “Morgan, sometimes I wonder about you.”

Morgan laughed, forked his fingers through his hair, and sighed. “Yeah, me too.” He turned and scooped up his mail. He had left this as his forwarding address, and he had taken his time getting here, though the days in Vegas had been disappointing. He was burned out on beautiful sirens, late nights, and the false frenzy of the fickle fortunate. He didn’t seem to fit anymore. In fact, nothing had been the same since he’d given up Noelle.

He flipped through the mail, stopped at the postcard, and smirked.
Class of ’88 Fund-raiser Reunion
. It was a reminder for those who hadn’t jumped at the opportunity on the first notice. He flipped the card over and saw the handwritten marker across the picture of high school memorabilia.
Wilson High of ’88’s most likely to succeed: Morgan, be there and bring your wallet
. “What people won’t stoop to.” He tossed it onto the table.

Rick picked up the card and looked it over. “Are you going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Morgan shrugged. “Why should I?”

Rick raised a knowing eye but asked, “It’s a fund-raiser?”

“School needs updating—computers and stuff. I’ll send a check. That’s what they really want.” Morgan flipped through the rest of the mail. “Got a room for me?”

“Sure.” Rick picked up a couple stray peelings from the floor and tossed them into the sink. “Let’s get your bags.”

They went down to his car, and Morgan popped the trunk. “Judging by the little guy in the oven, I guess things are working out.”

Rick nodded. “Noelle’s healing, Morgan. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t complicate things.”

“That’s never been my style.”

“Oh, really?” Rick rested his hand on the trunk lid.

“Really.”

Rick reached in for a bag. “Are you not going because Jill might be there?”

Morgan reached for the other bags in the trunk.
Jill
. “Just not interested.” He hadn’t gone to the tenth reunion, wouldn’t plan on the twentieth, and didn’t care about a mid-decade fleecing.

He set the bags down and closed the trunk. He didn’t need this much luggage here, but he’d be moving on to the next project directly. And for that he’d have to dress the part. He had brought his two-thousand-dollar power suits and shirts, his Italian leather shoes, and hand-decorated silk ties, the costume of the consummate professional. The thought left him hollow. He must need this break more than he realized.

Rick paused at the door and turned slightly. “I think you ought to go, Morgan.”

Morgan climbed the steps behind him. Rick did not push, especially in personal matters. Why was he making so much of a stupid reunion? Morgan could send them a check for every computer they needed and remodel the ancient computer lab and add classroom connections to boot.

“What’s the big deal, Rick?”

“Just a feeling.”

Morgan half smiled. A feeling from God, he meant. Rick the prophet, mouthpiece of the Almighty. Go down, Moses. To a high school reunion where he might see Jill? With Rick blocking the door and expecting an answer, Morgan shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

Unfortunately, he would. He had been ever since the first packet arrived.

After the final three days of school, Jill had agreed to a Friday night movie fest with Shelly, whose intention was to help her over the heartache. Shelly was making more of it than it was. Yes, it hurt to have the void in her life that Dan had filled, and especially to know she’d disappointed him.

As Shelly’s best friend, dating Shelly’s husband Brett’s partner, and forming a comfortable foursome, had been natural. Add to that their similar interests in fitness and outdoor activities, their service-minded jobs—hers to the struggling kids, his to the rest of society … on the outside it seemed like a fit. But emotionally, and especially spiritually, they’d missed somehow. Her fault, she knew. Her inability to risk much of herself.

Truth be told, if Dan had an operational faith, she might still resist a next step. Maybe she was the slow one in the personal commitment department. Maybe that’s what Shelly interpreted as ice queen, the preserving of self that in essence precluded giving and receiving fully. But love wasn’t a game. It wasn’t the warm aching inside that had kept her awake the first night Morgan had kissed her. It wasn’t anything she could get a handle on.

The pastor at her church talked about love, but it was always in such nebulous terms she wondered if he knew any more than she did. God’s love was above hers, self-love a pitfall, and physical love the trapdoor to hell. Maybe a loveless life was best after all.

It was late now as she inserted her key into the townhouse door. A light flicked on across the lot as Mr. Deerborne noted her return from his bedroom window and made sure she realized she had disturbed him. She ignored him and walked into her dark townhouse. Rascal wrapped himself around her legs, arching up to rub his mouth behind her calf as he passed sideways, trailing his tail, then circled back.

Loveless? How could anyone be loveless with a cat? His purr sounded like the Honda’s engine on a cold day. She bent and scratched behind his ears, bringing him to his hind legs, front paws curling around her wrist. He licked her fingers. Now if that wasn’t devotion, what was?

She dropped the mail on the counter and went to the bedroom to change. Slipping off her sandals, shorts, and sleeveless sweater, she pulled on a nightshirt. She tossed her hair back and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She hadn’t changed much in fifteen years. A little thinner in the cheeks, more defined in her features, but not much changed … on the outside.

She still looked like the head of the cheerleading squad, the front-page photo of her senior yearbook. She shot the mirror her Miss America smile and almost captured the same expression she’d worn for the camera. Good thing the picture was taken early in the school year and not in the spring, when she was losing her breakfast in the girl’s rest room every morning before her first class. She hadn’t missed a single day of classes, but she’d been sick enough to hide the pregnancy until the sixth month. She actually weighed less by then than when she’d conceived.

Morgan was the first to know. It hurt to remember the urgency in his face as he promised to stick by her, a promise he had no way to keep once her parents learned of their circumstances. She turned away from the mirror. Maybe it was time for a change. She had an appointment at the salon Sunday with Crystal for a trim, but maybe something more daring was in order.

Jill walked back to the kitchen and flipped through the mail. Nothing important. She remembered the utilities bill from Wednesday’s mail and glanced over to the corner table. The stack was still there. She crossed the room, lifted the half-dozen envelopes and the fund-raiser reunion reminder.
Haven’t heard from you. Wilson High needs your help. Come share the alum fun
. Good grief.

She slipped the utilities bill free and dropped the rest back to the table. She opened the bill and read the damage, then carried it to her small oak desk and laid it there to be paid tomorrow when she balanced the checkbook. She yawned, scooped up Rascal, and headed for bed.

The phone rang, and Jill rolled over to grab it. 6:32 on the clock. Who would call so early on a Saturday? She lifted the receiver and tried to sound as though she hadn’t just been jarred from sleep. “Hello?”

“Can I interest you in breakfast and a bike ride?” Dan’s voice sounded chipper, and for a moment she was confused. Had she not …

Jill pressed a palm to her forehead. “Dan?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d confuse me with someone else already.”

She cleared her throat. “Hold on just a second.” She covered the receiver and yawned, then shook her head and sat up. “Sorry. Shelly had me out late last night.”

“I know.”

She felt a pang. “Dan …”

“We’ve put almost a year into this, Jill. It’s a shame to let it go over …”

“Sex?”

He laughed low. “Yeah.”

She closed her eyes and rubbed the sleep from them. “I can’t expect you to change what you want just because I won’t cross that line.”

“Sex is really hard on a bicycle.”

She laughed, then sobered. “I think the other night showed us both what we needed to know.”

“Maybe. But Shelly’s concerned that she’ll lose one of her close friends here.”

Poor Shelly
. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Why don’t we have a bagel and hash out some sort of friendship agreement?”

Jill dropped her head back to the headboard and smiled at the ceiling. “You are definitely headed for captain, Dan.”

He laughed. “I’ll be over in thirty.”

She hung up the phone. Great. Just what she needed after a late night. Well, Dan had seen her looking worse, and she actually managed to look better than she’d expected in thirty minutes’ time. She had dressed in a periwinkle tank with a gray-blue plaid overshirt, sleeves rolled. Her waist-tie cotton khakis were loose enough to ride in if she and Dan decided to after all.

Dan rang the bell at seven o’clock sharp. Punctual to a fault. That was Dan. Reliable and disciplined. She pulled the door open and met his bearish smile. He was burly and compact for a cyclist, but that was from the weight training he did, as well.