Mona

Chapter 1

A sharp, metallic thwap jarred me from a sound sleep. I was upright, feet on the floor before I was even awake, but this was nothing new. All the bleary-eyed languidness was drilled out of me ages ago. Twelve years fighting fires will turn a person into a very light sleeper, and for good reason. Reaction times are crucial but they play hell on your nerves.

I automatically reached for my boots. Of course, they weren't there.

I cracked open an eyelid. No uniform rows of cots. No buzzing and forever dim fluorescent lights. No rampant snoring coming from under humps of twisted blankets to the left and right of me.

Silence.

I was at home. I must've imagined the sound. The clock on the bedside table said 4:30. Daylight was still hours away. Grumpily swiping tangled hair out of my eyes, I began to burrow back under the cushy mounds of my down comforter.

And then the sound repeated.

"What the?"

I threw blankets aside, sat up and listened. Another solid thunk and an incredulous thought slid into my consciousness.

Someone is breaking into Sister!

The idea propelled me off the bed and to the window at top speed. I pressed my face up against the cool glass, eyes following the sweep of well-trimmed lawn, to the garden stile overgrown with hedge roses and beyond to the unexpected sight of Sister, every window blazing light.

With one astonished eye on the scene outside, I grabbed jeans and sweatshirt from where I had dropped them on the floor, yanked them on, slid my feet into Nikes and raced downstairs. Grabbing the baseball bat I kept behind the kitchen door, I crept outside, making sure the screen door closed quietly behind me.

Poor Sister looked even more derelict in the dark, even with light spilling from its dirty windows. Though it was a twin of my own house, the resemblance had grown indistinct over the years. I had remodeled and refined while time and weather wore away at Sister, until the two houses, built side by side on the shore of a large and placid lake, looked like before-and-after pictures of each other. Warm lavender and wet grass added their clean scents to the humid air as I crept along. Crickets in the weeds and the soft hooting of an owl crouching in the trees told me the obvious. It was still the middle of the night and caution might be the best approach.

Tiptoeing through the shadows of eucalyptus, oak and scattered palms, the baseball bat held aloft like Babe Ruth about to knock one out of the park, I reached the garden stile, hoisted one leg over and then stopped, astonishment multiplying. There, in Sister's overgrown kitchen garden, I saw a vision, a tiny figure dressed all in white, twirling round and round.

For a moment, thoughts of ghosts flitted through my normally rational but weary brain before I shook my head and banished them. What was she doing there?

The little girl stopped spinning, staggered dizzily, giggled, and then collapsed, soiling the back of her dress on the slick grass. A light breeze whirred through the palm leaves, rattling them like beans in an empty gourd. The girl tilted her head at the sound, her face wiped blank with curiosity. Sprawled on the ground, face turned toward me, I saw angelic long blonde curls, chubby cheeks and big round eyes.

Another metallic thud, and little girl and I started in unison.

"Hope!" a feminine voice called sharply. The little girl jumped to her feet and ran through the trees. I, feeling very foolish but still curious, followed. She rounded the corner of the house and sprinted across the tall grass of the front lawn, halting at the edge of the crumbling sidewalk, which lead to the porch.

"Mommy, can I have a tree house?" she asked, doing an impatient dance, mincing back and forth, hands twisting the ribbon sash on her dress. A U-Haul was parked in the gravel drive, the back thrown open. Someone rattled around inside. Must be mommy. With a surprising lurch, a floral tapestry sofa skidded down the ramp followed by the back of a sweating, straining blonde woman who shoved at the other end.

"Well, honey," the woman panted in between shoves, "Let's see what we need to do to the real house before we start making tree houses, okay?"

Realizing I still held the baseball bat like I was preparing to club somebody, I dropped it down behind my back and then flattened myself against the side of the old house before I peered cautiously around the corner.

Neighbors.

Pulling my head back, I leaned against Sister's peeling clapboard and sighed, mind reeling. For five years, I'd had the lake and the land all around it to myself. Not counting the year I'd shared both with Laurel, of course, but I wasn't going to let myself think about that now.

And now my haven had been invaded. Goodbye privacy.

Judging from the thunderous stomping sounds and ensuing squeals of pleasure that seemed to rattle the windows, I gathered the little girl had gone inside.

Peeking around the corner, I saw the woman struggling to heave the sofa up the front steps, one inch at a time. For a moment, I felt compelled to drop the baseball bat in the bushes and volunteer my services. But then the woman set the sofa down, turning toward me as she looked up at the sky. She pushed a sweaty tendril out of her eyes. I dropped the bat, too stunned to move or speak.

She was pretty. I couldn't deny that. A slim body and long, wavy strawberry blonde hair guaranteed she'd get a second look by most people wherever she went, but that wasn't what floored me. Wistful green eyes, greener than the mint leaves that grew wild all around, seemed to swallow me whole. For an instant, I experienced the oddest paralyzing feeling, as if some deep and hidden part of me was rising from the murky depths within, commanded by an answering mystery in this woman's eyes. An unsettling ache took up residence in my ribcage. The palms of my hands tingled. I watched, rapt, as the woman slumped on the edge of the sofa, tears streaking her cheeks. Her lips trembled and she pressed them together hard, biting down her grief. And then abruptly, she leapt to her feet, swiping a hand across her eyes, simultaneously setting her features in a more determined expression. Bending down, she gave one last try to lift the sofa again, fumbled and dropped it.

"Goddammit!" she shrieked, kicking at a wooden sofa leg and missing. Stumbling, she caught herself, bumping a shin on the edge of the ramp. I flinched in sympathy.

"Mommy, are you okay?" came the little girl's voice from inside.

"Yeah, baby. I'm fine," the woman replied, choking back a sob. She looked down at the sofa. "Screw it," she mumbled, throwing her hands in the air, waving away all responsibility for the uncooperative piece of furniture. "I need coffee."

Still staring, I experienced a dirty, almost criminal sense of guilt for standing in the dark and spying on the woman, and most especially for not even helping with the sofa. Slowly, I retraced my steps in the darkness until I reached my own back door. Pushing through the screen door, I let it slam behind me, then dropped the baseball bat on the kitchen table and didn't bother to pick it up when it rolled off, clattering to the wood floor.

"You're an old fool," I muttered, wearily climbing the stairs.

Slipping back under my cozy down comforter, I closed my eyes, willing myself back to sleep. It was not to be. My mind wouldn't cooperate. Flipping over onto my stomach, I buried my face in a pillow then groaned as another crash reverberated through the stillness.

Chapter Two

"I'm going to kill Sally," I mumbled to no one in particular while munching toast over the kitchen sink the next morning.

The crashing and banging had continued throughout the night. My bloodshot eyes attested to the perfect clarity of each and every sound. I stared out the kitchen window at the commotion next door.

Workmen, in the form of Mike Tetzlaff and his buddy Dean Cameron, were responsible for the racket now. The woman and her child were nowhere to be seen. Mike and Dean had arrived at about 7 am, loudly unloading numerous 2 x 4's from Mike's pickup. They had both stripped off their shirts and were strutting back and forth from truck to the woodpile. For the benefit of the pretty neighbor, I surmised.

"Just great," I muttered. "Not only do I get loud neighbors, now I have to deal with those two yahoos."

Mike and Dean were to blame for some of my worst middle-school memories. They had tortured me mercilessly during those crucial developing years, taking special notice of my burgeoning bosom with all the cruelty and doggedness in which twelve-year-old boys specialize.

Mentally, the two hadn't progressed much since. After high school, they had formed a business partnership, as carpenters/handymen. (This from a pair of wood-shop dropouts.) In an effort to advertise this new home-grown business, Mike had painted Tetzlaff and Cameron Portable Repair Unit in uneven spray paint on both sides of his decrepit, rusty truck. The homemade sign had worn off over the years, but miraculously, the truck still remained mobile. One side now read Came Por nit. The other side read laff able Repair. I doubt they'd even noticed the irony.

Mike and Dean began pulling out the buzz saws, and other noisy equipment, for what looked like an extended project.

I took my coffee onto the front porch, hoping the gentle lulling motion of the porch swing would distract me from thoughts of slow, painful retribution. The lake was a silvery skin, calm and smooth, as round and wide as a smiling face. Ripples, like laugh lines fanned out at its edges. The swing chain creaked in a monotonous murmur, just loud enough to drown out the whine of a saw. I let out a long breath, bare feet skimming over the painted boards of my front porch. Back and forth. Back and forth. The tension eased. I closed my eyes.

"Mommy! MOMMMMY!"

The noise of construction paled in comparison to this shriek. I started up from the swing and it swatted me in the shins. I clenched my teeth and bit my lip in pain, eyes skimming the landscape for the source of that awful high-pitched summons.

I spied the little girl, once again playing in the shadow of the trees. She was hopping up and down, face screwed up, hands alternately flailing in the air and brushing at her chubby legs.

"MOMMY! GET THEM OFF OF ME!!" The shriek became a wail as a white streak burst from the house and rocketed across the lawn. The woman bent down, scooping the girl into her arms, her long blonde hair swinging forward and hiding their faces. She was wearing jean shorts and a white t-shirt streaked with grime but even from a distance she looked amazing. I couldn't make myself not stare.

Dropping to her knees, she drew the red-faced child on her lap and gave soothing nods as the girl pointed to her leg and cried rivers of tears. The whir of power tools ceased as the girl suddenly renewed her caterwauling, the increased volume now fed by the sympathetic attentions of her mother.

Fire ants, no doubt. They've got a wicked sting and there are giant mounds of them in front of Sister.

It occurred to me then that I really ought to make my presence known, at least to warn them about the fire ants, and the snakes by the lake's edge, but then the mother stood, taking the child's tiny hand and lead her inside.

I'd introduce myself later. Plenty of time for that.

The symphony of metallic clamor didn't end until well after sunset. The day was fruitful, if quiet. I made changes to the training manual, pulled weeds in the rose bed, thought about doing laundry, didn't, all the while gritting my teeth at the constant jarring noise coming from next door. That evening I went to bed early, the product of too little sleep the night before and too many beers after too much time weeding in the sun.

The next morning at five a.m. it started all over again.

"Dammit!" After a quick, angry shower, I pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, swiped keys from the hook by the door and stormed out of the house.

"Morning, Josey-phine!" Mike called, grinning mockingly.

I glared back at him, giving him my best "You must die" stare as I slipped into my baby, a 1974 silver Mustang, and slammed the door.

"Painful, preferably messy death," I muttered, jamming the keys into the ignition. The Mustang sped off down the dirt drive to the main road, leaving thick dust clouds in its wake.

"Ha!" I said with some satisfaction, watching in the rearview mirror as Dean and Mike choked and sputtered on the dust.

***

Springport, Florida boasted 18 stoplights, 16 lakes, and a tiny rundown water-theme park that cashed in on a steady influx of snowbirds bound for the larger parks nearby. Like most small towns, a 'revitalization' of Main Street had been attempted, leaving the less than lovely side streets untouched and just this side of pathetic. Small businesses that had struggled for years to stay afloat foundered and were slowly being replaced with the sad, commercial staples of the larger cities. A sign on one small white corner building announced the impending arrival of a Starbucks, or what I liked to call The First Sign of The Apocalypse.

The faded pastel buildings of the renovated part of town fit the image of a tropical tourist trap. Palm trees and newly-stuccoed pastel buildings lined picturesque Main Street. A small town square, complete with dancing fountain and gift shop sat in the center of town, across from the tiny fire station and the brick building that was town hall and Kiwanis club wrapped into one.

By the time I reached town and pulled into a parking spot on Main Street I was good and worked up. People gave me a wide berth as I stalked down the cobbled sidewalks. This was nothing unusual. I was well known in the small town, but not well liked. Being the anti-social malcontent that I am, I knew it, but tried not to let myself care, and even, at times let it work to my advantage. You can't live in a small town your whole life with a temper like mine and not piss off a few hundred people.

I paused in front of the whitewashed brick building whose cheery yellow awnings read "Sally Redman Realty." I composed myself as much as possible before opening the front door.

The round-faced young woman sitting at the front desk cringed and turned three shades of unflattering pink when she saw me. Her yellow cotton-candy-like bouffant shuddered as she sank down into her seat.

Sally and I go way back, none of the memories good, starting in second grade where she and her popular friends had taunted me mercilessly. That had only lasted until I was fourteen, the summer I grew taller and bigger than most of them. They shut up pretty quick after that.

"Now Jo, I asked you a hundred times. Remember that," she began.

"You sold it?"

"I know you're upset, darlin," Sally said nervously, the edges of her mouth twitching into a forced smile. "What could I do? The lady fell in love with the place. She offered me cash. And I didn't know if you were ever gonna make up your mind."

I took a deep breath, attempting calm.

"I told you last time I wanted the place, right after you showed it to those horrible people from New York." I hooked thumbs through the belt loops in my jeans and stared Sally down. "I have neighbors now, Sally. This is not good."

I waited a beat and then another. I gave it two minutes before she crumpled. Intimidation was almost too easy. I had it down to a science. Of course, I'd been perfecting my art for awhile now, since kindergarten as a matter of fact. First the stare; then a slight eyebrow raise. It was all in the stare and the attitude. No one could withstand either for long.

I'm not a complete hypocrite. I know it doesn't hurt that I'm not bad to look at. Some have even said beautiful. (Though, Mike Tetzlaff will say anything after he has a few Heinekens in him.) It helped that at thirty-four I could still pass for twenty-five.

"Sweetie," my mother was wont to say, "If you spent any time at all on yourself, you'd be gorgeous. And a little lipstick wouldn't kill you."

But so what if a fortunate cocktail of genes had resulted in an athletic build, auburn hair, and tilted, cat-like blue eyes? Mostly it just causes trouble and attracts more attention than I'd care to have from the opposite sex. Besides, I am proud to say I have never traded on my looks to get what I want. I remember those gawky high school years too vividly to be truly cocky. When I want something, pure stubborn bullheadedness is usually what gets it for me. And I wanted Sister more than ever.

Sally squirmed in her chair but I didn't relent, narrowing my eyes to a more sinister squint.

"Okay, okay, she offered me cash and I took it. I'm sorry. I know you wanted it, hon. But, I mean, she really had a shopping bag full of cash."

Sally leaned forward, eyes sparkling, hands rubbing together in anticipation like a psychotic cricket. Obviously, she had been dying to tell someone this solid gold nugget of gossip.

"Last week, this lady strolled in here wearing her designer suit and tells me she has to buy a house?pronto. I took her around to all my best properties but they weren't good enough for Miss High and Mighty. Oh no. Not secluded enough for her. She was a real pill about that. Let me tell you. And picky! She hated the Armstrong place and they just had new shag carpeting put in."

"So you took her to see Sister?" I asked through gritted teeth, murder in my heart.

"No, it didn't happen like that. I didn't even think of showing Sister to her. I know what a feeling you have for that place. God knows why. Two run down houses out there in the middle of nowhere?"

"Then tell me how it did happen. I mean, it obviously happened. Her and her kid are living there now."

Sally leaned back in her chair, a Cheshire cat smile on her fat face. Gossip was mother's milk to Sally.

"The short version," I warned. The realtor pouted. Not a pretty sight on a middle-aged woman with more chins than she had a right to. Sally had plumped up quite a bit since her homecoming queen days.

"I took her out to the Miller property. Of course, Miss Perfect hated it. Everyone does. I've told the Millers a thousand times that tire garden in the front yard detracts from the value. But do they listen?"

"Before my head explodes, Sally."

"Fine. Okay. We had to drive by your place on the way back. She saw that rusty old For Sale sign out on the road and asked to see it. What could I do? I figured she'd hate it anyway?decrepit old shack, but she loved it. Said she'd take it and paid cash on the spot. Cash." Sally's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't know anyone that walks around with fifty eight thousand dollars in a Dillards bag. Something's not quite right there. Do you know what I mean?

Drugs."

"'Scuse me?'

"I bet she's into drugs. I'd watch out if I were you."

I reflected back on the woman. She didn't seem the type. "So, you sold Sister to a drug dealer? Great, Sally. What's next, circus people?"

I turned away from the smirk on Sally's face, more upset than I wanted to let on, actually on the verge on tears. That would have been another nugget for Sally to gloat over, Jo Trilby bawling like a baby. I gulped a huge breath then turned back to face her.

"Have they closed yet?"

Sally nodded. "Yesterday."

Damn. I'd been counting on slipping through that little loophole.

"Make her an offer for me. Tell her I'll give her eighty-five. That's twenty three thousand dollars profit in a day." It was way more than my savings would cover. It would probably be enough for the down payment. A loan from the credit union would cover the rest. I calculated the monthly mortgage payments on two houses, stifling a groan.

Sally shook her head. "I doubt she'd take it, hon. She was almost as batty about the place as you?went on and on about the view of the lake and the trees. I could make the offer, but I'd just be wasting my time."

"Make the offer," I growled and stormed out the door.

I knew Sally didn't understand my attachment to the two old houses everyone in town referred to as 'the Sisters'. But Sally didn't know their history, their true history. I did.

Dear Lois,

Bill and Catrina have persuaded me to stay another day. I know. I know. You think they are taking advantage. But they've asked me to look after the children and I just couldn't say no. I know you don't like them, but Betty's just a little precocious for her age, and little Billy didn't mean to bite you at Christmas. He's just excitable around strangers.

I hope you understand. It is just one day. I'll see you this weekend. We'll have a picnic in the pine grove. Won't that be fun?

Missing you terribly!

Mona

Chapter 3

Growing up in a small town means nobody's really a stranger. How many times had I heard my mother said that?

My interpretation was a little more realistic: Growing up in a small town means that everyone is knee deep in your business, whether you like it or not.

I definitely didn't like it. I never have.

Ultra-conservative small towns are not the most open-minded of communities, a problem for someone like myself, someone who doesn't have the patience to hide what others have charmingly termed my 'sinful predilections.'

I consider it a minor inconvenience, sometimes a major annoyance, but I deal with the acid tongues of the preacher's wives and the occasional redneck bent on showing me the error of my ways. As a rule, most folks in our tiny town are models of southern kindness. I'm lucky. I haven't been viciously harassed, nothing beyond what I could handle anyway. I'm sure it wasn't always this way. I know I have it easy compared to others.

I stopped dead on the sidewalk, snared by a sudden sense of guilt, my memory playing traitor to my peace of mind. Right here, on this very spot, I remember old Miss Keene walking past, trailed by young children, me among them, all hurling cruel taunts at her proud, straight back.

But what would make me think of her now?

As a child, I had seen Miss Keene around town hundreds of times, but never had any inclination to get to know her. She was old, almost as old as my grandmother. I knew that she wore sweaters and funny hats, even in the summer, and that she smelled disturbingly of Pine Sol and lavender. I knew she shopped alone at the Winn Dixie, buying boxes and boxes of orange creamsicles and can after can of tuna. I knew that in church she sat alone on the back pew and sometimes cried for no apparent reason. She was an eccentric and easily dismissed.

I didn't really know anything about her, it turns out.

How could I have know then that she would play such an important part in my life later, that her legacy would become my lifeline?

The history is fairly straightforward. The Sisters had belonged to Lois Keene and Mona Haverty. Lois lived in the house on the left, Mona the house on the right. They had been neighbors for twenty years, until Mona drowned one sultry July afternoon in 1963. Lois remained alone in her white clapboard cottage for another fifteen years before she too succumbed, a heart attack. All of this was common knowledge. Neither of the women had married. The town remembered them as spinster sisters that kept too many cats. Few knew that the two women weren't sisters, weren't even related really. And they were more than just neighbors, more even than just good friends. I had the letters to prove it.

Since Miss Haverty had passed away before I was born, I have no recollection of her. I'm told by the old gossips who spend their Saturday mornings at mom's salon that Miss Haverty was a great beauty, the fragile, poetic kind, and that she steadfastly resisted her many suitors, sacrificing her chances at marriage to care for her ailing mother.

But I do remember very clearly Miss Keene staunchly ignoring me and my tomboy friends as she hobbled down Main Street for her weekly set and wash at Charlene's House of Beauty, my mother's beauty shop. I'd follow her inside, peering around the hood of the hairdryers at her as she sat with perfect ramrod straight posture, legs crossed at the ankle, while my mother whirled around her, scissors in hand. Unlike the other chatty patrons, Miss Keene never talked, never said anything except "The usual please, Charlene." She never cowered, never displayed any hint of reticence or timidity. Her proud gaze, when she directed it at me, was always alert and intelligent, her shrewd hooded eyes a crystalline blue. But old Miss Keene, compared to other adults, was a natural target for our jokes and pranks. Crazy old bird, my friends sang at her. But I couldn't bring myself to call her names. In those unguarded moments, she always looked so sad, so wistful.

It had never occurred to me to inquire about her history. Why should I? I was young. I had my own troubles. After high school and the briefest stint in college that my mother would let me get away with, I came back to Springport with absolutely no direction and even less inspiration, career-wise. I did what most young people in small towns do. A few odd jobs; stocking shelves at the Winn Dixie, shelving books at the library, teller at the bank. Days off were spent hanging out at my best friend Jay's house, helping him plot and plan his way into graduate school. His dad was a police office and a volunteer fireman and I suppose we unconsciously emulated him. Jay and I would just hang around the fire station, admiring the uniforms and the gleaming fire trucks, soaking in the strange combination of easygoing camaraderie and fierce dedication that emanated from the men, even at play. While Jay eventually gravitated to the police department, following in his father's footsteps, I couldn't decide what I wanted to do with my life.

Jay went on to graduate school upstate. We'd meet at the fire station on the weekends for Saturday night poker. When one Saturday, after too much Budweiser and too many hands of five card stud, the men dared me to try enrolling in firefighter training, I immediately agreed, surprising them and myself.

I won't lie and say it was easy. None of it was ever easy. The training was grueling and more demanding than anything I'd ever attempted before. But something in me wouldn't let me quit, no matter the stress, no matter what obstacles the instructors devised for me. I graduated from the program with honor, the respect of my instructors, which, though it was much less official than Jay's diploma, was just as precious.

After training, I settled into life at the station as if I'd been at it a hundred years. The rigorous demands of the job were soothing to me. I needed the challenges it presented, the danger and the expectations. It kept me sane. More than that, it gave me the opportunity to show them all a women could do just as well as a man, if not better.

The men, reserved at first, opened up after awhile. After days and nights laboring next to them, asking for no special treatment, the men got over their reserve and began to accept me. The sense of community I found there was an unlooked for bonus. The job became like a narcotic to me. It was the perfect niche. My nervous energy received a healthy outlet and a dose of much needed discipline. Much to everyone's surprise, least of all mine, I became quite good at my newfound profession, good enough to really excel. I soared through the probation period, and over the years, was quietly and quickly promoted through the ranks. I went back to school to get my degree, secretly setting my sights on the upper echelons, a place no woman had thus far reached.

It was only the year I'd lobbied hard for, and then received, the big promotion to chief, the biggest of the brass rings, that I became interested in shopping for a new home. Apartments had suited me just fine until then. But I figured the first woman fire chief in the county could afford a nice place, apart from the ever-present eyes of the town matrons. Privacy was key. Like old Ms. Keene, I told no one my secrets. I didn't date. I didn't need to. I got what I needed from a woman in one night. Long term wasn't in my vocabulary.

Both houses and the accompanying lakeside properties had been on the market since old Ms. Keene's death. It seemed that no realtor could give the property away.

Then one day, eight years ago, on a whim, I turned down the dirt road to take a look at the property. It was love at first sight. It didn't matter that the roof was caving in, the front porch was sagging, or that the weeds were high enough to touch the windows. It felt like home as soon as I pulled around the bend in the road and caught sight of the two of them. Three stories of white clapboard sat daintily waiting, like two prim ladies in their antique white linens. I loved the porches with their elegant gingerbread trim. I could picture myself sitting there, sipping lemonade and watching the sunlight glint off the ripples on the lake.

Oh yeah, I was sold. Originally, I'd planned to buy the house on the right, fix it up, then buy the house on the left and do the same. That didn't happen. What can I say? I'm a terrible procrastinator about some things. And then meeting Laurel had thrown a major wrench in the works and me for a loop.

I'd just moved in after a year spent trying to make the place livable and was still waist deep in projects.

We met at the Deep End, the only gay bar in the entire county, and had hit it off right away. The sexual chemistry had been unbelievable. I was in heaven. Like most whirlwind courtships, ours ended with her moving in a week after I met her.

And then the downside of the U-haul Syndrome set in. Almost immediately the relationship began to sour. Arguments blossomed into silent mistrust. Cutting words lacerated any chances we might have had. Looking back, I still blame myself. I'm not the easiest person to get to know, let alone live with. I know this. Set in my ways, I made very little allowances for Lauren or her feelings. She had just wrapped up a messy divorce and her emotions were still very raw. It was all so new to her. She needed someone tender, someone to listen. She needed trust. Trust is not something I do easily.

I should have seen the rebound in progress, but good sex will blind you to most things. A therapist would say that I unconsciously tested Laurel. Could she see the worst side of me and still love me? The answer to that question seemed to have been a resounding no. Apparently, she didn't like what she saw. The disintegration took two turbulent years.

The fact that Laurel hated the property, both houses, didn't help things. After awhile, it became a major sticking point with me. I never minded spending endless weekends sanding floors, replastering walls, and fixing the roof. It was fun, like playing house, but for real. To Laurel, it had been slow torture. Laurel wasn't a do it yourself kind of girl.

But she was the only person I had ever shown the letters. It had been a mistake, the first of many.

I found them one Saturday, a year after she moved in, during an overzealous session with the floor sander, one of the boards in the kitchen floor had cracked. As I bent over to inspect it, I noticed something glinting underneath. Curious, I ripped up the board. A small tin box lay nestled in the crack. Inside it, a treasure trove, letters from Mona Haverty to Lois Keene, her neighbor, dearest friend and, so the letters revealed, her lover.

The floor forgotten, I sat in the middle of the ruined kitchen and devoured every letter. They chronicled a loving, sometimes tempestuous relationship that spanned 20 years. Every word spoke straight to my worst fears and deepest dreams. The letters were more precious than gold. Here was hope. It was possible to love and be loved for a lifetime.

Laurel had been away that day visiting family. Her family hated me and it always made me nervous when she visited them. When she had returned, she'd been unusually subdued. In a welter of excitement, I'd shown her the letters, thinking this would cheer her up. Laurel had given two or three of them a cursory glance then had tossed them onto the kitchen counter. She'd been more concerned about the hole in the floor.

I often wonder if all of those tiny, discordant moments, linked together like a daisy chain, would ever lead back to the first moment, the exact second when I realized that Laurel and I would never have that lifetime together.

No matter how much I thought about it, and that's more than is actually necessary, it wouldn't change the fact that she was gone and I was alone, again.

Not anymore, I thought as I stalked back to my car. Now I have neighbors.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Well I don't think I'm being unreasonable." A conceited smirk confirmed the opposite. Ellis Angeley, the county fire chief, was up to his usual tricks.

Cheap box fans whirred, oscillating the stale air in the tiny conference room. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but not from the numbing heat. The claustrophobic 12 x 16 trailer that acted as the City Commission's headquarters seemed to shrink in upon itself, ceiling lowering and the cheap linoleum floor reaching up to kiss it. But it was probably me. I was in yet another rage and it felt like my whole body was swelling with it. Should it burst free, I was sure the flimsy walls would just explode.

Ellis was pure redneck. There was no other term for him. What else do you call a man who has a constant bulge in his lower lip from chewing tobacco and is never without a smelly plastic cup to spit in? We have never had much respect for each other. I suppose a gay female fire chief was an oddity he in his limited world-view couldn't accept; the way I could never accept or respect a man who always wore his pants below crack level.

The other city council members, oblivious and bored, only pretended to listen.

For a full hour, Dr. Harry Devers had been incessantly twirling a golf tee in his gnarled fingers and staring out the window. The wrinkled pouches under his heavy-lidded gray eyes always made him look half-asleep, which, in this instance, he probably was.

A retired doctor and the former town mayor, he was considered a fixture, a necessity, but his largely ceremonial duties seemed to be wearing on him. His skin looked as gray as his eyes. In any case, I wouldn't look to him for support. The good doctor didn't care about any issues except tourism promotions, and that only because he owned half of Sun-n-Surf, the theme park at the edge of town. And he'd worn plaid golf shorts to the meeting. It was obvious where his mind was. I couldn't count on his influence with the others, even if he did have a crush on my mom.

Lana Mountebank, the current mayor wasn't even bothering to listen, too busy programming her new flip phone, but she had, at least, read the report. She hated it when Ellis and I bickered. I put her on the fence and resolved to speak with her later. Petite and carefully coiffed, Barbara Maxwell, the city commissioner, was the only one who appeared to be taking in anything anyone was saying and she hadn't looked my way once. This didn't bode well.

The issue on the table was huge and I'd spent weeks preparing my proposal. The state had cut my department's funds nearly in half. This meant two things. One, cost of living raises were going to be as scarce as hen's teeth this year. Two, maintaining existing equipment would be a pain in the ass. Repair costs alone were over half our monthly expenses. Engines stalled. Our hoses were old and repaired so often they looked like patchwork quilts.

I took a breath and stood. Standing always gave me a subtle advantage and I needed every little bit I could get. The doctor's gaze flicked over me and then slid to his wristwatch.

"Well I do, Ellis. You don't seem to understand the situation. The equipment needs to be maintained. If you look at page four of the proposal I handed out, you would see that..."

Ellis let out a condescending snort, lifting the red folder containing my department's budget as if it had suddenly sprouted fungus. "This pile of pluses and minuses don't tell me diddly-squat, hon." He stood, too, legs planted far apart, gut and chest swelling out in righteous indignation. "All it's saying to me is that our boys ain't gonna get their raises this year. They've been counting on that money. You want to tell them Christmas ain't coming for their kids?"

"Of course not. I don't want to deny them anything. I just..."

Ellis cut me off, raising my report in his left hand and then turning to each member of the committee like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence.

"That's not what I'm getting from this." He shrugged with practiced contempt. "Am I the only one who thinks this is a load of cattle pucks?"

I could see it in their expressions, Ellis had them. Damn him! Didn't he care that safety was compromised on a daily basis? Why couldn't he just admit more modern methods might save us money in the long run? I thought I knew why.

Elections were coming. Ellis wanted to run for mayor again. Time to placate the populous. And that meant raises.

I opened my mouth, biting back the sarcasm. But before I could give my carefully thought out rebuttal, he blustered on. "Y'all can talk about the life expectancy of blah, blah, blah fiber hoses or we can give these men the money they worked and sweated and risked their lives for. So... now, are we gonna vote on this thing or what?"

***

I drove home deliberately slow. My temper tends to leave little tread on the tires. I go through a set almost every year. But when I pulled into the drive, I was immediately tempted to peel back out of it. Mike and Dean were hammering to the soulful sounds of "Achy Breaky Heart."

I unlocked the back door, slamming it hard behind me in appreciation of their taste in music. I went inside, slamming windows shut one after the other but it did little to drown out the din.

I gave up, going straight through the house, out the front door, and down the front porch steps. A walk around the lake would settle my nerves.

Both houses were nestled on the upper rim of a gently sloping hill studded with scattered willow and cypress trees. The lake was wide and round and calm, far enough to see across, but too far to swim. Twin docks jutted out into the water, both dilapidated, each with their twin rowboats, moored and forgotten, equally neglected.

A thick tangle of bottlebrush firs, a vast orange grove to the west and tall oaks dripping Spanish moss to the east made a natural barrier on the other side. I had made the circuit around the lake many times, walking it when I needed solitude. Reaching the belt of wildflowers that dusted the outer banks I stopped. The sounds of doleful country music wafted out over the water. A cool wind ruffled my hair, ripe with the scent of jasmine and wild mint. I sniffed again, tilting my head, listening. Something was not right. Birds cawed. Somewhere above, a jet plowed a chalky white mark across the blue sky. Water slapped against the rickety boards of the dock. A boat scraped lightly at its moorings.

One boat, not two.

I brought my hand up to shield my eyes, scanning the lake.

There it was, the other tiny gray boat bobbing on the other side.

My heart stopped. Someone was in the boat, the little girl of the night before. Good god, she was alone out there!

Darling Lois,

You continually amaze me with your thoughtfulness. The boats were a wonderful surprise. So that's what you were doing sequestered away in the shed all these months! They are beautiful!

I think we should christen them the Mo and the Lo. What do you think?

I want to spend loads of time in them with you, hearing the water slap against the pretty white planks, feeling the wind whisk across the water while we lay about and get very brown.

They were a wonderful birthday present. I love you so much! I hope to spend every single birthday from now until the hereafter with you.

Thank you from the bottom of my bottomless heart,

Mona

Chapter 5

The professional in me took over. I stopped thinking, shedding shoes and sweater as I ran for the water, only pausing a moment to glance at the old rowboat still tied to the dock. It was so decrepit; I doubted it would hold me. The bottom was half sunk into the green water.

Wading in, my brain registered the chill of the lake as my hands sliced through it. I arrowed through the water, calculating with alien calm the precious seconds it would take to reach the boat, trying not to think about alligators or snakes or snapping turtles. Every few moments, I would draw breath and search ahead for her. She was standing in the boat, carelessly laughing as it rocked beneath her.

One stroke. Ten strokes.

She was still so far. I looked again. A bird swooped overhead, too low, diving for its dinner. The girl leaned back to watch. The boat teetered as she pushed all her weight to one side.

I drove myself harder. My arm muscles burned but my fingers and toes were numb. The water was so cold. I checked again. The little girl was attempting to row though the paddles were far too big for her tiny hands. She made little splashes in the water.

Fifty strokes.

I could see her face clearly now. She was straining to reach one of the paddles that had dropped in the water. A burst of adrenaline propelled me forward. She saw me. Her little face registered surprise, then alarm as she lost her balance and tipped over the edge.

I caught her by the shoulders as she fell forward, coming up out of the water with a last burst of strength, enough to push her back in and push me under the surface.

Water rushed into my ears and up my nose, blotting out all sound. I struggled back up, gagging and sputtering as I clutched at the boat for support. I hung there a moment, too weary to pull myself out of the water. The little girl just stared down at me in horror, as if I were some monster of the deep come to drag her down to the bottom of the lake.

"Permission to come aboard, captain?" I asked between raspy breaths, forcing a smile onto my blue lips. I gave her a little salute with my free hand, just for good measure. The little girl giggled. I took that to mean yes and hoisted myself up, tumbling into the boat beside her. The breeze hit my wet clothes and my teeth began to chatter.

"H..hi, I'm Jo. What's your n..name?"

"Hope," she said shyly, backing away to the farthest corner of the little boat and dangerously rocking it in the process.

I struggled to an upright position, bracing myself with my hands on both sides.

"Well, Captain Hope, can I j..join your crew?" I smiled again.

She nodded. I looked at the shore in the distance, realizing I was an oar short and too bone tired to make it back there alone.

"Well, how about we signal ashore? What is your mommy's name?"

"M'randa," she answered, then popped her thumb in her mouth. Hope couldn't have been more than four. She wore blue overalls with a yellow turtleneck sweater underneath. It was warm enough, but I doubted she could stand the chill if she got wet.

"Miranda!" I bellowed. "Miranda!"

The steady twang of the radio was the only answer I received. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled again. No answer. I could see the figures of Dean and Mike moving around beside Sister. I waved my hands in the air and screamed their names. Nothing happened. The music was too loud. They'd never hear me. I swore under my breath.

I had no choice.

"Have you ever been on a motor boat, Hope?" I asked.

She shook her blonde curls.

"Well a motor boat makes noises like this. Grrrrrrrr. Can you do that?"

She giggled and shook her head again. The breeze blew harder, the sun seemed to dim and the sky to the west looked more vividly blue than before, an early February storm, fast mover, typical for Florida. I didn't want to be out on the lake when it hit.

"Sure you can," I said. "You just say grrrrr. Try it."

She emitted a little sound, more like a squeak, then covered her mouth.

"Good." I said. "Now I'm going to get in the water and be the engine. But you have to sit back here in front of me and make the engine noises, ok?"

"Ok."

Gingerly, I slid back into the water. The cold nipped at my bare arms. I only had a t-shirt to protect me from the cold. It was poor insulation. Hope settled into the back of the boat, in front of me. I gripped both sides and began to paddle.

"Grrrrrr, Hope. Say it with me."

Hope made engine noises as I pushed us both across the lake. It was very slow going. About halfway across, my whole body began to shudder. I couldn't make my fingers stay closed. My hands kept slipping.

And then I got angry. My body may have been numb, but a little firestorm was raging in my head. Someone was to blame for this. No matter how long it took, I was going to get this boat to shore and give that someone hell.

Just as I thought I was going to have to give up and get back in the boat for awhile, my feet touched silt and muck. A few minutes later, the boat struck the dock. Hope sprang out of the boat before I could tie it up. I dragged myself on shore. My body just wanted to lay down in the weeds and shiver, but my temper had other ideas.

Chapter 6

I don't know if it was the coming storm or just the blood rushing in my ears, but I couldn't hear the music anymore. Mike saw the look on my face and dropped his hammer. I stomped past him without saying a word. I don't think I could have said anything. I jabbed the power button on the radio.

"What? Are you, deaf?" I roared. Mike stumbled back. He and Dean were well acquainted with my temper.

I shook my head and backed down. I wasn't really mad at them. I brushed past, marching around the corner of the house to the front porch. She was there, holding Hope in her arms, rocking her back and forth, crying.

"Captain Hope, can I ask you a favor, sweetie?" I said, barely masking my fury with a strained smile. "Will you run inside and get me a towel, please?"

She looked up at her mother. Miranda nodded. Hope disengaged herself from her mother's arms and trotted into the house. I waited until her footsteps quieted and then the floodgates opened.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, lady? Your daughter is out in the middle of a fucking lake in a fucking boat and where the hell were you? You call yourself a mother? What kind of supervision is that? Jesus, your kid could have drowned! I don't know what you've been doing over here but it can't be more important than taking care of your child." I leaned over and pointed an accusing finger at her. She just sat there, her face blank, her eyes smeared with mascara and tears.

"I know people at Protective Services," I went on, in full vilification mode. "If I see anymore of this crap, I'll have that kid out of here in a heartbeat, I promise you. I'm not risking my life again just so you can be free to redecorate." I took a breath, but the anger was still way out of control. I sneered, lip curling back in disgust. "I can't believe you were just sitting here on your porch while I was freezing my ass off, saving your child. Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity, her jade green eyes glittering.

"Can you help me out of this hole?" she asked in a small voice. She leaned backward, arching her back slightly though she was still seated. Her gaze flickered down, then back up at me.

I looked down and drew in a sharp breath.

Her left leg had sunk through the rotten boards of the porch, the jagged ends embedded in her shin. She twisted a little and the flesh tore. She hissed and sat back roughly.

"Oh no!" I whispered, my regret and humiliation instantaneous. "Sit still. Sit still. I'll help you." She regarded me, her pretty face pinched with pain, then nodded.

"Wait just a second. Let me pull that board free."

I reached down and took hold of the rotten board, wrenching it sideways just enough so that she could slip her leg through. She rolled to the right, pulling her leg up, panting, then turned back.

"Thank you," she said, ignoring my extended hand, and got to her feet unaided. Standing, she looked back at me. I flinched at the naked scorn in her eyes.

"You know, you should have that looked at. I..."

"I think you should go now," she interrupted, and then turned and limped into the house.

Dumbfounded, I stood for a second, listening to the drip, drip, drip of my sodden hair and clothes. Behind me, Dean snickered softly. I sighed, staring at the screen door in indecision. Apologies would be useless at this point, I decided. So I picked up what was left of my dignity and started across the yard for home. Mike and Dean were leaning on a pile of 2x4's, smirking as I walked past.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, Josey-phine?"

I spun around, eyes narrowed to slits. Mike was still leering, probably because of the wet t-shirt. I drew myself up to my full height, which for a girl is pretty impressive, and walked past him to the woodpile. I drew my arm up sharply and in one quick snap, broke three boards with my hand.

Four years of Tae Kwan Do and I finally got to use it outside class. It was worth it just for the look on Mike's face.

Silently, without looking back, I walked home.

Once inside, I stormed through the house to the living room, jabbed the on button to the CD player and selected random play, a little Nina Simone to soothe the savage beast.

A startling clap of thunder preceded a downpour. I smiled to myself, the drumming of the rain on the roof pacifying me a little.

The heel of my hand stung and my whole body was numb. I stripped off my jeans, realizing for the first time that I was barefoot. My shoes and sweater were still back down by the lake. I went to the laundry room, grabbed a towel, some jeans and a fresh t-shirt out of the dryer. I changed right there and toweled off my hair.

Slowly, I was gaining my equilibrium. There is a place I go to when I'm angry, not a nice place. Getting back always takes me a little time. I breathed deep for a few minutes, leaning against the washer with my eyes closed. All I could see was her stricken face as she rocked her child.

"Miranda," I said aloud, for no reason other than to hear the sound of it. Then, I shook myself. She hated me now. That much was certain.

Sighing heavily, I folded the rest of the laundry in the dryer and started another load.

"Way to overreact, you ranting bitch," I muttered, pushing my wet hair off my forehead. The full extent of my shame was flooding into my awareness. Overreacting was becoming a lifestyle choice for me.

Now that I was dry and a little warmer, my stomach began to make some demands. Wondering back out to the kitchen, I poked my head in the fridge with an early dinner in mind. Unfortunately, the last time I had actually seen the inside of a grocery store was about two months ago. I settled for a beer, popping the cap and tossing it in the garbage. I took a long pull and the taste seemed to swell as it glided cool and invigorating down my throat. The house was quiet now. No more pattering on the roof. The downpour had been as short was it was sudden.

Then I heard the radio outside come alive again. This time it was Reba McIntyre. I heard another vehicle creak to a halt, wheels grinding on the gravel drive. A door slammed and voices hailed Mike and Dean. More workmen. The sound of a buzz saw whizzed, smothering Nina's smoky voice. A resounding crash followed and my resolve snapped. I knew that if I spent another ten minutes listening to that, my name, followed by the words "multiple homicide" would show up in tomorrow's headlines.

I flew upstairs, taking them two at a time, grabbed a knapsack from the closet and began shoving in socks, underwear, a spare t-shirt and my toothbrush.

Though it might mean I would have to suffer through a manicure, or in the very least, a cucumber facial, tonight, I was sleeping over at Mom's.

Dear Lois:

I know you said I shouldn't, but I'm going to do it anyway. I've gone into town to pick up the desk. I will probably stop by the lawyer's office, too. I'll be back before lunch, so clear a spot in the den for that lovely mahogany roll top beauty.

Loving you,

Mona

P.S. I can't stop smiling just picturing the look on your face!

Chapter 7

"Hold still," Mom said through a mouthful of hair clips as she snipped at my bangs. Because I hadn't visited in over a month, she'd selected multiple forms of torture as payback, a color consultation followed by a haircut. She inserted another clip then whirled the chair around so I could see the full ridiculousness that was me in the mirror.

"Great, mom, thanks," I said, surveying the artful swirls and curls I would wash out as soon as I had the chance. "I had no idea hair could do that."

She gave my arm a playful swat, serenely avoiding my sarcasm. Mom had seen too many Doris Day movies as a teenager. She'd never recovered.

Unhooking the cape from around my neck, she shook it out. I tried to avoid looking at the yards of hair that fell to the floor.

"Yes, it looks better doesn't it? And the consultation went so well. I knew you were a summer. The colors you wear now are all wrong. So much black. You should wear more oranges and pinks."

"Pink?" I gave a snort of disgust. Mom hadn't suggested pink since that disastrous incident when I was three. I'd taken off my new frilly pink dress in the middle of church. Better naked than wear pink. "And, if you suggest shopping, I'm out of here," I warned, not quite kidding.

Mom laughed. At 67, she was still pretty, especially when she laughed. Her platinum bob swished as she shook her head and put her manicured hands on still trim hips. "No shopping. But since you're here, I thought you could help me Feng Shui the downstairs at the house."

"Wha?"

"You know, help me move stuff around. It's supposed to create harmony," she said in all seriousness, spritzing my bouffant with some citrus smelling hair cement. "I just need you to help me move the sofa to my success area."

I stared a beat, but her expression was utterly serene.

"Mom, you've totally lost it." Eyebrows raised a fraction. "But okay, I'll help. As long as you don't make me watch the Home and Garden channel again. No more decorating hints, please."

Mom grabbed a broom and began to sweep up the large tufts of auburn hair littering the floor beneath me. "I'm just trying to help, dear. I mean, you've lived in that house how long now? And not one picture on the wall." She gave one of her patented mom sighs. This one was shorthand for I know I raised you better than that. "Besides," she said. "It's better than that stuff you watch. All that Court TV will rot your morals." She tisked quietly. "So much violence."

"Well," I looked askance at her petite 5'2 frame and shrugged. "It's a heavy sofa. But, hey, if you think you can manage it on your own?"

Three hours later, after closing up the beauty shop, mom's sofa was perfectly positioned to bring about a positive chi and I was happily engrossed in a mindless Perry Mason rerun.

"Here you go, sweetie." Mom passed me a plate piled high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots. I placed it on the TV tray in front of me as mom sat down and unfurled her napkin. I tore into the food greedily. I don't cook much. The best I can do is an omelette and that is only to impress on the "morning after" type dates. I don't make too many omelettes, especially not lately.

Perry Mason had just torn apart the innocent nephew on the witness stand, knowing very well the nephew's girlfriend would jump up and declare her guilt to save her beloved. A dramatic flashback ensued wherein it is revealed the girlfriend killed the evil uncle in self-defense. Perry vowed to represent her as the bailiffs led her away. Witty banter between Della and Perry followed, and then the credits. I was just polishing off my mashed potatoes, wondering why I like these cheesy programs, when the intro for America's Most Wanted flashed on the screen. Mom reached for the remote. I grabbed it first and gave her my most pitiful pleading look.

"I have so little joy in my life." Unconvinced, she tugged at the remote. I pouted. "C'mon Ma."

Relenting, she picked up our empty plates and headed toward the kitchen.

"Fine," she said over her shoulder, smiling her most devious smile. "But tomorrow, we shop."

I nodded. It was easy enough to weasel out of shopping. I was a firefighter. A fire beats shopping in the priorities department any day. I'd just tell her I was on call. It wasn't really a fib. I didn't like to leave the boys too long without supervision and there were probably about a million things on my desk that needed my attention. And I knew if I spent enough time with mom she'd bring up Laurel. I just didn't feel like going through that conversation again.

"What are you thinking, sweetie?" Mom asked as she pushed a bowl of vanilla ice cream under my nose.

"Mmm, thanks. Oh nothing really. Just work."

Mom arched a supercilious brow at me. Damn, so that's where I got that look.

Settling back, I clutched an embroidered sofa cushion and glowered in anticipation of the usual lecture. I knew it verbatim.

That Laurel had too much baggage. She wasn't good enough for you. She was still in love with her good for nothing ex-husband. I told you that from day one. I don't know what you saw in her. She's all sass and trash and her family was trash too. They always hated you. You know that. It's time to move on with your life.

But, Mom's expression cleared. She sat down quietly next to me.

"She's not worth all the fuss, baby," she comforted, patting my hand.

I was still gaping at her when the television caught my attention... something about a murder. What is it about crime shows that totally ensnares my attention?

"?Police are puzzled by the complete disappearance of suspect Helena Burnham and her young daughter, Hope. She is wanted in the brutal murder of her husband, Dallas millionaire, philanthropist Phillip Burnham. On the night of May 27th, police were called to the Burnham home at the request of family and employees who say Burnham hadn't been heard from in several days. There, they found a gruesome scene?"

A poorly acted replay followed where the actors masquerading as police discovered the crime scene. Blah, blah, blah... the usual high-pitched shocking music and voice over with shadowy knife plunging down in silhouette. Then suddenly, I froze. A picture flashed across the screen, a close up of the suspected murderess Helena Burnham.

I'd seen that face. Last night as a matter of fact.

I was living next door to it.

I dropped down on my knees and crawled until my nose was inches from the television.

"Josephine Trilby what on earth are you doing?"

I didn't answer, just inched closer.

The photograph shown was fuzzy, a happy moment at a child's birthday party. The woman in the photograph was smiling, wearing a silly, streamer-festooned paper hat, holding a toddler on her hip. Her eyes were crinkled in laughter, her mouth smiling. It was just too similar. It had to be her. The only difference between the woman on the screen and the woman next door was the hair color. Hers was an unforgettable shade of honey blond. The picture on TV showed a woman with dark brown hair, though the style was the same. The picture faded, replaced with more re-enactment footage. This time it showed a woman rifling through a safe, taking out stacks and stacks of dollar bills.

"?.Helena Burnham was very familiar with her husbands assets," the announcer continued. "Too familiar. After she disappeared, the family discovered that Helena had been embezzling for years. Check receipts showed forged signatures?."

I didn't need to hear anymore. Another picture of Helena Burnham flashed on screen, a police sketch artist's rendering. The woman in this picture had blonde hair.

Said she'd take it and paid cash on the spot. Cash. Had a whole bag full of money.

I sat back on my heels.

"Mom," I said, "can you get me the phone."

Chapter 8

Jay tapped at my office door, peeked his head around, and sauntered in.

"Hey, Ope."

"How is Charline?" he asked, glancing at my hair.

I ran a hand through my still-puffy bangs. "Mom's fine. Did you bring it?"

Jay, christened Opie by me when we were in fourth grade, sighed windily and sank into the only other chair in my office, a green vinyl swivel that had been broken since the late seventies. He slid a manila folder across my desk.

"You know, I can't do this for you every time you watch that show. One of these days, you're going to have to learn how to surf the net."

I tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of news printouts.

"Thanks," I said dismissively. Of course, he didn't take the hint. He leaned toward the desk. I tried the stare but he just grinned. It never did work on him. That's probably why we were best friends.

Once, way back in high school, we had tried being more. It was a complete disaster. It had never gone beyond the first kiss. The kiss, strangely enough, had sealed our friendship. With all that romantic tension out of the way, we settled right into the business of being each other's worst critic and biggest champion.

He settled back in the creaky chair, ran a hand through his ginger-colored crew cut and then crossed his arms across his barrel-like chest. The silvery scar snaking its way from shoulder to elbow shone white against his tanned arms. There was another smaller scar on his chest. Both were a reminder of the bullet that had ended his burgeoning career and his marriage.

We didn't talk about either much. Jay had only returned to town a year ago. He was still a little sensitive about the marriage, but that was minor compared to the ego bashing he had taken when the FBI had politely asked him to pursue other options.

Once, Jay had been destined for big things. He'd gotten a full scholarship to Florida State University and had gone on to study at Quantico. But fate, failure and an unfortunate addiction to prescription painkillers had brought him back to Springport too soon. A few months of isolation and a lot of soul-searching had helped him get clean, but his FBI career was beyond saving. Luckily, the tiny town's police department was only too happy to invite a Quantico grad into their ranks.

He'd drowned his sorrows in work--probably a bit more healthy than any other drug of choice--and he started to get places. After about six months, everyone quit calling him 'Opie' (except me) and started calling him 'Sir'." Within a year, he could boast of two promotions. In a town with only six policemen on its payroll, two of which, the drug enforcement officers, only worked from eight to three, Jay was a force to be reckoned with.

"So who is it now? Another German tourist you're convinced is a terrorist?" He exhaled in an understatedly dramatic fashion, a Jay specialty. "I'm warning you. I'm not smoothing over another one for you, Jo." He gave my bedraggled appearance an appraisal filled with disdain. Mr. Neatnik couldn't abide my sloppy tendencies. I don't think Jay ever sported a wrinkle in his life, not even when he was in diapers. "What's with you and this 'morning after' look? Did you finally get some?"

I shooed him away. "Do you mind? I've got work to do."

"Working on your day off again? Yup. Thought so. Bad sign of sexual repression, my friend."

"Since when are you so concerned with my sex life?"

"If you had a sex life, I wouldn't be concerned. When you go without you get weird. The conspiracy theories start flying. It's like your brain latches onto anything to distract from the lack of nookie."

"Take that Quantico shit somewhere else, Okay?"

"Fine." He shrugged, smirking, as he backed toward the door. "Lecture over. "

I raised my eyebrows in mock astonishment. "Well that's probably the shortest one ever." He pursed his lips in a trademark frown, exactly the same frown he used on kids who didn't cross the street at the light. "How 'bout I come over this weekend and you can give me the rest of it. Is Deborah going to be there?"

This time, Jay's grin was pure happiness. "Yes."

"Uh huh. I had a feeling." I couldn't help grinning back. I hadn't seen him this content in ages. "I told you I liked her, didn't I?"

"Yes. I told her she got the Josey stamp of approval. She was quite relieved."

"She doesn't like me."

"No, she does. She was just jealous at first, that's all. I explained everything. She's okay with us now." Jay cleared his throat. That was about as deep as our emotional talks got. Anxious to be alone with the file, I decided to play my trump card.

"So, when are you going to propose, big guy? Don't tell me she's not the one. I can tell by the way you look at her. Remember sophomore year? You used to look at Caroline Mincey exactly the same way."

Jay blushed. Bullseye.

"I don't know about that," he said, suddenly hoarse.

"Wake up and smell the matrimony."

His blush deepened. He glanced down at his watch and then started to fidget with dial. "Right." The bashful smile said more than he ever would. He cleared his throat and then turned to go. "I'm late," he said, looking over his shoulder. "We'll see you Friday?"

"Friday," I called after his hurriedly retreating back. "Tell Deborah I'm looking forward to it."

Chuckling to myself, I brought my attention back to the pile of papers in front of me.

Those on top were newspaper accounts. I spread them out across the desk, scanning through each horrific account. My stomach lurched at a few of the details. It was getting so much media attention because it was such a lurid and bloody case. The victim had been bludgeoned then hacked to pieces, literal pieces. Probably with an ax, the police thought, though the murder weapon still had not been found. Another blurry newspaper photo of Helena Burnham accompanied one account. I skipped by it, thrusting it under the pile.

Shuffling through FBI computer printouts of telephone leads, I encountered another picture. This was an 8x10 of Helena Burnham and her late husband. I sat back in my chair and held it out in front of me. The clarity of the woman's features made my heart sink. It could be her. The eyes were the same. The smile--well I hadn't seen my neighbor smile yet.

The corner of the picture had a date. This photo was taken seven years ago. Helena Burnham would have changed a lot in that amount of time. This picture didn't resemble my neighbor at all. In the picture, Helena Burnham was a beautiful, young dark-haired girl, clinging like a vine to a, if the look of adoration in her eyes was any indicator, much beloved husband. I pushed that picture to the bottom of the pile, too. There were others. Some were an exact likeness.

The other pages were more computer printouts, lab results, lists of phone calls by the investigative officers. Jay's contact at the FBI had been thorough. I skimmed these, absorbing a few facts.

There were two other suspects, two men James Reesler & Garland Bice, but police were not actively pursuing them in the investigation. I wrote their names down on my desk blotter to look into later. Not that it would do much good. Results from the crime lab indicated 90% positive that Helena Burnham was the culprit. Notations from the investigating officers indicated that Helena had no alibi for the night of the murders.

I pushed the pile away from me, suddenly sick to my stomach. These hadn't confirmed or denied my suspicions. I was more confused than ever.

Someone knocked. I was happy for the interruption. The men had been a little edgy lately, waiting for word on their raises. I was starting to worry that they saw me as the enemy.

"Yeah," I called.

A head popped in. It was Roxanne. She was staring down at her toes, avoiding eye contact. Being new, she was still a little afraid of me. Ah, how I relished torturing the Probies. "It's your turn to cook," she said timidly, and then with a little more spunk, added, "Where should we order the pizza from?"

"So they've warned you about my culinary skills, have they? One little case of food poisoning and they never let you forget it."

I scooted out from behind my desk, stood and stretched. "Tell them to order from Lothario's. They've got the best."

Roxanne nodded and then disappeared back down the hall. Another knock.

"Pepperoni, no mushrooms," I said.

"Huh?" Jeannie, the dispatcher, stood in front of my desk, looking puzzled.

"Oh nothing. Whatcha got?"

She held out a message hastily written on a scrap of paper.

"Box Alarm. Just got a call from Rockhaven. They need back-up on an apartment fire."

"Crank it up," I said. Jeannie hustled back to the switchboard. Moments later, as I was kicking off my shoes and reaching for my turnouts, I heard the siren.

Dearest darling Lo,

I wanted you to find this in your lesson plan, just so you'll think of me and the day won't seem too long. Summer is almost here!

Days out on the lake. Fishing. Lying in the sun. Picnics, chicken on the grill. Games of horseshoes in the yard. Maybe we can plant some lavender in front of the porch? I love the smell of warm lavender.

Patience, my love... One more week!

Love you,

Mo

Chapter 9

"Well if it isn't my favorite Jake-ette." Ellis' smile never seemed to reach his eyes. I suppose it must have trouble climbing over his chubby jowls. 'Jake' was an ancient although complimentary term to most firefighters, but the way he said it always sounded sarcastic and condescending. It never failed to grate my nerves and he knew it.

"Rescue company has all the civilians out ," he said, mopping sweat off his forehead with a tattered bandana. "The Auxiliary is working containment from the ground levels. C and D are still open. Hot spot's the top floor. We need to bring a line up in back. Let's hope we'll be able to knock it down with your company here."

"We're on D," I volunteered. This was business. We were both professional enough to ignore the hostility that was ever present.

Ellis nodded.

I sent two to fit the plug while Roger and I brought the line around.

One look at the back told me this building would be a tough save. The roof, five floors up, was already spouting flames. Smoke curled in huge, black billows out from under the eaves. I was scanning the side of the structure, searching for the place to set the ladder, when I saw it near the top floor, a perfect pillar of roiling flame.

"Goddamn gas grills!" I shouted above the din, pushing my hat back to get a better look. I pointed it out to Roger.

"Shit."

Fourth floor, second balcony, a propane tank hose was loose, shooting gas straight into the ceiling, feeding the flames. We were the first company around the backside of the building. I made a split second decision.

"Tell them to get a feeder around here for me and a deck gun."

A picked up several hundred feet of hose and slung it over my shoulder. Roger didn't move, staring upward in horror.

"Go!" I screamed.

Instead of scuttling off, fearing for his life, he pointed up at the building. I followed his line of vision.

"Perfect. That totally makes my day."

Second floor, first balcony, two shaggy Pekingese puppies were yelping and trying to wriggle in between the iron bars of the balcony gate. I shoved the hose at Roger.

"Go," I repeated. "Tell them to send around the deck gun and a ladder for me. I'll get the mutts. And don't you dare try this, kid. This is strictly off limits to probies, got it?"

Roger nodded solemnly. "Right, no stupid heroics, got it." He took off, rounding the side of the building.

The first floor terraces were cluttered with bicycles and potted plants, but nothing tall enough to give me a boost to the balconies above. I improvised. Giving myself a running head start, I leapt up, grabbed at the iron bars, got a handhold and pulled myself up. Good thing I'm tall.

The puppies saw me and began to emit piteous yowls. I shushed them as I measured the distance between balcony one and balcony two. It was going to be a stretch but I thought I could manage it. Above, an ominous creaking told me that the roof was getting ready to cave on the top floor. Below, my boys were setting up to direct a stream at the blaze.

I made the leap, banging my hip painfully in the process. The dogs began to growl.

"Where's the gratitude?" I asked them, climbing over the rail. They cocked their heads and wagged their tales; a good sign

"That's better. Good babies. You want to take a little trip now, huh?"

I approached them slowly, making no sudden moves. More tale wagging.

Bending low, I scooped one up and got ready to do the same with the other, when he changed his mind about me. He reared, baring his teeth and snarling, the hair on his back bristling.

"Easy boy. Easy."

Snap went puppy jaws, clamping down hard on my ankle. I threw him off, dropping the other puppy in the process. Now three of us were yowling.

A creaking groan and another explosion from above told me the matter was becoming more urgent. I stopped hopping around like a demented Easter Bunny and took a deep breath.

"You okay?" one of my boys called over the roar of the hungry fire above.

I didn't answer, being too busy fending off vicious puppies. Two sets of pointy teeth snapped at me as I made another grab for them and missed. Puppy one was hanging off of the tip of my glove. I grabbed it by the scruff, clamped it under my arm and lunged for the other. It danced sideways, butting up against the iron rails.

"Fine," I told them. "You want to be difficult. I'm queen of difficult."

I managed to grab puppy two. Holding both out at arms length, I was able to climb up on the rail.

"Son of a?"

I had forgotten. No ladder. I opened my mouth to call for someone when a sharp crack splintered the air, the sound of the roof caving. The balcony above lurched. That decided it.

I shoved off with my feet, plummeting backwards, twisting mid-air as much as I could. I hit the grass, my hip and shoulder connecting sharply with the soft earth, the puppies landing on top of me. They shot out of my arms and were off. I laid there, pain radiating up and down my left side. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt.

A deafening boom thundered above, another propane tank exploded. Dust and smoke mingled as the building's supports teetered then crumpled.

Doesn't anybody use charcoal grills anymore?

Roger bent over me, his soot blackened face pinched with concern.

"You okay, Boss?"

"Fabulous," I replied, and then promptly passed out.

Dear Lo,

The nurse wouldn't let me in to see you, but I did persuade her to give you this note. Even though they won't allow me to stay with you, I will be here if you need me. I'll charge a whole platoon of doctors and nurses to get to you if I have to.

They tell me they operated just in time. If we had waited until the weekend, the appendix would have exploded. You always did have excellent timing, dearheart. It'll only be a few more days and they'll let me take you home. I'll see you during visitors hours tomorrow, so rest up until then.

Sleep my love, knowing that the one who loves you best is near and thinking of you.

Mo

Chapter 10

Several hours later, I was released from the ER. They gave me a bottle of pills, twice as many warnings about resting and then discharged me.

The sun was setting behind the cypress trees as I pulled up to the house. I sat in the car, head resting on the steering wheel for a few moments. There's always a period after, when the adrenaline starts to thin, that leaves me feeling extremely hollow and alone. I would kill and maim rather than admit it, but sometimes, I just cry for no reason after a particularly stressful call. It's hormones, I suppose. I didn't know. I just wanted to be alone and yet I dreaded going into the empty house.

I hobbled to the back door in the dark, taking each tentative step with gritted teeth. I nudged the screen door open then held it there with the cane the hospital had provided. I tried to balance myself, but couldn't free a hand to unlock the back door. I put the key chain in my mouth while I repositioned the cane and the door. Unfortunately, the key chain was a fuzzy fire hat, a stupid promotional item we give to kids when we visit schools. I'd be spitting red fuzz for days.

Finally, with hip and elbow against the screen, forearm and cane holding the brunt of my weight, I freed a hand. I heard a grinding noise as I turned the key in the lock. It was stuck. I let out a long stream of highly colorful expletives that would have had my mother running for a bar of soap. I had meant to fix the sticky lock. It was one of a hundred little projects I had been putting off. Ah, the joys of living in an older home. I pounded on the door with my free arm. Not that it helped but it was a good outlet for my frustration. I'd just about jimmied the door open when a small voice behind me said, "Hello."

I spun around, dropping my keys and wincing as my hip twisted in the wrong direction.

My new neighbor, Miranda, stood at the foot of the steps. For a crazy fleeting second, I thought she kind of resembled those frightened Pekingese on the balcony. Her eyes were wide and wary. Then I remembered what she probably had just overheard and laughed.

"I'm really not a psycho bitch from hell. I promise," I said by way of an explanation, trying make my smile a little more reassuring. "I'm sorry about that. I just got back from the hospital."

Her face instantly radiated concern. "My god, you didn't really hurt yourself the other day did you? Oh, I feel so terrible!"

I didn't quite register what she meant. Then it dawned on me. "No. Not at all. No this happened at work today." I took a deep breath. "I'm glad you brought that up, though. I'm really sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have read you the riot act like that. I have this temper?you've probably heard about it from people in town."

"I don't go into town," she said shyly, dipping her head down so that her long, blonde hair swung forward over her face. My heart did a cartwheel. Up close, she was even more beautiful than I had expected. She wore a short skirt dotted with tiny flowers and a moss colored sweater that accented her eyes. She even smelled really good. I caught the faint scent of roses when she moved.

Whoa girl. I forced myself to study my shoes. When I looked up again she was watching me with a strange expectant look on her heart-shaped face.

"I came over to thank you for what you did, for saving my little girl," she said. I marveled at her voice. I had heard it only briefly before. Now I realized how deep and rich it sounded, like bees drunk on honey. I gave myself a mental shake. This was the same woman who may or may not have bludgeoned her husband with an ax, I told myself. Standing there looking into those green, green eyes, I didn't know if I really believed it or cared if I did.

"I screamed but no one heard me," she went on, her voice catching. "I couldn't move. It was so awful. All I could do was watch her drift farther and farther out. I'm so grateful, really. I'm sorry. I know I seemed cold?"

I stopped her. "Rightfully so. I'm sure I wouldn't have been half as polite to a screaming, dripping wet bitch that had called me every name in the book and then some. Don't apologize, please."

She laughed. "Ok, I won't. But I did come over to invite you to dinner if you're free, as a thank you?Only if you're feeling all right, though." She tucked her hair behind her ears and cocked her head to one side. "Hope would like it. She's done nothing but sing your praises for days."

I glanced down at my soot-covered uniform, gray standard issue t-shirt now a deep, streaky black. God, what a sight I must have been. Miranda didn't seem to find it in the least remarkable.

"How can I say no to Captain Hope?" I said, Or her mother when she looks at me like that. "I'd be happy to. Just give me a few minutes to clean up."

She grinned at me, her face brightening. "Good. I'll tell Hope."

I backed towards the door watching her walk towards Sister. It was a distracting sight.

"Should I bring anything?" I called after her.

"Just yourself," she called back.

How fast can a temporarily crippled butch woman shower and change? Given the motivation, it was very quick; although, it was touch and go for a minute in the shower with the cane. I stopped to gulp down some pain pills. My hip was throbbing. I should probably just lie down like the doctor told me. But a little pain wasn't going to stand in the way of my need to be nosey.

Standing there in a towel looking through my closet, I was suddenly confronted with the realization that I didn't own a decent shirt. Since when had I become a stereotype? My entire wardrobe consisted of jeans, faded t-shirts, and flannel shirts that were too worn even for an informal dinner.

Damn, Damn, Damn.

I made a mental note to take my mother up on the offer of shopping next time.

I finally dressed in a newish blue t-shirt and my favorite pair of Levis, deciding on the comfortable approach. Checking my reflection in the mirror rather longer than necessary, I gave myself passing marks. It's not like I was ever going to impress her with my fashion sense. I'd just have to dazzle her some other way.

Dazzle her? Reality check.

This woman could be a fugitive. And she was obviously straight. I wasn't trying to woo her, I told myself. I was going over there to check things out.

I managed to get back downstairs and out the back door without adding any injuries to my already extensive list of aches and pains. I glanced over at Sister. Golden light spilled out of the windows outlining the shapes of the two moving around inside. The full moon, hanging low in a clear sky, silvered the drooping limbs of the willow trees behind it. I had never seen Sister look so cozy. I was weary, sore, and my nerves were frazzled but underneath it all I felt a sudden exhilaration. The empty feeling of a half an hour ago was a distant memory. It wasn't hard to figure out why.

Mo's Top Secret Crunchy Chicken

(even you can't mess this up, Lo)

4 chicken breasts

stick of butter

A box of Ritz crackers, crumbled

garlic, pressed

Heat oven to 400. Grease small baking dish.

Melt butter. Add pressed garlic. Dip chicken breasts in mixture and then in cracker crumbs.

Put chicken in prepared dish. Bake for 1 hour.

Chapter 11

About halfway across the lawn, my nostrils met with the tantalizing smells of homemade bread, cinnamon and baked apples.

The woman can cook. I'm in serious trouble.

The garden stile was a bit of a problem. Somehow, I managed to hoist myself over it. Then I heard something that caused an alarm bell to go off in my head, the last jazzy notes of Nina Simone's Ain't Got No and Miranda singing along with them.

Ain't got no mother, ain't got no culture

Ain't got no friends, ain't got no schooling

Ain't got no love, ain't got no name

Ain't got no ticket, ain't got no token

Ain't got no God

I stopped dead right there under the canopy of the oak trees, gripping my cane as if it might run away all on its own. What were the odds that we'd have the same taste in music?

Miranda had a beautiful voice, much like her speaking voice, rich and low and buttery.

I raised my eyes heavenward in silent pleading.

God and her jokes.

It looked like my emotional willpower was going to undergo a grueling test tonight.

I limped through the kitchen garden, up the decaying back steps, and rapped on the screen door.

It opened, creaking on rusty hinges. Hope beamed up at me, her thumb in her mouth.

"Ahoy Captain," I said, smiling a little too widely. My stomach felt like it was trying to fold in on itself. Why was I so skittish? I'm the charming one. I don't get nervous.

Hope stood back and I edged inside.

Mike and Dean and their construction buddies had been busy little bees. The kitchen was still in the process of being remodeled, but the changes taking effect were impressive. The old rotted wood floors had been ripped up and replaced with sandstone tiles. Cabinets that had been painted a putrid shade of green were now stripped down to bare oak made shiny with coats of linseed oil. Even the windows looked freshly dressed with yellow and red checked curtains. It was a very homey scene, made even more so by the sight of Miranda hovering over a saucepan. She reached over and switched off the CD player as I entered.

"I hope you like chicken with lemon dill sauce," she said, inhaling the steam bubbling up from the pot. "It's my specialty."

I hoped I liked it too. I just smiled some more and nodded, suddenly unsure where to stand or what to do with my hands. I fiddled with the tip of my cane, lost my grip and dropped it.

"The place is starting to look great," I said, covering my embarrassment as I picked up the cane off the floor.

"Thanks. I have so many plans for it. There just doesn't seem to be enough hours in the day." She wiped her hands on a red checked dishcloth and turned down the heat on the burner. She turned to look at me, smiling slyly. "Sally Redman called me today."

The offer, I had forgotten about it. I looked away. Damn Sally. Her timing couldn't have been worse. I hadn't felt this off balance and awkward since I asked Denise Ackerman to the senior prom. I was still dealing with the emotional scars from that experience.

"It's very generous of you, really," she said. "But I'm going to have to say no. I just love this place. It's so peaceful." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "It even smells good. I can't get enough of the air out here. It smells like summer when I was a little girl."

She waved to the corner of the kitchen. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home."

"Just wait till the orange blossoms start to bloom," I replied, circling the perimeter of the kitchen till I reached the kitchen table. I pulled out a chair and sat down, balancing my cane on my knee, folding my hands in my lap.

"Would you like some wine?" Miranda asked. "I have a really dry Sauvignon Blanc if you like that sort of thing."

I said that was fine and she busied herself finding me a glass and opening the bottle. Hope appeared at my knee, staring with her big-as-a-saucer blue eyes.

Miranda brought me a glass, limping just slightly herself. I downed half of it before I knew what I was doing.

"How's the leg?" I asked.

"Better, thanks. It only hurts when I move," she flashed me a quick grin. "I had them haul the boats away today," she said, sipping at her own glass. Setting it down, she toyed nervously with the crystal stem, brushing a finger around the rim of the glass. Her hands were entrancing too, long and delicate. I tried not to stare at them. "I hope I wasn't imposing. I just couldn't run the risk?"

"No, I understand. That's fine. I probably should have done that years ago."

Miranda pulled out a chair and sat down next to me, pulling Hope onto her lap, chin nuzzling Hope's curls.

"So what happened to yours?" she asked, eyeing my cane.

"Oh my leg? A dog bit me and then I fell off a balcony."

She laughed. It was a delicious sound. "And how did this happen?"

I told her about the fire, about my job and threw in a few, hopefully, funny anecdotes for good measure. Shoptalk always gets me going. I chattered on and on until I caught myself.

"I'm sorry."

She smiled. "Don't apologize for liking your job."

I couldn't think of a single thing to say as a response and I couldn't look away. Her green eyes pinioned mine and I swear on a stack of bibles, I saw something like an invitation there. Stunned and still staring, I reached blindly for my wine and took a huge gulp. A second later, the look was gone, replaced with soft amusement.

"Dinner should be ready in about ten minutes," she offered after a moment.

I swallowed hard. "Good. It smells great."

An uncomfortable silence followed, both of us looking anywhere but at each other. It would be so much simpler, I reflected with a slight flutter in my stomach, if you could just proclaim your undying devotion by grabbing someone and kissing them, the way they do in all those great old movies.

Probably a little soon for that.

Hope wriggled off of her mother's lap and pulled at my hands. I looked down at her upturned faced. The saucer eyes were now imploring, thumb still firmly implanted in her mouth.

"I think she wants to show you her room," Miranda interpreted. A vigorous headshake from Hope confirmed this. I got to my feet.

"Lead on Cap'n." I allowed her to tug me out of the kitchen and up the front stairs.

"I'll call you when it's ready," Miranda called after us. "Try not to lose yourself in the toy jungle."

Along the way to Hope's room, I noted the changes that had taken place throughout the rest of the house. It was the mirror image of mine, so I knew what to expect as far as layout. White sheets draped the furniture in most of the rooms I passed. Stacked boxes lined the back hallway. The smell of fresh paint mingled with the tangy scent of linseed oil. Mike and Dean must have worked around the clock.

We passed the front room as we mounted the stairs, me ascending slowly, one at a time as Hope sprinted ahead. In that room, at least, everything was unpacked and arranged neatly. The walls were painted a deep burgundy that gave the room a mellow glow. Twin chocolate brown sofas flanked the newly scrubbed and gleaming brick fireplace. A vivid watercolor hung over the mantel and a few pencil drawings graced the other walls. Books of all shapes and sizes lined the built-in shelves to either side of the fireplace. A worn gold velvet wing chair filled the nook nearest the picture window. The room was arranged expertly. I liked it but it seemed somehow off to me. It was too perfect, like a showroom model. It lacked warmth and a personal touch. There were absolutely no knickknacks, no family portraits in silver frames, no quirky figurines. The overabundance of childhood pictures usually seen in a houses with young children was nowhere in evidence. The room was pleasant, but curiously bare.

Hope had disappeared down the upstairs hall. I reached the top step, aching all over, and called her name.

Her golden head peeped out of a doorway and she beckoned with a chubby hand.

Toy jungle was an apt phrase, it turned out. The kid had a fortune in Fisher Price. There was a shrine to Barbie in one corner and a monstrous Lego construction in the other. The floor in between was littered with every toy conceivable. Fearing for my life with each wobbly step, I picked my way through the debris and sank down on Hope's pink canopy bed.

I am not a wiz with kids. I know how to deal with them in professional situations. I'm even quite good in front of a classroom full of first graders. But one on one makes me very uncomfortable.

"I like your room," I said feebly. Hope picked up a doll from the floor, a bushy haired baby with eyes that opened and closed. She poked it in the stomach and it started to cry.

"Rock it." she commanded, removing her thumb only long enough to say the words before she popped it back in.

So I did, feeling extremely foolish. And then I had a dreadful idea. It felt dirty and sneaky, but curiosity will bring out the worst in people.

"So, Hope, did your daddy rock the baby to sleep for you?" I asked. She ignored me. "I bet he did, didn't he? What is your daddy's name, honey?"

But Hope was too involved with stuffing Barbie into a sleazy purple outfit to pay attention.

"Um, Hope. Is your daddy coming to live here with you? What does your daddy do? I bet you miss him, don't you."

Hope seemed deaf to my interrogation. She grabbed a Ken doll and stuffed it into a mini pink Corvette. Very fitting for Ken's car of choice, I thought.

"Hope, where did you live before you moved here? Do you know the name of the place?"

No response. She drove the pink Corvette over my sore foot. I bit my lip.

Patience.

I bent down and gently took the car and Barbie from Hope. The thumb dropped out of her mouth as she stared in amazement.

"Do you see this?" I said, holding up Barbie. "Let's pretend this is Mommy, okay. Mom's name is not just Mommy. It's Miranda too, isn't it?" I held up Ken. "And let's pretend this is Daddy. Daddy's name isn't just Daddy. What is Daddy's other name?"

Hope just stared, her lips quivering, pulling downward into an undecided pout.

She pushed her lip out and said, "Zee Zee," then put her thumb back in her mouth.

I know some four-year-olds are more advanced than others, but this was plainly baby talk. I didn't know what to make of it.

"Zee Zee? What's that, honey?"

And then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Miranda stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed together in what looked like irritation. I smiled quickly, thrusting the doll and car back at Hope.

"Dinner's ready," Miranda said.

Chapter 12

We sat down at the kitchen table. Candles and wild flowers arranged in a glass vase made a nice centerpiece. Each place setting had a pretty floral patterned china plate and matching cloth napkins. I picked up the napkin gingerly, unthreading it from its matching floral napkin ring.

Wow. So this is what it's like at Martha Stewart's house.

I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten at a table or used a cloth napkin. It not that I'm a heathen or anything. It wasn't a totally new experience. But most of my meals are eaten right out of take-out boxes in front of the television or at the fire station where proper etiquette means no belching until after the meal.

The meal was artfully placed on each plate, like landscaping, but with food. I was afraid to touch it. I tapped the asparagus construction with my fork. It toppled over onto the chicken, splashing dill sauce onto the tablecloth. I pushed my plate forward to cover the stain. When I looked up, both Miranda and Hope were watching me.

"You know," Miranda said, smoothly ignoring my social ineptness. "I don't think we've ever introduced ourselves. Isn't that funny?"

"That's Jo, mommy. I told you her name," Hope said, pointing a fork loaded with chicken at me. "'Member, you asked me if she had a?"

"A problem with?ah?getting rid of the boats," Miranda deftly interrupted. "Right honey. I remember. No, I meant we never introduced ourselves to her."

Hope threw a puzzled frown at her mother. "But, you said?"

Miranda, ignoring her daughter's protest, tucked Hope's napkin in around her neck, effectively shutting her up, and then turned a 100-watt smile on me. It was a good thing I was sitting down.

"I'm Miranda Maddox, and you know Hope?better late than never, eh?"

"Pleased to meet you. Jo Trilby. Thanks for having me over." I replied, and then took a bite of the chicken. It was really good. I really was in trouble. "So, where are you two from?" I asked, belatedly remembering this visit was for reconnaissance purposes. "I imagine our little corner of the world can take some getting used to if you've lived in a big city your whole life."

Subtle as a sledgehammer, Jo.

"Have you lived here all your life?" countered Miranda "I don't think I've ever met anyone who was actually from Florida."

"Yep. Born and bred. It's a small town, but it gets into your blood. I don't think I could live anywhere else."

"It's charming. It's so quiet." She grimaced. Only truly pretty women can make such faces and still look adorable. "Well, when there aren't people hammering day and night. The plumber will be out of here tomorrow and the roofers will only be a week. I'm really sorry about that. They've told me it will only be another couple weeks until the rest is finished."

"Don't count on it. Mike is pretty good but he's not exactly what you'd call dedicated."

"Well, I think I paying him enough to keep him dedicated."

That gave me a moment's pause, remembering America's Most Wanted, the actress shoveling cash out of a safe in the wall and Sally Redman's words. I bet she could afford to keep a lot of people dedicated. I covered the silence quickly, rattling on even more about Springport, the town's eccentric inhabitants and even the weather. Ten minutes later, my plate was clean and, I realized, my original question was still unanswered. I had talked my head off and Miranda had listened patiently, but had revealed nothing about herself.

"So, where do you work?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation back. "Somewhere in town?"

Her eyelashes, thick and long, fanned her cheeks as she looked down at her plate.

"I'm still not sure what I want to be when I grow up," she said, her tone playful yet guarded. "I've decided not to go back to work until Hope is old enough for school. I have a few years of leisure time left, I think, if you call 'leisure' running around after a four-year-old all day."

Hope thumped her milk glass on the table. "All done, Mommy."

"Plate."

Hope handed her plate to Miranda, who collected all the plates and took them to the sink. When she came back to the table, she had a pie in one hand and three plates in the other.

"I hope you have a sweet tooth."

She set the pie down on the table. It was as big as a manhole cover. It made me think of a nursery rhyme. Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie.

My stomach rumbled audibly, not in a good way, and my head began to spin. Funny, I felt fine a minute ago. I attributed it to the stress of the day.

"It's apple," she said, seeing my queasy stare.

"It's enormous," I said, then added hastily, "But it looks great. I'll have half."

Chuckling, she cut a huge slice, put it on a plate and passed it to me. I leaned close to catch the rising scent of baked apples and cinnamon when a curious thing happened. My head floated off my shoulders, the room tilted, and I slid out of my chair.

Then I remembered...

The pain pills must be kicking in. How many had I taken? Two? Four? On top of how many glasses of wine? Two or three?

Heavy, irresistible darkness pressed down on me and suddenly, sleep was an absolute priority.

Roses are Red

And sometimes yellow

this bottle of wine

will help you get mellow

I'm upstairs...

Mo

Chapter 14

Each eyelash weighed at least a hundred pounds. Legs and arms felt almost as heavy. My mouth tasted foul and parched, like a dried up swamp. I thought yearningly of water, delicious and cool, cascading down some rocky slope. Unfortunately, the association brought another matter to mind. I breathed in deep, fighting the call of nature. I wanted to indulge in a few more minutes of this delicious numbness.

Nature won.

Gradually, a disjointed awareness prickled my senses. Something wasn't right. Even before I pried open my eyelids, I knew I wasn't at home in my comfy bed. For one, it didn't smell right. It smelled like flowers and cinnamon. No, I wasn't at home. Potpourri is something you just won't find in my house.

But second, and more alarming, I felt warm breath on my cheek. The warmth of an inert body seeped into mine. Someone was sleeping right next to me.

Warped synapses fired into first gear and I sat straight up. Let's just say, waking up next to someone is an unusual event for me. I was almost afraid to look. I opened my eyes.

I was in bed, just not my bed, definitely not mine. Pink ruffles grazed my forehead, Hope's canopy. The tiny figure curled up next to me confirmed it.

With each labored breath, my last conscious moments filtered through my memory and a grimace of regret felt like it might be permanently etched on my face.

I'd disgraced myself again. Seems I couldn't get through a day without acting like a fool. My life was turning into a twisted "I Love Lucy" episode.

Groaning, I hauled my leaden butt off the bed and was immediately reminded that I'd hurled myself off a balcony a few scant hours before. Ankle, hip and shoulder throbbed. The pain was worse than last night, with the added bonus of nausea and a thundering headache.

I staggered, eyes half open and arms clutched over my churning stomach, across the toy minefield, twice nicking my bare feet on jutting layers of a Lego construction before making it safely to the hall. I clutched the wall for support, gulping in huge breaths so that the pristine floors wouldn't have to become acquainted with the contents of my stomach. A window at the end of the hallway admitted the first pale rays of morning.

I'd spent the night in Miranda's house.

I held my breath as I explored the hallway, finding the door to the darkened bathroom at the other end. I switched on the light. The bathroom was pink, which didn't do much for my nausea, and full of knickknacks and towels that were so dainty and elaborately arranged, I would not have dared wipe my hands on them.

I did my business as quietly as possible, fearing every tiny noise would wake the house. Afterward, I tiptoed (if that is what you can call swaying crazily from foot to foot while hugging the walls) to the stairway, luckily missing any creaky boards, and then began to descend.

I'd gained the bottom of the stairs, gripping the newel post as I gasped for breath, when I overheard Miranda's voice speaking low and hurriedly. I didn't hear another voice answering. Teetering between the desire for a swift and embarrassment-free escape and the need to eavesdrop, I bit my lower lip and deliberated. "No, I'm not going to do that." Miranda's voice floated down the hall. The turmoil in the flat tones decided it for me. At first Miranda's words were muffled and indistinct. But as I drew closer, the conversation became clearer.

"...money you want, then fine, you can have more than we discussed, just leave Hope out of it... It's not as if you ever tried to... No. I won't let you do that to Hope. No. You can't come here...I don't care...You know perfectly well what happened...And don't you dare try to tell me that you don't feel guilty, too..." Miranda's voice went very husky. "Don't---just don't okay? Neither of us is ready for that." She was silent for a long moment. "Fine. Yes, I know, Jim. For the moment, that will have to do. Fine."

I heard the click of the phone as she set it down. The house went quiet. Afraid to breathe, to move, I went as still as a statue and waited. Then the silence was broken by the sound of soft weeping. For the second time, I had unwillingly witnessed her pain. Doubts multiplied by the second. So much could be read into her words. Was she being blackmailed? Then again, it could have been about something else entirely. Either way, now was not the time to offer comfort. Instead, just as before, I crept away, stealing out of the house via the front door like a lunatic escaping from a very pleasant asylum.

I was rounding the corner of the house, head down, hobbling full tilt to get across the lawn to my house before Miranda could spot me leaving, when I slammed into someone.

"Where's the fire, Josey-phine?"

Mike.

I didn't even have to look up. The cloying scents of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke were a dead giveaway. And I knew before I saw his face that his usual leer would be twice as smarmy. I was right. It was funny how nature could give a man such a handsome face but such an ugly personality.

"Not looking so good this morning," he drawled, eyes raking up and down, taking in the disheveled hair, the bare feet, the half buttoned jeans. "You girls have a sleep over?"

"You could say that." I said flatly, hands balling into fists.

His expression darkened, and something resembling jealousy made his mouth pucker. "Oh reeeeally... See now, I wouldn't have pegged Miranda as the type."

My lips twisted in a humorless smile. "And what type is that, Mike?"

His mouth thinned out, going white at the edges. "Stay away from her, Jo. She don't need you poisoning her mind. This is serious, now. She ain't like you."

I shook my head in disgust and tried brushing past him but he grabbed me by the shoulder.

"Mike," I said, fighting to maintain calm, though the blood was pounding in my ears. " If you want to keep that hand, you'll get it off of me right now."

His bloodshot eyes flicked from his hand, to my face, then behind me. What he saw there changed his attitude entirely. He squeezed my shoulder painfully then let go.

"G'morning, Miss Miranda," he said, his mouth instantly widening into an obsequious grin.

I spun around, again wrenching my knee. She was standing on the top step, the screen door propped open with her elbow, my shoes in her hands. Her face was drawn and pale, eyes red. She looked almost as bad as I did, if that was possible, and yet still maddeningly seductive with her tousled hair and no makeup. She wore flannel boxer shorts that exposed firm, tanned legs and a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt.

"Good to see you conscious," she said, raising a questioning eyebrow at me. "We weren't sure you were going to make it there for awhile."

I was sure if I could've died of embarrassment, this would have been the killing blow. And to add to my mortification, I felt myself blushing as Mike watched, bemused.

"Sorry about that," I mumbled.

This was not the answer she was looking for. She pursed her lips. "After you passed out, I called 911. Apparently you have a few friends down there. They talked me through the worst of it. After the paramedics arrived and reassured me you'd be all right after you'd rested, it wasn't so bad. Hope was happy to bunk down with you. I'm sure she'll be sorry she didn't get to say goodbye."

Great, so the whole department knew!

That also explained how I got into Hope's bed. Miranda was so slight, I doubt she could have hauled me up all those stairs. I couldn't suppress a heavy sigh. It just kept getting better and better.

She held out my shoes. "I thought you might need these." With a nod, she tossed them down to me.

I picked them up, raising my eyes to meet hers. "Thank you. For everything, I mean. You've been extremely kind."

Her red eyes were inscrutable. Mike harrumphed. Well, at least she'd cleared up Mike's little misunderstanding. Hopefully that would shut him up. Why didn't that make me happy? She continued watching me, saying nothing.

"Well, anyway, you've been great. If there's ever anything you need, you know where I am. I'll just be getting back now." I knew I sounded like an idiot, but what else was new? I needed to get away, to go home, to hide someplace dark and quiet for about six years. I turned to go, throwing a last look over my shoulder. Mike was grinning. Miranda's face was blank.

"Bye now, Josey-phine," Mike said, turning back to Miranda. "You want to show me what you want in that upstairs bathroom?"

Miranda crossed her arms, still watching me, and then directed a wan smile at Mike. "Sure. Come on in."

She held back the screen door for him. He took rather a long time to pass by, unnecessarily brushing up against her as he passed. I bit my lip and turned my head away, hugging my shoes to my chest as I shuffled home.

Chapter 14

How bare my house seemed now. I stood at the back door and scanned the kitchen, contrasting it in my mind with its twin across the lawn. It had none of the warmth and personality of Miranda's. Everything was white and cold and empty. Except for the floors, it looked almost exactly as it did the day I moved in five years ago.

I trailed a finger along the plain white tile countertop, dropping my shoes on the floor as I went. I passed through the kitchen into the front part of the house. Empty. No character. I'd been here eight years and didn't even have curtains at the windows. Pathetic.

Wandering through the living room, I massaged my forehead, fighting back the splitting headache that was hovering just behind my eyes. I flopped onto the sofa, and stared at the blank and dusty television screen, searching for some motivation or a reason not to think.

CD's littered the bare bookshelves that flanked the cold fireplace. A battered steamer trunk stood in for a coffee table. The lumpy beige corduroy sofa. (the same sofa I'd had in college, I noted grimly.) hunkered down in front of the big screen TV. The only artwork gracing my stark white walls was a thumbtacked magazine picture of Lucy Lawless hanging over my computer. And, my coup de grace of shame: I was probably the only woman over thirty who still owned bean bag chairs.

I sighed.

So there goes that spread in Home and Gardens.

The irony was too apparent to ignore. I'd spent months sanding, sawing, priming and painting for nothing. This house would never be the home that I wanted it to be. Furniture and knicknacks weren't going to fill this void. This was far more serious than my inability to decorate.

Feeling gritty and tired, I decided a shower might help. I reluctantly hauled my butt off the sofa. Climbing the stairs, I felt my spirits drop. I stopped on the fifth step and took a deep breath, letting a startling realization sink in

The entire time Lauren had lived here, she'd never once asked to hang a picture on the walls or make any changes whatsoever. It had never seemed odd, but now there was a new significance to it.

She'd known from the start that her stay would be temporary.

And was that my problem, too?

I loved my house. I loved my job. I loved my life. But despite all that love, I felt as if I were waiting for something indefinable to show up and make it all "real" somehow. When had I put my existence on pause? What was I waiting for?

I took another step up. My knee screamed in protest. I decided to skip the shower. I trudged up the last of the stairs, made my way to my spartan bedroom, collapsed into bed and drew the down comforter over me. This was the someplace warm and quiet where I would hide for awhile.

Some time later, after playing my many mishaps over and over in my mind, I drifted off to sleep.

My troubles were still there when I awoke, as clear and unappealing as they had been before I fell asleep. As I cleared the sleep from my eyes, another added itself to my list. Miranda had called 911. The entire county probably knew about my disaster with the painkillers. That would definitely need some attention. Heaven knows what the guys at the station were thinking of me now. I couldn't let my ineptness carry over into my professional life. That was something my pride wouldn't allow.

I spent most of the day propped up in bed just thinking about my problems. Though I tried to focus, curiosity about Miranda detoured my thoughts.

She was beautiful and charming, but was she a murderer? It was just a vague resemblance. But then what was that telephone conversation all about? And what about all that money?

What would Miss Marple do in my situation?

Well, that was easy. Miss Marple would be sitting in her little English cottage on a chintz sofa, embroidering a cushion for the vicar and the mystery would already have been solved days ago. She certainly wouldn't have passed out while eating dessert at the prime suspect's house.

The trouble was I lacked the Agatha Christie-like analytical skills necessary to come to any sort of definite conclusion. Hunches are big with me. And an intensive investigation with tons of legwork, peeking into forbidden files and staking out the suspect didn't sound the least bit appealing. But if I was going to really do this, I needed to do it right. I knew I had to stop interpreting things on such an emotional level and get some organization.

The rest of the day I mooned around the house, listlessly watching old movies and eating bowl after bowl of peach ice cream. The next morning, waking with thoughts still fluttering around my brain and a touch of indigestion, I got out of bed, showered and dressed, then meandered downstairs. I paced for awhile, thinking this would help.

Columbo paced.

It didn't help.

I stopped pacing and sat dejectedly at my underutilized computer desk, staring at the Angelina Jolie screensaver on the monitor. I could probably get on the net and hunt down some facts. That would be a very modern solution to the problem; find the answer via the information highway. But, that wasn't my style either. I'm such an internet amateur. I could barely use the mouse properly let alone google someone and follow the electronic clues. Instead, I shuffled through the drawers searching for a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

At the top of the sheet I wrote: Pros and Cons / Guilty or Not Guilty. Under guilty I wrote: looks just like Helena Burnham, has lots of cash floating around, is secretive. But the most important fact, the clincher that hadn't dawned on me until just then; owns a Dallas Cowboy's T-shirt.

Phillip Burnham had lived and died in Texas.

Under not guilty all I could put was: I hope so. The scales were definitely tipping towards guilty.

I decided I needed professional help, not to mention a shoulder to weep on. It was time to confess to the authorities.

Twenty minutes later, Jay opened his back door wearing boxer shorts dotted with tiny pigs, a t-shirt that said 'I'm with stupid', and a sour expression.

"Good morning Sunshine," I trilled, sweeping past him into his kitchen. I sat the box of Krispy Kremes I'd brought on the counter and began searching for the coffee filters. Jay had the tiniest kitchen known to man. It was no bigger than a pocket handkerchief. The entire house was about the size of your standard broom closet. But the kitchen was familiar territory to me and there was just enough room to make coffee, which is all I use kitchens for anyway. The coffee made, I turned around. He was still glaring at me. "What happened?" I asked, pointing at the boxers. "You lose a bet?"

"This better be good, Jo," he growled, rubbing his bleary eyes with the backs of his hands. "It's 9:30 on a Saturday. You know my views on weekend a.m."

I rolled my eyes and reached for a chocolate cream-filled. "Friend in need, here. I couldn't wait until the crack of noon for you to decide to grace the world with your presence. C'mon. Little help here."

He yawned expansively while scratching areas I'd prefer not to describe. "I really can't right now," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bedroom. "I'm not alone. Deborah's here."

My hands flew up to cover my mouth. "Oh no, I didn't interrupt morning sex did I? Because, that's a mental picture I just can't deal with."

He cuffed me on the back of my head as he reached for a cruller. "She's got the flu. We were up all night sneezing and coughing."

I breathed a mock sigh of relief. "Oh phlegm. I can deal with that. Is she okay?"

"Nothing a gallon of Nyquil and some TLC won't cure.What do you want, Jo?"

I slid the case folder out from under the box of donuts and pushed it toward him.

"I know who did it," I said, though saying the words caused a strange tightening in my chest.

"Who, the mayor?" Jay snorted as he flipped through the file. I allowed him to indulge in his skepticism for a moment. So maybe I had jumped to a few farfetched conclusions in the past. That didn't make me a lunatic, did it? I'd been protecting my country when I'd confronted those tourists. It was a patriotic thing. That couple from Hamburg had seemed rather shifty, to my mind. Why had they taken so many pictures of the Police and Fire Departments? Always with the cameras and the suspicious looks. I still think there was something going on with those two. But I wasn't crying wolf now. I made my face the picture of seriousness.

"I think it's my neighbor, Jay."

Jay doubled over. I didn't realize he was laughing until I saw him start to spasm. He looked up with tears in his eyes.

"Oh jeez," he said, wiping his eyes with the ends of his shirt. "That's better than the German tourists. I gotta tell the guys that one."

I glared at him. "Do you even know who I'm talking about? I'm serious about this one, Jay."

He just cackled even louder and then picked up a powdered sugar donut and stuffed half in his mouth.

"The evidence is pointing right at her, Jay. She's a dead ringer for Helena Burnham. She's got lots of cash. I heard her on the phone this morning. She said some things that made me wonder. Plus, she has a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt."

Jay spurted coffee. "Oh well, she must be the murderer, then."

I flashed him a quelling glance.

He sobered up, pretending to listen as he wiped powdered sugar off his chin.

"The thing is, I don't really want to jump the gun, here. Honestly, I don't want to be right. I need a serious point-of-view on this one."

"Ja-ay!" Deborah's hoarse voice wailed from the bedroom. "Orange juice!" This was followed by a flurry of coughs and sneezes.

"Ooh!" Jay hustled to the fridge, grabbed the orange juice and hurriedly poured it into a glass. It was amusing and slightly heartwarming to watch him playing nurse. "Coming, baby," he called in a sing-song tone, then rounded on me, eyes narrowing. "Listen, I'm pretty tied up today. I'll try looking at your little case tonight, okay? I can't promise you anything. Really, it sounds like nothing. I wouldn't worry."

I'll admit I got a little huffy at the brush off. "Little case? That's it? Don't you even want to look at the woman? Get her license plate number? Research her at all? I'm telling you, she could be the one they're looking for. You know I would only come to you if I were desperate. Look into this for me? Meet me later? We can have a beer and you can tell me what you think. C'mon, after playing nurse all day, you'll be itching for a break. Please!"

A fresh round of hacking from the other room interrupted me. Jay's ruddy face radiated exasperation. He paused at the threshold to the hallway. "Fine, get me her license number. I'll check her out and I'll try to meet you tonight. But, like I said, I can't promise you anything."

I hopped up and down with glee. Hope was on the horizon. Jay would get to the bottom of this for me. I rushed over, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and made for the door before he could say anything contrary.

"Thanks Ope!" I called over my shoulder.

Next stop was the station. Time to face the firing squad. And I knew just who would be aiming for me.

Dear Lois,

We can't go on like this. I can't bear it. You have to talk to me or my poor heart will shrivel up in my chest! Please darling, forgive me. I know I was horrible. I know your feelings are beaten and bruised by all that has happened.

You know my brothers consider me a substitute for mother. I guess I just automatically placed their needs before my own, and, it seems, before yours. It was careless of me and I am more sorry than I can ever say. I shouldn't have let them come between us.

I know the boys are adults now, with their own lives, families and responsibilities. That they expect me to continue to be a caretaker for them, the way I was for mother, now that you point it out, is thoughtless behavior. They should be made to understand that you are an implicit part of my life and that your needs, our needs, come first. I will try to show them how much you mean to me. Once they get to know you, they're bound to love you just as much as I do.

Please say you 'll forgive me!

Mona

Chapter 15

I arrived as the company was finishing breakfast detail. I made my way through the kitchen, noting the grim looks and open smirks on some of the men's faces. No one offered the usual hellos. No one spoke to me at all. Looks like the news of my alleged night of debauchery spread fast.

Sooo... I'm the Scarlet woman now, am I? I'll have to remember to sew an A on my uniform.

When I got to my office I found a not-so-surprise guest sitting on my desk (not in a chair like normal people, I noted grumpily.) and spitting tobacco into that damnable cup. Ellis Angeley didn't even let me get in a good morning before he started his tirade.

"Just what the hell is this about a drunken party out at your place and you overdosing on a bunch of pills? (spit) I don't think I like the sound of that. (spit) Just what kind of sideshow are you running over here?"

I felt my face turn red. It wasn't embarrassment. It was rage.

"Ellis," I said, inhaling deeply to slow my galloping heart rate. I moved past him and sat down at my desk, hoping that by doing so, I'd make him feel stupid for sitting with his feet dangling over the floor. He didn't move. "Your sources are a little whacked. It was hardly a drunken party." I lifted my hands and shrugged. "I may have mistakenly mixed a little wine with the pain killers the hospital gave me but that's hardly cause for all this fuss. I got a little woozy and my neighbor got hysterical and called EMS. End of story." I leaned back in my chair, putting my hands behind my head as I propped my feet up on the desk beside him.

From the look on his face, any explanation of mine would be automatically disregarded. Okay, fine, if that's how you want to play it. I smiled innocently up at him. "Now, if you really want to talk about sideshows, I hear you do a mean Barry Manilow impersonation after a few beers. The guys at the lodge tell me they especially like your rendition of 'Mandy'"

A nasty wad of tobacco plopped into the cup as his mouth fell open. If I weren't so disgusted, I probably would've laughed.

"Hey! That's not... Now listen here," Ellis sputtered, his wiry gray eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "I don't like to be sassed, young lady." Hitching up his sagging jeans over his protruding paunch, he continued, face growing redder by the second. "You are supposed to set an example for these boys. Carrying on the way you do... it's a piss poor role model that they're getting. I won't have it! Not anymore. Starting today, you're on leave." He tossed a thin sheet of pink paper at me. "Per the county commissioners."

"What?" I jumped up, nearly bumping my head on his chin. "You can't just walk in and arbitrarily relieve me of duty." I gaped at him, mouth opening and closing, momentarily forgetting how to form words, until the anger constricting my throat finally bubbled and then burst free. "This is bullshit! You and I both know what this is all about." My hands, aching to strangle, I buried in my jeans pockets instead. I started to pace. "You've hated me from day one, Ellis. You've just been waiting for a reason to get at me. So why don't we just be honest about it. Why don't you just say it? Tell me what it is you've been dying to say."

I glared at him, spoiling for the fight. Ever since we'd met, all the tension between us had been leading up to this moment. I felt my nails dig into my palms and that deceptive calm that always precedes a huge angry explosion, only now I was welcoming the rage.

C'mon you bigoted pig, say it! Tell me you're suspending me because I'm gay. Oh please! I'll have lawyers standing in line to take the case! Say it!

Ellis hopped off my desk, hitching up his jeans again as he ambled to the door. "I don't have to explain a damn thing. I don't have to tell you what a sick piece of trash you are. You've shown everyone that all by your little self." Malice glittered in his tiny little eyes. "You can save your excuses for your review with the county commissioners on Friday morning but I doubt they'll buy it. Till then, clean out your desk." He looked back. I swear he looked so happy, I thought he was going to dance a jig. "It's been a real pleasure."

I grabbed the closest thing I could find and hurled it at the door. He was gone long before my favorite Xena mug smashed to pieces on the doorframe. I sank back down into my chair and groaned. My hands were shaking so bad I had to sit on them. I tried taking a deep breath to calm myself but I was too far gone for that.

How can a person's life just crumble to dust in a single day?

In a fury, I kicked my chair and sent it rolling. It crashed into the bookcase behind my desk. Loose paperwork fluttered to the floor. I tried the deep breathing thing again and just choked on my anger. I could hear the blood singing in my ears. I knew if I looked at myself in a mirror at that moment, my face would be as red as the engines parked in the garage beneath me. My blood pressure was probably through the roof.

I heard the men scuttle past my office. No doubt, they'd heard pieces of the argument.

Dear Lo,

You can't stay in there forever. I won't let you.

So what if they asked you to retire early? At least they had the decency not to fire you. And we have plenty of money, darling. You don't ever have to worry about that.

Just think, now we'll have so much time to spend together! We can travel! I've always wanted to see Italy. And you wanted to see the grand canyon before you die. So let's do it! Let's go! We don't have to stay in this town. You've shown me that. My family doesn't need me.

Will you run away with me?

Say yes.

Love,

Mo

Chapter 16

After a few minutes, I stopped shaking and was able to unclench my fists and jaw. Excess adrenaline was making me think some very bloody thoughts. I had to get out of there before someone got hurt.

I'm suspended anyway, what the hell?

I decided to visit the gym and work out my aggression there rather than on some hapless probie who said the wrong thing at the wrong time. I'd deal with Ellis and his threats later when I was saner. I grabbed my gym bag and limped out of my office.

All through the station, eyes slid away from me as I passed.

Why were they so shocked? What I'd done was far less scandalous than what some had done at last year's Christmas party. Some would even consider last night's situation cause for a high five. Why were my own men avoiding me?

And then a sneaking suspicion occurred to me and the cold looks I'd received confirmed it. This wasn't about me, my sexual orientation or my drinking habits.

This was about the budget.

I'd bet my entire life savings that rat Ellis had let my vote against raises become common knowledge around the station. That would be just like him to play this kind of game.

I tried not to take it personally, but the silence of the men was like a slap in the face. These weren't just my coworkers. They'd been my friends for years. Take Daniel Sing for example. Two Saturdays ago, I'd helped him and his wife move into their new house. I'd even loaded a piano onto the moving truck. Two months ago, I'd spent an entire weekend with Frank Littlejohn building a treehouse, a surprise for his six-year old son. And I'd even supplied the beer.

These men were my whole life. For them, I wore so many different hats, I'd need fifty heads to wear them all at once. I'd happily acted as den mother, marriage counselor, and, in one probie's case, Lamazze coach. Abel Carter and I had known each other since kindergarten, for goodness sake. And now I couldn't even get a good morning out of any of them.

My romantic track record had never been the best. But when things sucked in my personal life, I at least had the comfort of my job. There, I always knew that I was doing things right, that I was accepted. I'd never expected to be robbed of this refuge. An actual knife sunk between my shoulder blades couldn't have felt worse than the sick sensation of betrayal twisting in my gut.

As I walked through the station, I reminded myself occasionally to breathe, to stand up straight, to stare forward, to blink... and that technically, breaking bones was not an option.

I'd never felt more alone. But I wouldn't cave. I'd go to the budget hearing at the county commissioners office and I'd tell them what I hadn't been able to say to the city commissioners. Someone had to listen to reason.

I walked outside, the cool morning air fanning my steaming cheeks. The gym was just down the street, but I drove anyway because my leg throbbed. When I pulled into a parking space, my heart was already pounding as if I had run the whole way there. Hauling my gym bag out of the trunk, I wondered if the gym was precisely the right place for a woman who's right hip looked like a relief map of the Appalachians. I should probably just go home, take my medication, get some sleep. Think about things later.

But when I shut my eyes, I saw red. Not a good sign.

I shrugged. My arms were still in good working order. At least I could put the punching bag to good use.

I trudged into the tiny locker room and went to my locker. I quickly stripped down and then pulled on a pair of nylon shorts and my sports bra, ignoring most of the women in there but giving a terse hello to a few. I didn't mean to be cold. I just wasn't in a chatty mood. I wanted to pummel things and that's kind of a social no-no.

The gym was packed, overheated and ripe with various body odors. The crowd wasn't surprising since it was the only gym in town. It also served as the local meat market for the taut and tawdry, something I could never understand. Who wants to pick up someone when you're all sweaty? (On a good date, that part should come after.)

The punching bag was in use so I did a few rotations with free weights while I waited for it to free up. I tried to lose myself in the repetition, but it was a hopeless cause. Muscles throbbed and not in a good way. Sweating wasn't helping my mood the way it usually did. Every time I shut my eyes, images of my recent humiliations played out in vivid detail, beginning with Ellis' mocking face and ending with Miranda's distant, green eyes.

I set down the weights and pushed a sweaty hank of hair out of my eyes. A tiny glimmer of red caught my attention. Something familiar about it. I followed the line of sight, searching for what had distracted me.

And there she was, poised by the stairmasters.

Laurel.

It's funny how quickly you can forget the lies, the endless whining, the voluble snoring, the popping of the chewing gum, the inability to say the word "prescription" correctly. All the irritating bad habits that you swore made your ex annoying and impossible to live with, all fly out the window when you see them again unexpectedly. She looked good, too. It really wasn't fair.

The memories I had tried so hard to forget were suddenly refreshed by the sight of her, sleek and gorgeous in her revealing red unitard, body still as perfect as the day I'd met her. I hadn't forgotten how her rippling brown hair always smelled like Chanel No. 5. I had a sudden tactile memory of it sweeping down over my face as she nibbled at my neck. It was disconcerting to say the least.

I dragged my eyes away from her. Maybe she wouldn't see me. I started to slink away, but my eyes slid irresistibly back to her and I was caught.

Her large brown eyes regarded me coolly, holding my gaze with begrudging interest. For a tiny fraction of a second, I tried to convey silently all of the realizations that had come to me since we'd parted, all the regrets. I hoped she could see, somehow, that now I understood everything. Now I knew what I'd done wrong.

I willed her to cross the room, to come to me.

"I'm so sorry," we'd say at the same moment, then we would both laugh at the silliness of it and the awkwardness would disappear as we stared into each other's eyes. "But I really am," I would say. Because I had never admitted to any faults before, this would strike her as deeply touching. Her full lips would curve into that seductive smile, the private one she'd only given me. Without another word, she would understand, too.

In a perfect world.

Instead, in this reality, she stared unblinking for two more seconds, her forehead puckering just slightly and then turned her back to me.

Only then, with my heart and my pride sinking into my Reeboks, did I notice that Lauren wasn't alone. She was talking to someone. A muscular, oily man was smiling down at her, his eyes fastened on her abundant cleavage. He said something to her and then displayed a set of perfect bleached teeth as he smiled. She laughed loudly, turning her head so that I caught a glimpse of her profile. A darting glance out of the corner of her eye told me all that I needed to know.

This show was for me and the message was clear. I'm not into girls. That's what she was reaffirming to the world. I'm not into you. That's what she was announcing to me.

I limped as fast as I could to the locker rooms, my heart barely beating.

Chapter 17

Three pool tables were the chief attraction at the Deep End. No other bar in the county had them. Of course, there were only three other bars in the entire county and the Deep End was the only one where two people of the same sex could hold hands without being afraid of being beaten up in the parking lot when they left.

Gazes swept over me as I entered. All the usual bar flies feigned boredom or casual indifference as I passed. I recognized some but didn't say hello. I couldn't be bothered. I needed oblivion and I needed it quick.

Newer, younger faces scanned mine with avid interest. I saw a few open invitations, but glanced away before it went any further. Even in my state of mind, I knew a nameless tumble in the parking lot wasn't going to soothe the pain. Besides, most of them were just kids. Half the crowd was way under thirty. The clientele had changed since I'd been here last. Or I had just grown depressingly older. It had been years since I'd found myself in this place, months since I'd felt the need to try my luck at the dating game. Couples danced on the small dance floor just off the screened-in back patio where the sound of recurring clicks told me the pool tables were occupied.

A mirrored bar, studded every few meters by long faux marble columns decorated with Christmas lights, spanned the opposite wall. The ceiling was low and mapped out with black paper and glow in the dark stars. Blue lights gave these a fluorescent shine along with every white shirt in the place and a few toothy grins. Smoke, dim lights, and a throng of people made getting to the bar tricky, but I threaded my way through the crowd with determination. A banner over the miniscule dance floor pronounced it Ladies Night.

Quarter beers just for me.

I fished in my pocket, pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, and plopped it on the beer soaked bar. The bartender, a lanky girl with a short shock of white hair and a lip ring looked a question at me.

"As many beers as that will buy," I shouted over the grating house music, pushing the twenty at her. "And keep them coming."

She raised a pierced eyebrow while she filled a small plastic cup with mostly foam. Another bartender, this one male, dressed only in white briefs, cowboy boots and hat danced around her. The beer sloshed as she set it down in front of me.

"Should I call the cab now?" she yelled back, smiling at me. "Or should I wait till you're totally shit-faced and take you home with me?"

"I'll let you know," I replied grimly, short-circuiting the flirtation.

I walked away, clutching my plastic cup and tried to find a clear place to sit. It's no fun drowning your sorrows while standing.

Hands trailed after me as I passed, women asking me my name or if I wanted to dance. I ignored the remarks, looking past them. Any other night I could come in here and not even get noticed. It had to be the attitude. Why do some women find misery so irresistible? The attention was completely unwelcome, just more opportunities to fail presented in different packages.

I found a seat at a table in a corner as a couple, two men who were completely engrossed in one another, got up to leave. I watched them go, torturing myself by observing the adoration in their eyes and the way they held onto each other as if they couldn't stand to be apart.

I downed my beer in one huge gulp and then slumped over the empty cup. I didn't even have the energy to go get another.

Another cup appeared magically before me. I looked up. A short, dark-haired man clad in a muscle shirt and spandex shorts smiled down at me. He inclined his head toward the bar where the bartender was waving.

"Tina told me not to let you go dry."

I thanked him and gave a small thank you lift of my cup to Tina. The waiter patted my shoulder and quickly retreated to another table demanding Jello shots.

That beer went the way of the other and two more followed that. Still it was not enough to drown my humiliation or put out my simmering rage. It was going to take more than four watered down beers in tiny cups to make the world go away. Laurel... I swallowed hard then I thought of Ellis Angeley and crumpled the plastic cup in my hands.

My eyes watered from the thick, hovering smoke. A group of men line danced across the dance floor. He, of the fruit-of-the-looms and cowboy hat was in the lead, mouthing the words to a twangy country song that blared through the sound system. I glanced around, taking in the practiced boredom of the seriously butch women in polo shirts who were holding up the bar; the haughty and outrageous drag queens who threaded through the crowd, greeting people like visiting dignitaries, the couples devouring each other on the dance floor.

This is not the place for me, I decided, eight years ago, maybe, but not now and especially not in this state of mind.

I sighed heavily, stood up and began to make my way to the door. I turned away from the rather distasteful sight of Mr. Cowboy Hat gyrating his skinny hips and saw something I was completely unprepared to see.

Miranda.

I did a double take, peering through the smoky darkness to make sure I wasn't conjuring up images just by wishful thinking. But she was there, picking her way through the crowd with wobbly uncertainty.

She's drunk.

I looked again and yes, the telltale signs were there. Her eyes were barely slits. She looked disoriented and she could hardly stand. But she still looked amazing, a fact that quite a few others seemed to have noticed. Heads turned as she passed.

"Well, I'll be damned. I thought someone took your product off the market, girl."

A hand caught and held my arm, but it was the strident voice that stopped me from moving on. I turned and looked down into the uptilted face of Anita Stark, a friend and devout customer of my mother's beauty shop, someone that I'd been avoiding for the last few months.

There wasn't anything particularly repulsive or annoying about Nita that would make me want to avoid her. She was impossibly little, four feet nine inches in her tall boots, with a friendly, round face and gray-green eyes that were both magnified and hidden behind thick glasses. A graphic artist, she had an outrageous streak that showed in her creative attire. Tonight she was garbed in a shiny silver smock, black tights and silver combat boots. Her short dark hair stood up in pointy little spikes all over her head and her eyebrows and eyelids were coated with silver sparkles. Though her appearance caused a lot of catty talk in our tiny town, she and I always had an easygoing rapport that had, unfortunately, gone downhill during the Laurel years. I knew I was being a horrible friend, but at that moment, didn't care.

"Hey Nita," I said absently, not taking my eyes off the staggering blonde woman working her way through the crowd.

"Hey? You don't return my calls for weeks and all you have to say for yourself is hey? I should be pissed. I should publicly shun you. I should declare to all and sundry your dirty little secrets as a just act of revenge. But will I? No. Because, I'm good like that. So what's up?"

She turned her head to see what had so distracted me. Because she was vertically challenged and couldn't see over the heads of the crowd, she began to jump up and down to get a better view.

"Who are we scoping?"

"You are the essence of subtle, you know. Nita, can we talk later?"

Her bouncing head and silver gear were causing a few chuckles. "Um... that would be when? Sixty years from now when you finally check your voicemail?"

"I'll buy you a beer if you leave me alone right now."

"No deal. The draft here sucks. Besides, I have to see who's making tall, dark and cranky go all googly eyed."

I had forgotten Nita's clingy tendencies. Seeing Miranda being swept along by the crush of people going toward the dance floor, I decided to make this conversation mobile. Pulling Nita along with me, like a tiny little moon in my orbit, I stalked through the crowd, getting scowls and stares as I went.

In a far corner, Miranda was receiving some aid in standing from a not-so-good Samaritan. A tall, smarmy looking woman, complete with gold chains, leather jacket, and crew cut had her pinned against the wall nearest the payphones in the back. The convulsive thump of the music was really getting on my nerves. I reached them and made myself unclench my fists. I would try to do this the nice way.

"...my bike is in the parking lot. I could show it to you," she was shouting to Miranda.

Miranda's head lolled to one side, her eyes fully shut now. Blonde swathes of hair swung over her face and she gave a low, protesting moan.

"One knight in shining armor coming right up," quipped Nita behind me.

"Excuse me," I said through gritted teeth. "But I don't think the lady is in any condition to tour the parking lot, do you?"

Ms. Samaritan bristled territorially, sliding her arm around Miranda's shoulders. "She's fine," was the woman's brilliant rejoinder.

Miranda's head lifted and she looked at me. Her green eyes appeared almost black in the faint, pulsing light from the dance floor. "You," she breathed, a smile flitting across her lips before her eyelids got heavy and her head began to sway again. She was wearing black jeans and a frilly, red-checked sleeveless shirt that was half unbuttoned and fully untucked, under which I noticed the woman's hand had begun to stray.

I shrugged at the woman and gave her my best 'fuck off' stare. "Guess that means she wants me and not you. So how about it? You let her go and I don't have to get all macho; a good plan, I think."

I could see the irritated muscle working in the woman's prominent jaw. She studied me for a few seconds and then rolled her eyes. "Whatever," she said, again stunning me with her linguistic skills. She shoved Miranda at me and sauntered toward the dance floor to find drunker prey. Miranda fell against me, the warm and yielding length of her leaning into me, her head nodding on my chest.

Nita came forward laughing so hard she had to take off her glasses to wipe her eyes. "I so love it when you say that John Wayne shit."

I couldn't reply. I couldn't say anything. I was stunned speechless. Taking a deep breath, I tried to get my bearings but only succeeded in inhaling the musky scent of Miranda's perfume. My head started to spin.

"Nita," I called in a strained voice. "Can you help me here? Get her arm."

Nita obliged and the three of us started toward the door.

"Who is she?" Nita hollered over the music.

"My neighbor."

"What?"

"My neighbor!"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

What the hell was my, for all intents and purposes, straight neighbor doing here anyway?

Panting heavily under our lethargic burden, Nita and I pushed through the dance floor (that being the most direct route) and nearly made it through to the other side. But Miranda had other ideas.

Darling Lo,

It has only been two days, but it feels like you've been gone for eons. Dinosaurs could walk the earth, lay down and die, and become fossils and it would still seem like a short time comparatively.

I find I'm missing the little things the most. The way you touch my hand when you come into a room and I'm reading, the way you whistle to yourself when you think no one is around, the sound of your step on the stairwell. I didn't know all of those things had become a necessity to me until you left.

That said, I do hope you're enjoying yourself, love. Though I'm sure you're a vigilant camp chaperone, don't let the girls tire you out too much. Let them have their fun.

And come back to me soon,

Love always,

Mo

Chapter 18

Suddenly Miranda straightened and her head came up from my shoulder where it rested.

"The zoo?" she said somewhat cryptically. She frowned and tried to stand upright. "What are we doing here?" Her dazed eyes followed a pair of women who were backing off the dance floor, lips locked in oral exploration. Green eyes got very wide. "Where the hell am I?"

"Appropriately enough," I said into her ear. "The Deep End."

The deejay picked that moment to proclaim the Karaoke machine was warmed up and ready to rock. The lights went a little brighter. I groaned. We had to get out of there fast.

"What? This isn't the Marriott Lounge?" She spun around clumsily, giggled, lost her bearings and fell against me again. Her hands gripped my forearms. Those eyes got even wider as she stared up at me.

"This... is... a... bar," I repeated, enunciating very carefully. I don't think I could have said much more anyway, not with her so close and looking so damned adorable.

She nodded but her eyelids began to droop again.

I jostled her gently. "Whoa there. How about you stay conscious for just a bit longer? At least till we get to my car. I need to get her home, I think."

This I said to Nita, who only giggled.

"Nope," Miranda mumbled. "Not for profit, strictly amateur."

"Um, right." I glanced sideways at Nita and she raised her shiny eyebrows at me.

On the three-foot platform they liked to call a stage, a skinny young blonde girl in a tank top and shorts began to mangle Madonna's "Crazy For You."

I grabbed Miranda's arm and began to drag.

"Hey!" Nita and Miranda cried in unison.

"I love that song," Nita complained, but she helped me shuffle Miranda along until we reached the edge of the dance floor.

The girl onstage had reached the third chorus when the deejay interrupted her, declaring the need for a refresher. People cheered. The real song came on and the lights went dim again.

"Oh goodie," Nita said then looked over her shoulder at me. "What? I don't apologize. It's retro. Liking this is allowed now."

Miranda began to sway with the music. Because she was practically hanging from my neck as she did this, I started to sway too just to keep my balance.

"Dance with me, k?" she slurred into my ear. It took a second for it to register that she was asking me to dance and then my knees, not too sturdy as it was, practically buckled underneath me. Her head dropped back down and she nestled a little closer.

She sighed into my shirt and I thought I heard her singing along with the song. I threw a desperate look over my shoulder at Nita, who responded by giving me a thumbs-up and a grin.

Praying she wouldn't remember any of this in the morning, I put my arms around Miranda's small waist and did what she asked. We danced.

I didn't want to enjoy it. I knew I should be feeling guilty and embarrassed, but I just couldn't do it. It felt too good. My heart started hammering. I was sure she could feel it. Her head was positioned right over it.

The contrasts of her, the softness of her hair, the lean feel of her leg as it pressed into mine, the girlish roundness of her face and the seductive glint in her deep green eyes, all of these were threatening to push me beyond the limits of my control. She looked up and our faces were inches apart. Her eyes held mine and her lips parted. Parts of me I'd forgotten even existed throbbed into life.

"So beautiful," she said dreamily, lifting a hand to my face. It hovered there a second and then feebly slumped back down to her side. Her chin dropped and she fell against me, like dead weight in my arms. I almost let go of her, but I staggered backward and Nita came to our rescue.

"Awww," she said, holding us up. "You know, that's too bad. You two looked really good together."

"Nita, I'm begging you. Help me get her out of here before I really lose it."

By some miracle, we made it to the parking lot. Miranda was humming and laughing. She bobbed in and out of consciousness, staying awake just long enough to get to my car. I propped her against the Mustang and Nita held her up long enough for me to fish keys out of my pocket.

Mustangs are pretty low to the ground, which turned out to be beneficial. When I opened the passenger side door, she just spilled into the seat. We made sure all her lovely limbs were inside the vehicle and then I got in on the driver's side.

I rolled down the window. "Thanks, Nita. I'll call you next week."

Nita snorted. (Why do all of my friends seem to do that on a regular basis?) "Riiiiight... I'll just be waiting by the phone."

Grimacing, I shrugged and gave her a little wave goodbye. Nita just kept staring at us like some benevolent Sesame Street character. She patted the hood of the Mustang as we started to inch forward.

"Now don't you two do anything I wouldn't do." She winked.

"Uh huh. Nita, that subtlety thing, let's work on that soon, okay?"

She only smiled and nodded smugly as I pulled out of the parking lot.

The narrow back roads we navigated were blanketed in velvety black. The skyline was seamless with the dusky background of trees and the hulking black shapes of houses asleep on either side. Headlights created a tiny bright tunnel that barely sliced through the gloom.

That's the thing about living out in the boonies. You don't ever go anywhere quickly. That fact hadn't really bothered me before. I liked living far from the things of man. But now, home seemed eons away. The atmosphere inside the car suddenly was too private. Even the low music from the radio conspired to make things too cozy.

I glanced over at her. Dashboard lights bathed her in a pale, yellow digital glow. Unearthly she looked, and pretty, of course, but the kind of pretty you find yourself wishing was real when you watch a pretty woman on a television commercial or in a magazine ad. I was uncomfortably aware of the proximity of her, separated only by the parking brake and my own scruples. Her head was limp and resting on her left shoulder as if it would roll clean off if it weren't already firmly attached. Her lips looked soft, parted in a secret, teasing smile.

I had thought she was asleep, but when I reached over to push her head upright into a more comfortable position, she lifted it herself and glared at me.

"You don't think that I know, but I do. I know what you've been doing."

I did a little double take, stomped on the gas accidentally and then swerved onto the soft shoulder of the road. With difficulty, I righted us, finding the smooth pavement of the dark country road again, and then glanced out of the corner of my eye. I tried to make my face go blank, but my heart was racing faster than the car. How had she guessed?

I was alone, in my car, on a solitary country road with an axe murderer. How could I have been so stupid? I could just see it. My relatives would be identifying my remains six months from now and my poor little Mustang would be at the bottom of some lake.

"Uh, what do you mean?" Not the most innocent comeback, but it was all I had.

She reached over and put her hand my knee. I almost went off the road again. "You big flirt. It's okay. I know you like those little pixie types. But do it again and I'll kill you."

For the barest hint of a second, I thought she was talking about Nita. Confused, I glanced over at her again to see if she would explain. But then I saw how truly inebriated the blonde woman was and realized she wasn't really talking to me, or even about me. As she continued to speak, in a very slurred and indistinct voice, my guess was confirmed and my curiosity was dangerously piqued.

"I never get to have you all to myself anymore," the drunken woman mused. She leaned forward to look me in the face, eyelids drooping, and then said very suggestively as her hand slid over to rest on my knee, "Well, almost never."

Any more of that and I really would have to pull over for our own safety. I collected myself and reluctantly removed her hand.

"You know," I said, trying to fill up the loaded silence with some distracting noise. "The great thing about being that tanked is you'll probably have no memory of any of this in the morning. I'll just pretend to have no memory of it, too, okay? Could get weird, otherwise. Not that things aren't already weird enough between us. I mean, I think I'm getting a vibe from you, but then I'm not sure. You're straight and most likely homicidal... not the best match but it's not like I can help what I'm... Hell, I'm even surprised I'm being this honest about it. Do you know what I'm saying?"

I stopped myself before I blathered on and looked at her. Miranda was still in her happy place. Nothing I'd said had registered.

"So, you're going to give me the old 'Not tonight, I've got a headache' spiel?" she chuckled, continuing with the mystifying dialogue. Another hand shot out and stroked my hair. "We'll see about that. Just you wait till I get you home, you."

I had no idea how to counter that. How does one participate in an imaginary one-sided conversation with a drunken woman? What was the etiquette? I was clueless and feeling really guilty because I was enjoying the little innuendos even though they weren't meant for me.

I bumped the speed up to 65, hoping to end this day of prolonged tortures and get her home and myself to bed.

But then, a devilish idea, the same sneaky urge that had me interrogating a four year old for information, took hold.

"So... who am I then? Say my name."

I glanced over to catch her reply. She scrunched up her face and waved a dismissive hand at me. "You know, silly. Don't go on at me."

I nodded, giving the road a quick glance before I looked at her. "Uh-huh, but where is home? Where do you live?"

"Pfft..." was my reply. "Why do you always let me drink so much? You know I only do it when I'm nervous and I tell you not to, but you go ahead and do it anyway and then I end up like this and I can't feel my toes now."

"Right. I bet not. But, who am I? Somebody you've known for years? Your loving husband, maybe?"

This provoked a sharp bark of laughter. "Loving... maybe..."

She swiveled awkwardly in the bucket seat, nearly sending us into first gear. As a result she was sitting on her knees, leaning across the gearshift, her face inches from mine. I smelled bourbon on her breath and perfume and cigarette smoke in her hair. Her green eyes flashed before becoming unfocused again

"Fine. We don't have to wait for it. You want to pull over now? It's been years since we've done that."

Dear Lo,

I'm missing you dreadfully. It's a constant ache. Remember last year when I had to have that tooth pulled? Worse than that, love. Far worse. I'm picturing you by the lake, with your grubby blue hat on, casting a line into the calm water.

You see, even that calm image gives me a pang. Oh when will this abominable estate business ever end? Mother never told me that her investments were so tangled. I would give up the whole retched lot if I could. But you and I both know that isn't possible. Not now.

I have to go, dearest. Mr. Delaney is taking me to Charbline's for dinner. At least the man has the decency to feed me before making me choke on the mountain of paperwork I have to sign.

I hope things are well with you. I should be home in a few days.

Missing you more than I ever thought possible,

Lo

Chapter 20

So that's how I missed the turn. She opened her mouth and suddenly, after living in the same place for eight years, I forgot my way home

Fortunately, or unfortunately, however you want to look at it, I couldn't follow up on her invitation. Her eyes rolled back. She swayed, slumped forward, and then passed into incoherence again. I pushed her back, arranging her into a comfortable position as best I could while driving and then did a U-turn and backtracked.

Every once in awhile she would moan, toss her head and say something indecipherable. I didn't envy the hangover she would inherit from this bender.

Fence posts flashed by and furry things scuttled off the road as we passed. The trees grew thicker, their branches mingling overhead, forming a leafy passageway that embraced the curvy roads. In daylight, it's a very charming sight. At night, not even a full moon can shine through it.

We were almost home.

"I didn't want to do it!"

I jumped as she cried out and then hearing and understanding the implication of her words, my heart plummeted to my stomach.

Wildly she started up, breathing hard, hands gripping the dashboard. "I didn't have a choice. I had to! I had to!"

I chanced a look at her. Her chest was heaving and she seemed to be staring at the ghost of her reflection in the passenger side window.

"Miranda," I queried gently. "You okay?"

Her head swiveled around. "I'm not a bad mother, really I'm not."

Good Lord!

I had forgotten about Hope. Where was the child tonight?

I put this question to her but she didn't seem to hear me. A garbled sound escaped her and she sighed, sinking back into the seat and the comfort of unconsciousness.

A few minutes later, my headlights lit up the rusty for sale sign and the bent road marker that meant home. I turned down the dusty road, propping my elbow on the door, my fingers absently plucking my bottom lip as I pondered Miranda's words.

Had I just heard an admission of guilt? Did this mean she killed the father of her child? And where on earth had a single mother who was new in town left her four-year old child for the night while she went out on a drinking spree? I absolutely itched to talk to Jay. I needed someone with an actual brain to think this new revelation through for me.

I went right when the gravel drive split, pulling up outside of Sister's front porch. I turned off the engine and sank back in my seat, expelling a long breath. Miranda was still comatose.

Sister's windows, glazed by the heavy mists coming off the lake, were opaque and lifeless. Was Hope in there all alone?

I gently prodded Miranda, eliciting a boozy moan, and then I realized I had another problem.

"Miranda, do you have keys? Are the doors locked?" She sighed and turned her head away. She didn't have a purse. I thought about searching her pockets but quickly nixed that idea. I didn't want to take advantage of a drunken woman. That wasn't my style.

I opened the car door and hobbled up the steps to the back door. I tried the knob.

Dammit!

I went around to the front door. Same result. All the doors were locked.

With a frustrated huff, I stepped down from the front porch and fruitlessly tried a couple of windows before I went back to the car and got in again.

"Sorry, hon," I said to the insensible passenger. "Just have to do a little breaking and entering before we can take you home."

I started the engine and backed up until I reached the V in the drive and went left. Pulling up to my house's back door steps, I shut off the engine and walked around to the passenger side.

On a good day, with a sound body and a good breakfast, I can press 150 lbs. easy. With a trick knee and bruises covering almost every inch of me, it was going to be a little bit more challenging to get a 110 lb blonde up those stairs. I certainly wasn't going to leave her in my car. It didn't matter if she accidentally threw up on my sofa, but there would be hell to pay if she heaved all over my leather seats.

I bent down, catching her around the waist until her head fell forward, and then I stood, hoisting her up over my shoulder.

She whimpered and then giggled as I took the stairs, one excruciating step after another. When we reached the top, I knelt down, and she rolled from my shoulder onto the porch. I leaned her against the house and negotiated the lock. When the sticky door finally popped open, I shoved it back and half-dragged, half-walked her over the threshold.

We paused in the shadowy kitchen. She sagged against me, almost fully bent over. I caught my breath and pulled her upright. Since there was no table and nowhere to sit in the kitchen, we shuffle-stepped into the living room. Our awkward waltz continued to the sofa where I deposited her after I swept CD's and old newspapers onto the floor. She sank down into the cushions, wilting gently against the armrest. Yawning noisily, her eyes fluttered open and then closed. Two minutes later she was softly snoring, her right hand curled underneath her chin.

"Well, I guess it's only fair," I said to the unconscious woman. "After all, it is your turn to pass out."

I caught myself smiling down fondly at her, admiring the way her golden hair cascaded over the side of the sofa and then shook myself.

"She's drunk, you twink, so don't go getting all sentimental."

I took a deep breath and turned away from the endearing sight of her crinkling her forehead and mumbling in her sleep.

Right. Focus... got a job to do.

After much frantic searching, I found my toolbox where I'd left it last, (in the bathroom upstairs underneath a bunch of towels-plumbing problems four months ago.) I rummaged until I found a mini crowbar and a screwdriver, tucked these into my back pocket and then went back downstairs.

Miranda was still sleeping soundly, her snores escalating into the higher-pitched, wheezy realms. I tried not to get too amused by this. Fetching a multi-colored afghan from one of the bean bag chairs, I draped it over her and then set out for Sister.

Blanket darkness greeted me, good for sleeping, bad for late night walks. I hesitated at the back door. Maybe I should look for a flashlight? There was no telling where I'd left it last, though. I shrugged, earning myself another twinge of pain, and then tromped down the steps, listening to the stillness that is never really quiet.

A symphony of cicadas serenaded me as I waved away mosquitoes whirring near my head. A misty breath of wind scudded through the trees. Dewy grass soaked my shoes and the hem of my jeans as I crossed the lawn. The air was so thick and wet, I could feel the humidity beading up on my forehead. It was the kind of cold that you feel in your bones before you even know you've caught a chill.

I hauled myself over the garden stile, reflecting that maybe it wasn't so quaint after all when you're in pain and have to climb it, and then made for Sister's back porch. If Sister's doors were anything like mine, I was going to have a fight on my hands getting it open.

I tried using the screwdriver first and did manage to pop the lock, but the door stuck and I finally had to pry it open with the crowbar. It left a nasty gouge in the woodwork but I'm sure Mike would be more than happy to fix it for her.

I made my way quickly through Miranda's darkened house, taking the stairs two at a time. Peeping my head into Hope's room, I found it empty, no sleeping child.

Where could she be?

Scowling to myself, I left the door open a crack and then tromped back to my house to fetch Miranda.

I found her just where I'd left her. She was sleeping so peacefully I hated to disturb her. I backed away and then hesitated, my hand hovering near the light switch.

It would be much easier and more logical to just let her sleep it off on my couch. Why hadn't that thought occurred to me before? What had been so dire about getting Miranda's door open and Miranda into her own bed?

I didn't want to do it!

Could be the fact that she had practically admitted to killing her husband tonight, I reasoned, scratching my head in indecision. That was certainly a motivator. But I had to admit, the idea of having her under my roof for one night wasn't that scary. Far from frightening. I felt a nervous rumble in my stomach.

No. I didn't want to think about what was really bothering me.

Nodding to myself, I checked to make sure she was covered up properly and then switched off the lights.

Upstairs in my room, I stripped down to my boxers, pulled on a tank top and climbed into bed. Staring into the darkness wide awake, I tried to lull myself to sleep thinking of mundane things, lists of projects, top-ten favorite movies, twenty different ways I'd like to humiliate Ellis Angeley if I ever got the chance, but none of this distracted me from what was really keeping me awake.

About 1:30 or 2:00, I finally nodded off.

At 5:06, something woke me... the faint and fading sound of eerie laughter echoing through the house.

Dear Lo,

Do you remember that play you read to me that first summer? What was it called? It was Shakespeare. That much I know. And the girl was a boy and in love with a boy who was in love with a girl who loved the girl/boy? Something like that? Well, Mr. Delaney took me to a play after dinner and wouldn't you know, that was it. I laughed to myself, picturing the leading 'lady' as you when you were fourteen, standing up in the moonlight, reciting it to me.

Do you ever think of those days? I seem to all the time now. I remember how beautiful you were, how soft your skin was the first time I touched it. I remember everything.

Oh how I miss you at this moment! But I must put down my pen. I have yet another meeting with Mr. Delaney. I can't tell you how tiresome this has become.

Loving you,

Mo

Chapter 22

Poised at the top of the stairs, I still had that vague, cottonheaded uncertainty that follows you from sleep. My dreams had been disturbing, crowded with slick and indistinct images that I couldn't put a name to once I had opened my eyes. I seemed to recall at one point being at the station, sliding down the pole only to find myself in the middle of a giant bathroom and the only shower in the place was in front of a bleacher full of all of my old classmates from high school.

But I've had weirder dreams and they've never slowed me down. I was feeling my way down the darkened hallway before I even remembered why I was awake.

Laughter.

I shivered, hearing the ghostly sound in my mind.

Padding barefoot downstairs, keeping right to avoid the creaky boards, I reached the bottom step without disturbing the silence that had now settled over the house. I listened for a few moments, cocking an ear toward the living room nearby. No sounds of snoring reached me.

Miranda must be awake already... and really amused about something, it seemed.

I chewed on my bottom lip and took a couple of steps forward, peeking my head through the archway to the living room. A few sofa cushions had tumbled to the floor. The afghan was a tangled pile of yarn balled up on the arm of the sofa. The place was still a mess. Miranda was nowhere in sight.

Heart thudding madly and breathing shallow, quiet breaths, I tiptoed through the hallway to the kitchen. It was empty. Cold violet light flooded the room.

And then a soft sound, like paper crumpled and then hastily cast aside, broke the whispery stillness. I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck and turned.

Miranda stood in the doorway to the dining room, arms folded, regarding me with hard-eyed concentration.

I swallowed and then forced a smile.

"Oh, hi there. I thought I heard something."

She didn't respond, just continued studying me. The smooth skin of her cheek was creased from the afghan's folds. Her eyes looked red and puffy and her hair was tangled on one side. She blinked once, and then three or four times in succession, her mouth tightening, fighting a yawn.

"Rough night?"

No reaction.

"Hungry maybe?" I crossed to the refrigerator and pulled open the door, turning back to smile invitingly. She raised an eyebrow, her expression unchanging. I looked into the frig. Only the most rudimentary contents remained--one beer (Corona), catsup, a half empty box of baking soda, a highly suspect carton of OJ and a few prehistoric eggs. Not the most appetizing sight. I flashed her a sheepish grin.

"I could make you..."

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh... okay. Are you sure? Because it's not a..."

"How did I get here?"

I shut the refrigerator door and then leaned against it, my arms behind my back. "You don't remember?"

An almost imperceptible shake of the head was my only answer.

"Oh. Well, I... uh... I brought you here... from the bar."

Silence.

"You don't remember the bar either?"

"Bits and pieces."

Pale shafts of sunlight penetrated the pre-dawn gloom, casting her face in part shadow. She looked so severe, at first I thought she really was upset with me for bringing her here. But then I saw how rigid she held herself, like all her bones were strung together by a fragile bit of thread that might break at any time, and belatedly understood.

"You want some aspirin or something?"

"Oh my god, yes!" She winced as she spoke the words and then again as I opened a creaky cabinet door and retrieved an aspirin bottle.

I filled a glass at the tap and then handed it and the bottle to her.

She shook out a few and then swallowed them, gulping down the water until she finished it with a big sigh and then a deep breath.

"Thank you." She gave me an uncertain smile and then passed a hand through her hair, smoothing down the mussed side.

I pushed my hair back behind my ears, uncomfortably aware that I probably wasn't looking my best either. "No problem. I owed you one, I guess."

She moved awkwardly to the sink and set down her glass. The chink of it against the stainless steel sounded too loud in the silence. We were only an arms length apart. She wouldn't meet my gaze. It would have been so much easier if we could have just laughed this off, but that didn't seem possible. There was too much unsaid between us. I wracked my brain trying to think of something that would ease this horrible tension, but I came up empty.

I must have been pretty wrapped up in my thoughts because when her hand touched my arm I just about jumped through the ceiling.

"Hey, it's okay," she said "I don't bite."

She was so close, as close as she had been last night on the dance floor. Only now, fully conscious and sober, her green-eyed stare had a nearly devastating effect. I had to look away.

I half turned, preparing to put a proper distance between the two of us, miles if necessary, and then she whispered.

"I really don't, you know. I just wanted to thank you... again."

I felt the first clutch of panic but it was rapidly replaced by a thrumming sensation. It rippled through me until my hands were shaking and my toes tingling, and all of this caused by the mere physical presence of this woman, this virtual stranger. Staring down at the floor, I caught the scent of her perfume, just the barest breath of musk, soft and faded, expelled into the air by the warmth of her. And unbidden, I looked up.

I must have been caught up in my outlandish dreams, because I could have sworn I'd caught a glimmer of longing in her eyes. No. I was mistaken surely. It was a trick of the light.

"You must be thinking some awful things about me right now," she continued, her breath fanning my collarbone.

If you only knew!

I felt exposed, cornered, dirty for having a veritable cornucopia of lustful thoughts about her. I think I tried to make some lame excuse, to get away, out of the same room, out of the same zip code, but my excuses dried up, fell away, silenced suddenly and astonishingly, by her warm mouth pressed urgently against mine. I gasped, but she swallowed the sound.

Like a tuning fork resounding to a certain key, my whole body, my whole being quivered, vibrated to her pitch, a tone that couldn't be heard, only felt. I didn't question it. I had no thoughts, no reason. I lost myself in this unexpected warm, soft bond.

And then, slam. A discordant noise jarred us and we broke apart.

She sprang away from me, hand covering her mouth, eyes very wide and then we both looked to the window facing the yard. Across the lawn, I could see headlights through the dissipating mists, could hear the sound of an engine whirring, the slam of another door.

"Shit!"

Startled, I glanced up at Miranda. She was halfway to the back door already.

She paused at the door long enough to give me a bewildering smile, threw a flustered "Sorry!" over her shoulder and then she was gone.

Flabbergasted, I watched her sprint across the lawn and then disappear around the corner of Sister.

What the hell just happened?

My knees were weak. I could still feel the warmth and wetness of her mouth, so soft.

In a daze, I shut the back door then wondered slowly through the dining room and on to the living room. Without thinking, I lifted the afghan from the edge of the sofa and held it to my face. I inhaled deep, catching the scent of her still clinging to it and then I realized what I was doing and forced myself to put it down. I tried to sit, to gather my thoughts, but I couldn't sit still, couldn't reign in the wild and rampant wonderings of my imagination. I stood and began to pace, stopping short when I heard a crunching noise underfoot.

Frowning, I looked down and saw a small, balled-up piece of paper that hadn't been there the night before. I leaned down and retrieved it, taking it to the window before I unfolded it, smoothing out the wrinkles and holding it up to the weak light.

I read two words and knew I was in deep, deep trouble.

It was the list of pros and cons I'd made days before and I knew, without a doubt, Miranda had seen every word of it.

Chapter 23

Lisa, the fingerprint girl, buzzed me through the connecting doors to the inner sanctum of the Springport police department. Catching a glimpse of myself in the tinted glass, hair swept back into a tight French braid, eyes narrowed and determined under the glossy hat brim, the shiny brass buttons of my formal uniform glinting in the dull, fluorescent light, I straightened my shoulders and lifted my chin. All for show. I was quaking like a diabetic in a candy store. Today was going to be full of trials. This was the first and the easiest to endure.

I threw an off hand thanks over my shoulder and pushed the door open.

Jay was seated at his desk, the phone cradled between ear and shoulder. He raised his ginger eyebrows a fraction as I entered. I stopped to grab a styrofoam cup of coffee from the little coffee station near the door, giving him a wry salute as I took a swig of the bitter stuff. He frowned and looked away. I know he hated it when I visited him at work, which is probably why I do it so much.

The buzz normally created by a busy police department was curiously absent today. I suppose you could say there wasn't enough room to create a real frenzy of activity. A ten by twelve room housed three rows of four desks bunched together in the center. Filing cabinets, shoved up against the wall circled these. An ancient copy machine and the coffee station rotated, crammed wherever space allowed that week. The holding cells, all three of them, were through a pair of double doors at the back. Most of the desks were unoccupied. A few uniformed officers milled about seemingly without purpose and a harried looking girl with an armload of papers deposited a sheaf on each desk as she passed.

"So did you get a chance to do it yet?" I sat down in the "perp" chair next to his desk. Jay held up a finger and said "Uh huh." a few times in the phone, while scribbling something on a yellow legal pad. A few minutes later, he mumbled his goodbyes and set down the phone.

He waited half a beat and then looked me up and down.

"What's up, slick? Why so spiffy today? And did I do what?"

I took off my hat and slapped it down on his desk. "The check! Geez..." A sharp ring cut me off.

He looked exasperated, picked up the phone and held up a finger again to shush me. After a few moments, he nodded and mumbled thanks into the receiver, then hung up.

"Say that again?"

"The background check, Jay. You did it right?"

His ginger caterpillar brows rose a little higher in confusion.

He didn't do it.

I downed the rest of my coffee, glowered at him instead of strangling him, and then stormed off to refill my cup.

"Stop it," I said. "I can feel you rolling your eyes at me from over here."

"That's because I am. What are you talking about? What check?"

I took a deep, cleansing breath, poured a cup for Jay, picked up a Danish from an open bakery box next to the coffeemaker, and then stomped back to his desk. Slumping into the chair, I pushed the cup and pastry toward him. "Here, you need this. Get some happy before I scream at you. The background check on my neighbor. Remember, the one I asked you about?"

He pushed the danish back at me. "I'm off carbs... and caffeine. Bad for the blood pressure, Deborah says." Raking a hand through his bristly flat top, he sighed. "You didn't meet me to discuss it, remember? And anyway, you forgot to give me a few things."

"Like what?"

"Like a license number, genius. Or at least a last name."

"Oh."

"Yeah, kinda hard to look up suspicious blonde neighbor girl in the database."

"Fine. Okay. Her alleged name is Miranda Maddox. I got the license number. Did a little reconnaissance this morning."

I didn't elaborate on the clumsy spy session I'd carried out after Miranda left. It would only give him ammunition for ridicule and he already had a fifteen year supply of that.

I hadn't really meant to spy. But curiosity is my own personal demon. I couldn't stand the suspense. After Miranda's dramatic exit and the cliffhanger discovery of that crumpled up list, I had to know what was going on next door.

Creeping through the mist, I'd approached Sister, watching shapes moving behind the dew-frosted windows, backlit by the warm lights inside. As much as I wanted to tiptoe closer, wipe a peephole and peek in, I refrained, keeping my demons in check only with the fear of being caught. When I got near the back porch, I skirted the back door and the big picture windows, keeping my head low, and skulked around to the front. The silver Lexus with the Texas plates had to be the mystery visitor.

I pulled the scrap of paper with the number on it from my pocket and plunked it down on Jay's desk.

"Reconnaissance?" He smirked, hand hovering near the Danish. "You've been playing Halo 2 on your Xbox again, haven't you?"

"Have not." I reached out and swiped the Danish, taking a big bite and making yummy noises just to torture him. He pretended to ignore me but I caught a strained and envious look as I wiped crumbs from my lip. "Listen," I said, putting down the Danish. "Seriously, something shady is going on. I'm just getting this very strange vibe from her and I know I'm not wrong about it. Something is out of whack over there. We're talking strangeness in my backyard, Jay. Please help me with this."

Briefly, a tangible memory of her lips moving under mine flitted through my head and my thoughts derailed.

I have to know!

In the midst of writing down the license plate numbers, the front door had slammed, sending me scuttling to the trees, but not so far that I couldn't see. Peering around the mossy trunk, morning mist still swirling around my ankles, I caught a glimpse of a striking man, very distinguished, tall and fit, with white, wavy hair and the kind of tan that can only be cultivated by spending hours upon hours on a golf course. He wore a gray sweater and khaki pants with a razor sharp crease, expensive shoes and he appeared irritated, but trying to hide it behind a tight, insincere smile. From my hiding place in the trees, I had a side vantage of Sister's front porch. The man said something inaudible, pivoted and then walked to his car and opened the door. He leaned in as I held my breath, imagining guns, knives and bricks of cocaine, and then retrieved what looked like a tiny, harmless red sweater and walked back to the foot of the porch steps.

He held it out. "I'll call you next week," he said in calm, measured tones.

The banister spokes obscured his face. But I could clearly see, Miranda looking down at him, her expression stern.

"No. This is it, Jim," she said, going down a step to take the sweater and then retreating. "I won't let Hope be affected by all this. I can't afford any major upheavals right now, but if I have to, I can be out of here with a few hours notice. You'll never see us again. I'll make sure of it this time. Do you understand? No more threats."

I must have made some sound, maybe a slight rustle in the grass or the scrape of my sweatshirt against tree bark, because they both flinched and turned their heads in my direction. I jerked my head back behind the tree and squeezed my eyes shut, praying they hadn't seen me. I didn't open them again until I heard the growl of a car engine springing to life and the crunch of wheels on gravel.

I opened my eyes, realizing I had strayed from the conversation and that Jay had spoken. He squinted at me, seizing upon the tiniest hint of real distress in my voice and expression and then nodded, reaching for the scrap of paper with the license numbers. "Okay then, let's do this."

Hello beloved,

Will you ever tire of these silly little missives of mine? Or of me, for that matter? Lord, I hope not!

I realized this morning, in the midst of pulling weeds in the back garden, that I hadn't written you a love letter in two years. Two years! Lo, honey, can you believe that? I suppose I'm just used to rolling over and whispering in your ear now. On one hand, I'm awestruck that even after two years of putting up with my peculiarities and bad temper you still want to be with a fool like me. On the other, I'm ashamed that I haven't taken the time lately to tell you how absolutely vital you are to me. I couldn't be in this world without you, luv. It would be hell on earth, so don't ever dream of leaving me, okay? And though I may not say it, or even write it down, please always keep in mind that you have all of my heart, all of my love. Keep it safe.

Love forever and back again,

Mo

CHAPTER 24

The wind had kicked up, right on cue for Springport's daily noontime rain shower. A sharp gust nearly tore away the long sheet of paper I had clutched in my right hand. The sheet fluttered in the breeze like a medieval banner, crackling and curling up at the edges. I held it out, looking at it with my eyes and nose scrunched up, head a mass of confusion.

What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

The words on the page might as well be hieroglyphs. I couldn't understand anything the report said, couldn't apply it to what I already knew. It just didn't make any sense.

I shook my head and folded the sheet the way you fold a map when you're really frustrated, crumpling it into manageable folds and tucking it into my coat pocket.

And then, slam, just like walking into an invisible wall, the images hit me again with full force:

Eyes swimming closer, until they are a blur of deep, deep green. Breath caresses first, and then the jolt of a velvety touch, her lips. Lips, warm, so very warm. And tentative, almost frightened. An electric lick down my spine branches out to arms, legs, fingers and toes but is suddenly withdrawn, like yanking the string from a bead necklace, sending sensations spinning, scattered, dazed.

And that's how I found myself stranded on the sidewalk in front of the police station, touching my bottom lip, reliving that brief moment with Miranda over again. It checked in at the oddest times, all day long; while brushing my teeth, putting on socks, buttoning up my jacket, turning left at a stoplight. Over and over, I replayed that kiss in my head, feeling a twinge, the tiniest kinetic pulse of that heart-stopping moment. Remembering it was almost as devastating as when it first happened, especially now.

I shook myself and with effort, pushed one foot in front of the other.

Focus.

I'd deal with all this puzzling new information later when I could really deal with it. I'd think about it when the hum of sexual frustration finally dissipated--sometime in the next century.

I had to pull myself together for trial #2 of the day.

The walk to the station was short. It's just across the street from the police station. But I took my time, measuring my steps, rallying confidence as I drew nearer.

You worked damned hard to earn the respect of those men. You're the best at what you do. Just go in there and remind them why you're Chief and they're not. Explain things diplomatically. Tell them their safety is your prime concern. They will listen to reason.

I entered through the garage, noting the creeping rust that marred the otherwise spotless shine on Engine One and the conspicuous absence of, (and the oil stains left by) Engine Two. This year, the budget was laughably slim. Money from the county and state barely kept a roof over our heads. We were dangerously underfunded. Despite extensive fundraising efforts, it had come down to raises or an overhaul on Engine One, and, given the choice between keeping my men bodily intact or pissing them off, I figured I could weather a few cold shoulders and the occasional tantrum.

Not only was One ancient and in poor condition, our booster lines were almost shot. The stick was rickety and felt like it would snap in two at any minute. Sending anyone up on the eighteen year-old ladder was risky business.

There was no question that the Company deserved raises. But I couldn't, in good conscience, let our equipment continue in disrepair. It wasn't safe. Someone was bound to get hurt eventually unless we invested some serious cash in upgrades. It was a tough decision, but I wouldn't apologize for it. If my company couldn't see reason, well then, they'd see the door. Or I would, I reflected ruefully.

With a critical eye, I scrutinized the equipment tucked neatly on shelves lining the back wall. The garage itself was immaculate, everything in its proper place, and the men toiling over equipment in the back were satisfactorily occupied. No laziness here. Whether I was at the helm or no, my men knew exactly what was expected of them.

"Where's Two?" This was addressed to a pair of booted feet sticking out from under Engine One. Not a new phenomena. There was always something that needed fixing on the old dinosaur.

"So where's Two?" I repeated.

A sharp thud followed and some muttered curses, and then the horizontal form of Danny, whom the Company had universally nicknamed Shorty for obvious reasons, rolled out from under the engine. He glared up at me, rubbing his forehead, his thin, sharp-featured face streaked with oil.

"I thought we agreed you wouldn't do that anymore."

I shrugged. "Sorry. It entertains me. Where's Two?"

Danny sat up, untucked a rag from his back pocket, and began to wipe his oily hands. "Eddie Keehaw's car's on fire again."

"What? That's the third time this month. He's still driving that heap around? Didn't we cite him?"

Danny snorted. "Twice, but if you think that'll make him stop driving the thing, you're crazy. You know he's an old miser."

He chuckled, a half smile creasing his thin face into simpler lines, but when I smiled back, his faded and he looked around hastily.

Ouch! Eh tu, Shorty? Don't want to get caught fraternizing with the enemy, eh?

I knew Shorty's wife had just discovered she was pregnant with her third child and that Shorty was worried about finances. My defection to the "management" way of thought must have seemed like a personal betrayal to the skinny, young family man who was struggling to feed, clothe and house his growing brood. How could I explain that, in my own way, I was looking out for his family too? Who would be blamed if he didn't come home one day? It all rested on my shoulders.

I opened my mouth, excuses on the tip of my tongue, but was cut off by the sharp, keening cry of an alarm.

***

Nothing you see on television can prepare you for the reality of a structure ablaze. The roar of it rattles your teeth, sets your nerves on edge. And the smell... Reassuringly solid substances, plastic, wood and metal, liquefy in the intense heat, releasing a noxious, eye-watering slap of fumes. The heat is unbearable. It buffets the air, pulsating outward, enclosing you in a giant suffocating bubble, worse than being trapped under a wet wool blanket on a steamy summer day. Searing bursts flare upward, shoot out, dance this way and that, tasting the air, hungry for more. Just watching something burn is a harrowing experience. Venturing into a shifting vortex of churning smoke and blasting heat can be just short of suicidal. A good firefighter is a strange mix of calm and cocky, methodical and reckless, hero and kamikaze. I've seen egos fed by the flames. At first, you think you're superman. But finally, once the flames have been smothered and the heat is only shimmering waves emanating from the hulking remains, you learn humility.

You pray you will never again have to sift through puddles full of sodden ashes and charred remains, uncovering blackened lumps that used to be cherished possessions, discovering distorted melted shapes that were once hairbrushes, or lamps or teddy bears. You pray that if it does happen, possessions are all that you lose. I''ve glimpsed episodes of grief so protracted and horrible, screams so ghastly it seemed those who mourned might actually split open, the pain of loss was so terrible. Indescribable, that feeling of powerlessness, when no matter what you do, no matter how hard you try to prevent it, lives are lost. Even the youngest and most foolhardy among us taste the meaning of the finite, of mortality, at such moments and we learn even superman has his limits.

And so we all watched, helpless, frustrated and cursing, reckoning accounts again in the favor of nature, as Bill Kennedy's house was consumed and we were powerless to stop it.

"What the hell do you mean it won't start!" Marge Kennedy screeched at me. Soot had blackened the curlers on her head. Her bathrobe was askew, her face sweaty and desperate as I explained again how the pumps wouldn't work unless the engine worked and the engine just wasn't working.

We'd answered the alarm, me falling into step with the others, trading shiny shoes, uniform hat and jacket for turnouts and helmet. No one questioned my right to be there. No one challenged my authority. I was an extra hand, much needed and not to be dismissed because of petty concerns. With calm and practiced efficiency, my men went about their business and I went about mine. We arrived on scene and they automatically turned to me for direction, thoughts of budgets, raises and betrayal set aside.

It felt good. I won't deny it. No matter what, I still have this, I thought to myself, and began to give the Company orders.

That's when we discovered One had stalled again at the most inopportune moment.

Usually saying 'I told you so is sweeter than a triple fudge sundae...' But not this time

The sun hid behind thick, dark clouds, casting just enough gray light on the scene to make it seem surreal. High wind fed the blaze and a light drizzle hissed as it met the heat. Neighbors had gathered, as they inevitably do, and were chattering in hushed voices, milling behind the span of yellow tape that blocked off the area. Bill Kennedy, a bilious and highly vocal man on an average day, stood silently wringing his hands, witnessing with morbid fascination the destruction of a lifetime's worth of accumulations, his family's photo albums, his favorite chair, the recliner with the built-in massager, and all the new power tools he'd gotten for Christmas just a few months ago. Tears streaked the man's dirty cheeks. His jaw was slack. EMT's tried to drag him away, but he wouldn't budge.

Marge, however, was furious, spittle flying as she ranted. I let her spend her rage on me. It was the least I could do, considering I wasn't capable of much else at that point. My men were still working frantically trying to get One started. It was too late. I could see the fire gnawing away at the bones of the house, the rafters exposed, windows transformed into gaping maws of spewing flame and smoke. The first floor was already gone. The second was soon to follow. The front porch creaked, groaning out its final farewells, underscored by the tinkling of breaking glass as another window blew. Suddenly, Bill Kennedy snapped out of his stupor.

"Bitty?" He said, his voice piercing and querulous, head craning in all directions, frantically searching. "Where's Bitty? C'mon! Bitty! Boy, you come here right now!"

Marge stop hollering and turned to look at her husband. "You mean Bitty ain't out?" she cried. "I thought you had him!"

I grabbed the woman by the shoulders and spun her around to face me. "Somebody else is still in there?"

The woman's face crumpled. "I... I thought he was out. I thought Bill had him. We was watching Bitty for the night while's Jessie and Tom was out. He was playing upstairs."

I shoved the woman away and raced to One. The men glanced up from their labors, frustration etched on their grim faces.

"We have a civilian still inside," I told them while reaching for rope, a mask and my gloves, "possibly on the second floor. I need a look around. Can we get the stick moving at least?"

Roger shook his head. "It's jammed again."

"Fuck!' I gave way to my anger, punching a fist into the metal chassis. Pain poured into my fingertips, encasing my hand like a glove, but it was a clarifying pain. I flexed my fingers, pivoted and marched toward the house. "Shorty, Roger, come with me!"

I yanked Shorty's arm, dragging him along, adrenaline surging through me.

"Which room was he in?" I shouted at Mrs. Kennedy. She tearfully pointed to a set of windows in the front. They were still intact, reflecting the inferno flaring up from below.

"You can't do that! You're on suspension!" Shorty yelled. "I'll go."

I glowered at him. "It's not open for discussion. Give me a boost."

"But..."

"I'm not asking! I'm telling. Do it. Now!"

Grudgingly, he grabbed Roger's hand, making a cradle for me to step into. I pulled the mask down over my face and put a foot in their hands, bracing myself on their shoulders. They lifted me up and I gripped the storm drain with both hands, using it to pull myself up. The thin metal bent under my weight.

I'd no sooner gained a foothold on the brittle and unsteady porch roof, scrabbling for purchase on the slippery tiles, when the whole structure shuddered, lurched to the right and gave way beneath me. A terrible roar pummeled my eardrums, almost physically thrusting me back.

It's true what they say about your life passing before your eyes during moments of imminent peril. Well, not exactly true. It's not a cinematic montage full of sweeping revelations and sudden epiphanies. In reality, the little stuff floods your brain; trivialities, small, fragmented images taken in by the senses but not registered by conscious thought.

You can think a thousand things in a split second. Curtains blowing in the wind on a sunny day. The answer to a Crossword puzzle question-(What is the Capital of Uruguay?) The smell of my dad's aftershave. The velvety feel of Miranda's lips brushing against mine. All of these sensations and images came back to me.

I must say, having your life pass before your eyes can be an almighty distraction when you're trying to save your own neck.

Lunging, I grabbed hold of a decorative shutter flanking the window only to feel it crack and splinter under my fingertips. My legs swinging in midair, I chanced a look down, only to see churning flames nipping at my boot heels. With a sudden burst of adrenaline, I hoisted myself up, hooking an elbow over the lip of the window frame. I don't know how I managed to nudge open the window but I did. Once a sliver of space between the window and the frame presented itself, I swung my foot up and pushed it the rest of the way open, essentially hanging by one leg.

Feeling a tiny twinge of pride at my amateur acrobatics, I pulled myself upright and slid through the open window into the room.

"Bitty!" I screamed over the roar of the blaze. The room was choked with billowing, shifting smoke, like an amorphous maze obscuring reality, frustrating any attempt at rescue. I couldn't see the boy, or anything really, except flashes of orange and red through the cracks between the bedroom door and the doorframe. I yelled his name again and again, letting my voice become a beacon in the dark. The noise was deafening, creaking, groaning, the ever-present thunderous din of the fire.

Plunging into the smoke, I searched for solid shapes and found a wall that turned out to be a wardrobe. I yanked the wardrobe doors open and there he was, crouched beneath the hems of the pants and dresses hanging above. He was unconscious, slumped to one side, sucking his thumb. I scooped him up, pulling one of the dresses off of the hangers and wrapping it loosely around his head.

I didn't think about what I would do, where we would go now that our path of escape had been cut off. I didn't think beyond the mental rote that had been drilled into my head from training on. Finding the window again was the first step.

The room had shrunk to a churning mass of smoke. Up was down. West was East. It's easy to lose yourself.

Follow the smoke. Watch it move. It's escaping, breaking free, hurtling away from the flames that gave it birth. It's one of the first things they teach you. Believe it or not, where there's smoke, there's life. Smoke wants out. It wants to rise. Follow it and you'll eventually find fresh, breathable air.

Holding tight to Bitty, I followed the coils of smoke across the room to the gaping window. Smoke funneled out, forming long black columns in the air, causing my goggles to go murky. I leaned as far out as I dared, pressing Bitty forward with me so that he could catch a lungful of clean air. That's when I saw it, the stick, brought back to life and in action, poised right in front of us.

I laughed outright, hugging Bitty to me, and then reached for the ladder.

***

The ride back to the station was much more relaxed. The boys had loosened up a little. I suppose my decision to spend some money on our equipment didn't seem quite so harsh after the humiliation and frustration of the day. I thought about the speech I'd prepared, the one where I'd get to use choice platitudes like "There's no I in team" and "Hard work will get us through this" with a straight face. I sat back and grinned weakly to myself, shelving that load of garbage for another day. In their eyes, I'd passed my trial by fire. No need to talk about it now. My point had been perfectly illustrated for me.

By the time we'd reached the station, the adrenaline pumping through me had evaporated and I felt that eerie, hollow feeling again. My whole body ached. Muscles, continually abused over the last few days, finally decided to go on strike. I could barely move, but my hands shook like crazy. My eyes were watery and stinging. My nose was drippy because of the smoke. I probably looked like I'd just watched "Beaches" six times in a row.

For about half a second after we pulled into the garage, I considered taking a nap right there in the front seat of the engine, but my gear reeked of smoke and I can't sleep with that smell in my nostrils. Plus, I wasn't about to let them see my weaknesses, not ever again, not when I was still feeling so vulnerable.

I jumped down from the front seat, my legs like jelly. I almost collapsed. By sheer willpower, I held myself upright as the boys secured all the equipment. My smile was strained, my laugh flat. While I was glad my VIP pass into the boys club had been reinstated, I was too tired to revel in my small victory. We did the jocular banter thing for awhile and then, after a few good natured ribs about pulling my bacon out of the fire, the men went off to shower and clean their gear and I did the same.

Hot needles of water pummeled my face and shoulders. I felt the rivulets slide down my body, saw the sooty water rushing down the drain. I lingered long after the water ran clear, letting my mind wonder. Like a dog let off the leash, my thoughts ran straight for the spots already marked in my memory. Why did she kiss me? What was she hiding? And at the fore, the newest and most intriguing question. Who is Zoe Finch?

I leaned my head against the tiled wall and closed my eyes.

Instead of removing my doubts and questions, the background check had only multiplied them. With all the physical activity of the day, I'd spent some of my frustration, but it hadn't erased the questions plaguing me.

Jay had typed in the license plate numbers and, moments later, the internet search had produced the name Zoe Finch of Duluth, Texas.

"Who the hell is Zoe Finch?" Jay just shrugged and pulled up her personal information. Zoe had some interesting stats: single, 29 years old, blonde hair, green eyes, 5'4, 127 lbs and most shocking of all, deceased. Date of death-- March 18, 2002. There was no cause of death listed.

Jay had stared at me open-mouthed. I gave him an imperious nod and urged him to keep looking.

The drivers license picture we found was blurred and faded, no real resemblance except for the blonde hair. It had to be her, though. But it couldn't be. She was very much alive.

Does this mean she isn't Helena Burnham? Maybe she's not a murderer?

I sighed and shut off the taps. I couldn't feel relief just yet.

If she's not a murderer, why is she driving around in a dead girl's car?

I donned my uniform again, realizing this show of status had been unnecessary, except maybe as a confidence booster for myself. It was too late for any more confrontations anyway. I'd save Ellis and the Committee for tomorrow.

After making the rounds, deliberately spending quality time with each and every man in the station, asking after the health of spouses and children, listening to stories about our softball team's triumphs, taking inventory of all those who still considered me friend, I went to my office and installed myself there for the rest of the afternoon. There was plenty to occupy my time. I buried myself in the work, allowing it to sweep away any other thoughts. Around six o'clock, hunger pangs reminded me that I hadn't eaten all day. I straightened my desk and then took my leave just as B shift was coming on duty.

CHAPTER 25

Main Street Springport sleeps after six. Closed signs are turned outward. Businesses are dim and quiet. The rare pedestrian will find little to no traffic impeding his progress.

My stomach rumbled indignantly and I considered my options. The burger place on Wilson Street was still open, no doubt. And so was the taco stand on First. Both had given me paralyzing heartburn at one time or another and so I usually avoided them. There was only one restaurant that stayed open past six and since it seemed the lesser of evils, I decided to go even though it probably meant running into mom again.

The first introduction to Bell's Kitchen is purely olfactory. You can smell the grease and onions from two blocks away. A motley assortment of vehicles sits in Bell's parking lot. BMW's and beater pickups repose side by side in front of the lopsided shack that is the home of the self-proclaimed "World's Best Biscuits 'n Gravy"

Bell's was never kitschy, even when kitschy was big. True, a holy triumvirate: Jesus on velvet, a paint by number Elvis and a large reproduction photo of Robert E. Lee adorned the arch behind the cash register, but these were Bell's idols, not affectations of pseudo-style. Macrame art, family pictures, and Bell's Franklin Mint Princess Diana plates all shared wall space with cheap reproduction Norman Rockwells and a faded Mona Lisa. The booths were pink vinyl and the tabletops had pictures of chipped and faded Hawaiian dancers decoupaged onto the surface.

Big chain restaurants have often tried to duplicate Bell's 'quirky country' decor. They mimicked the mismatched plates and silverware, the wax flowers hanging in baskets from the ceiling, the yellowed lace curtains at the windows. Call it tacky trash or marketing genius, Bell's had done it first. One thing was certain. Neither the decor nor the menu had changed since Bell's opened for business in the early fifties. The little diner didn't have to pretend to be anything other than what it was, good southern food served in the tackiest setting imaginable.

I pulled into the parking lot, squeezing in next to a Hummer and a Beetle. Mom's bright blue Cadillac was parked two down from me. The gurgling in my stomach wouldn't let me get back in the car and drive away. I braced myself and went inside.

"It's my baby girl!" Mom hallooed as soon as I stepped through the door and my cheeks went hot. She was sitting at her usual table in the back, gesturing wildly for me to join her.

I waved at Ms. Bell as she poked her sweaty moon face from the kitchen. Nobody knew how old Ms. Bell was. She was a big woman, over six foot with rounded shoulders and a thick waist. Her cobwebby hair was paper white, and kept in a long braid, but her smooth, ebony cheeks showed not a trace of wrinkles. She claimed that her famous fried chicken kept her looking young, not eating it, but frying it up with all that grease, day after day. Wheezing as she ambled back into the kitchen, Bell mumbled something about a patty melt with no onion, (my standing order... Bell never failed to remember her regulars' preferences) and hollered it back to Eliza, the cook.

"Hi mom."

"Scooch on over, Har."

A place was made for me and I sat down, expelling a silent sigh.

"So, it's the little hot mama. How's the love life?"

Grimacing, I shifted in my seat, avoiding Uncle Harry's questing knees and hands. Uncle Harry was a lecherous old bachelor who had followed mom around like a reed thin shadow ever since my dad had died long ago. Being an old friend who had changed my diapers on many occasions, he considered it part and parcel of his standing with the family to interrogate me mercilessly about my private life while pinching and squeezing parts of my anatomy with impunity.

With one he pawed at the semi-circle fringe of wiry gray that bordered his bald head, leering and the other reached for my knee under the table. I squirmed still further away, balancing on a sliver of the seat.

Mom smiled benignly.

"Don't worry about her, Harry. She's still fussing about that time I tried to set her up with Leona Cuthbert's daughter. You remember her? The brunette with the big hips and the gray front tooth? Not very attractive, I'll grant you. But still, she was a lawyer. Very ambitious. I've told this one time and again to hook her wagon up to someone with a future." Mom sighed with practiced martyrdom. "But does she listen to me?"

I pressed my lips together in a semblance of a smile. The best defense with mom was always a cautious silence.

I drummed my fingers on the paper placemat, craning my head in the direction of the kitchen, praying dinner would arrive quickly and end my torment.

"Now Precious, what's this I hear about the County Commission? Norma Jean just couldn't wait to tell me about it, but of course she couldn't tell me much. That woman can't tell a story to save her life." Mom forked a slice of Key Lime pie and popped it into her mouth, eyeing me expectantly.

"Got fired, did you?" Uncle Harry bellowed.

I shrank down, spine hunching forward, almost falling from the booth. "No," I replied, almost whispering, my face so hot it was stinging. "It's a temporary leave pending a review, that's all. It's just a mistake..."

"Mistake?" Mom echoed shrilly. "What mistake?" She pushed aside the Key Lime pie, hands reaching across the table. "Do you want me to fix it, darlin? I'm sure I could make Ellis Angeley listen to reason." She patted my hand. "His wife Missy comes to me every Thursday for a spa pedicure. I could talk to her for you? Have her put in a good word?"

I was so horrified all I could do was stare. A few seconds later, Bell plopped a plate down in front of me. Whirls of steam rose from the patty melt, warping the bright, sympathetic look on mom's face.

"No. God, no."

Mom frowned. I hastened to add, "It'll be fine, Mom. Really. I'm not worried."

She didn't look convinced.

The moon beat me home, looming large above the trees, its ambient orange glow casting a pale circle on Sister and the lake and the tall green grass, like a stage lit for a play, just waiting for the footlights to go on and the actors to take their places. Sister was dark except for a lone light in the kitchen. Nothing moved behind the drawn shades over the windows. No signs of life.

I pulled up the parking brake and turned off the key in the ignition, holding my breath for a moment in the silence that followed. Still no movement inside Sister. I clenched my teeth and opened the car door. The air was cool, damp and heavy. Streams of mist rushed at me like a flock of gauzy birds as I stood, stretched and then shut the door behind me. I breathed it in, feeling the chill on my earlobes and the tip of my nose. It was a gentle, welcoming touch, like cool fingers on a fevered brow.

Mosquitoes were scarce because of the cold. Soft light rippled across the surface of the lake in a most tempting manner. Deciding a walk would do my muddled head some good, I flipped up the collar of my uniform jacket and tromped off toward the lake.

Sticks snapped underfoot, trodden into the sandy soil. Tentacles of Spanish moss caressed my face as I passed through the trees. A strange call, probably an owl, shrieked in an odd, flat monotone, followed by a tiny squeal and then both faded.

The uniform sawing of cicadas and the sleepy sound of waves breaking gently against the shore did their best to soothe my frayed nerves. I found myself lulled and distracted by these innocent night noises as I strolled along, so much so that I found myself on the far side of the lake before I really took notice of my surroundings.

Strip mining had laid these parts bare about sixty years ago. The state, in an effort to reclaim the land, had required the mining companies to plant trees. The result was acre after acre of spindly, bottlebrush pines that sprawled in every direction like fields of really, really tall, knobby pencils that had sprouted needle-filled branches.

It is easy to get disoriented among the trees once you lose sight of the lake. I scoped the darkness behind me, straining for a glimpse of sparkling, dark water and instead saw a glimmer of gold framing a pale face. I blinked and looked again and the face was gone.

I took two steps forward and then stopped short, the clutch of fear closing my throat. A twig snapped.

The sharp report sounded to my right followed by a soft rustle, and then a familiar voice floated through the dark.

"A little late for a stroll isn't it?"

Pressing both hands to my chest to still my galloping heart, I let out a little whistle of breath.

"Jeez... Um, no. Perfect time of day for lurking, though, wouldn't you say?"

She slid into my field of vision, carefully keeping her face from the moon's dim light. She was dressed all in black, turtleneck sweater and slim black pants. Garbed in darkness, how appropriate. She may have been dressed to conceal herself in shadow, but her hair shimmered like the sun at mid-day. I concentrated on it, pushing down the irrational combination of fear and exultation that bubbled up inside me.

"I didn't mean to startle you. It's just... I saw you heading out for a walk and I thought... Well, I wanted... I think we need to talk..."

"Talk?" I said, pretending nonchalance. "About what?"

She folded her arms across her chest, her hands stark against her sweater, like white birds with wings folded tight. I heard the soft crunch of dry pine needles as she shifted nervously from foot to foot and then she pushed her hands into her pockets.

"This morning... I wanted to explain, to apologize."

"Well that would be a nice change," I said curtly and then shook my head. "But you don't have to tell me anything. Forget about it."

I heard her move closer, swish of fabric, breath of perfume in the air, and when her voice came, the soft burr of it raised the hair on my arms. "Liar," she whispered. "You're more curious than a sack of kittens. I can see that. I'm not blind. But I want to... I want to tell you... I don't know why I want to tell you, but I do."

I may have watched one too many movies because this, to me, sounded remarkably like the big confessional scene right before the villain does the helpless victim in. I swallowed hard. What did she have in those pockets anyway?

"So, talk," I said over the lump in my throat. I should have been afraid. Any fool would have been afraid in my position. Instead, I was maddeningly aroused. She looked so beautiful.

"Have you always been this charming?" she chuckled. And then, as if on cue, a slice of moonlight slipped through a gap in the branches above creating a soft nimbus of light all around her. The only thing missing was a chorus of angels.

Her hair caught the light and I sucked in a quick breath. A small, sure smile began to germinate, budding onto her lips even though she tried to hold it back. Her eyes seized me. All I could do was stare back until I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out, hanging my head low, chin dipping below my flipped up collar just so I wouldn't have to see those green, glowing cat eyes.

"I know what you think of me..."

This brought my head up sharply as a frisson of alarm went down my spine. Her expression was serious now, almost grim, all traces of the smile gone. I was suddenly and overwhelmingly aware that I was miles from help or witnesses. Anything could happen.

"It's crazy," she continued. "We barely know each other and yet I still care what you think of me. There are things that you should know about me... things I want to be clear."

Maybe it was just a reaction to all the built up stress. Maybe it was just stupidity. I'll never know. I can't say exactly when the appropriate response filter--the one that keeps the smart-ass remarks from popping out of my mouth at the wrong time-- in my brain shut down, (probably sometime in the second grade.) But it certainly was on the fritz at that moment. All I can say in my defense is that I was cold, confused and genetically inclined to the irrational. Her presence had a mesmerizing affect that I couldn't explain and it was more frightening than anything I'd seen on America's Most Wanted.

"Look, I've told my best friend, the police detective, all about you. And if anything should happen to me, anything at all, he'll start looking close to home. Do you know what I mean?" She looked stricken. Emboldened, like an idiot, I continued. "So yeah, you could say I know some things already. You can start by telling me all about what happened in Texas? Just the basics. Unless there's anything else I should know about? Crack habit? Cheat on your taxes? Strange affinity for large farm animals? Might as well spill it all."

Even in the dark, I could see I had pissed her off mightily. The surprising thing was how surprised I was by her reaction. Her chin shot up and her eyes narrowed. Lord, she looked hot. My libido tapped me on the shoulder looking for some attention.

"What? I... Look, I'm trying to level with you," she said, visibly straining to maintain calm. "You could at least hear me out before we start in on the negative noises. Just let me explain. Everything is not as it seems here..."

And then, as it happens every single time I'm faced with a confrontational scene, my defense mechanisms went into high gear and my anger took over.

"Not as it seems? Not as it seems, she says! Well, that's gotta be the understatement of the year." I threw my hands up in the air, shaking my head. "How about this instead? I'm done. No more Nancy Drew for this girl. I'm tired of the mystery. I don't care. I just don't want to hear about it."

She loomed closer, chest heaving in a most distracting manner, eyes flashing. "Oh, right! You don't wanna hear about it. You have no interest in the subject! And I didn't see you skulking around my house this morning." She crossed her arms again and smirked. "No... You weren't spying on me. You were just taking another stroll, right? Because you're big into the exercise."

Instinct is a funny thing. Standing in a lonely wood in the dead of night, caught in the act by a suspected murderess, I would've bet money that my reaction would be all about getting the hell out of there. But was it?

Crickets. Trumpet of a bird, (a mating call ironically.) Wind. Rustling leaves. And broadcast over the stillness, the rattling whir of Sister's heating unit kicking in. But the silence between us was louder than all of it.

I must have stared at her, slack-jawed, for the better part of thirty seconds, floundering in the weighty silence. Anyone with any sense would have thought of a neat rejoinder. Anyone with a particle of poise or wit would have just wordlessly walked away into the night, all John Wayne-like.

I did neither.

Instinct is a traitor, a little stranger slumbering inside us all.

There I stood, motionless, facing her, nostrils flaring, teeth clenched, hands curling and uncurling, and all I could think about was how soft her mouth had been, how good she smelled, how much I just wanted to push her up against a tree and take her in every way I could imagine.

It couldn't be helped. I bid my better judgment a fond farewell and cried hello to temporary insanity.

I reached for her and, in the same instant, found she was reaching for me, too.

She was in my arms, her mouth opening under mine and I ran my hands through that silky long, golden hair. I touched her face. She was real and her skin was cool and smooth. I think I forgot to breathe. Surprise registered and then melted away, followed by wave upon wave of absolute wonder.

But she was breathing, heavily, and trembling all over. Feverish hands seemed to be everywhere, caressing, grasping, exploring, and every part of me they touched caused a thousand new nerve endings to spark to life. I thought the air around us would crackle and snap with the energy we seemed to generate.

No, that is not exactly true. There was no time for thought. There was no time. It had stopped, looped into this one tiny moment. There was only her lips parting, seeking and my tongue discovering her warm, willing mouth, a sweet treasure of yielding softness. She tasted like cinnamon. Her body, warm and firm, writhing, pressed closer, melding to mine.

After a round of long, languorous explorations, she pulled back just slightly, heavy-lidded and breathless, and said "Let's do this right, shall we?"

"Huh?"

Before I even realized it, she had peeled back the lapels of my jacket and deftly unbuttoned the white shirt underneath. If I thought that having her hands on me before was intense, the feel of her fingers on my bare flesh was positively scorching. Cool, night air fanned my exposed skin and I gasped, crying out even more as her hands, palms flat and spread wide, made contact, memorizing my skin, reading me like braille.

My knees buckled, followed shortly thereafter by every other joint and muscle in my body. And then a zinging sensation, much like erotically charged static, shot through me, rendering me completely immobile. My throat closed up and my heart started hammering against my ribcage like a prisoner rattling a tin cup across the bars of its cell.

All from one simple touch.

And then her hands began to roam.

"You're killing me, here," I managed to croak, opening my eyes just the tiniest bit wider to catch a complacent grin flitting across her face.

When had I ever thought of her as sweet? The woman facing me in the moonlight was a tigress. "You have no idea," she growled and then pulled me to her, lips devouring mine with utter abandon.

The force of her kiss propelled me backwards until I collided with the hard, rough surface of one of the stubby pines. It must have knocked some sense into me because I had a sudden flare of conscience.

Not real... This can't be happening. She's a murderer... What if she's mental? She's just playing with you...

Her tongue darted into my mouth.

Must. Stop. Dangerous. Think Basic Instinct. No... That's bad... Think of...

Hands delved lower blunt nails skating over goose bumps and then dancing across my belt buckle just as her teeth caught my lower lip.

Sweet Fancy Moses...

A tug and another deep, searching kiss and my belt, along with any shred of willpower I might have been harboring, was undone.

"Please... I need to feel you against me."

Did I say that? Did she?

It didn't matter.

I don't know precisely when I closed my eyes, giving in to the sense of drifting like one of the derelict rowboats set loose without oars. Overwhelmed, I focused only on her touch, fingers creating a searing wake that rumbled through me, until another breath of cool air told me she had pulled away.

My eyelids fluttered open just in time to see a blur of black covering her face and then pale skin as she whisked her turtleneck over her head and then tossed it to the ground. The exhilarating rasp of her naked skin suddenly brushing against me caused me to moan and squeeze my eyes shut again. Her taut nipples grazed mine; her arms snaked around my waist.

"It's been so, so long." Her lips whispered, fluttering, light as a moth's wing, a glancing touch that hovered on my lower lip, traced my jawline to the hollow behind my ear and then slid lower. Her breath stroked my breast and then, a century later, or was it only seconds, her mouth, hot, wet and possessive enveloped a nipple. My eyes snapped open and a rending noise, stronger than a gasp, but much more guttural than a scream, hurtled from my lips before I could bite it back.

"Yes," I murmured, though I didn't know what I was agreeing to. She groaned, deep in her throat and it just fed the fire.

The feel of her skin was intoxicating, contours of pure velvet, taut muscle and bone rippling under my fingers. Her hips rocked against me and the pressure of it on what was already wet, throbbing and radiating what seemed like shock therapy, but in a good way, suddenly scared the hell out of me. It was too intense. I panicked, felt myself losing all control. Without interrupting the rhythm of the kiss, I cast about in my memory for a moment, a face, a body that had ever reverberated through me like this, like the bells of Notre Dame on Easter Sunday, and came up empty. For a millisecond, I thought about running, just breaking away, leaving her there.

Instead, I did what is standard for me in high-pressure situations. I said exactly the wrong thing.

"Oh my God," I murmured against her mouth, struggling without knowing I was struggling. I pulled from her, gasping as if breaking the surface of deep, deep water. "Wait.... I can't... wait a minute... I have to know. Tell me... tell me about Zoe and Texas. Tell me everything."

I felt her stiffen. Her lips stilled. Mine fell open in shock.

Oh shit! Where did that come from?

She drew away from me just slightly. "What did you just say?" she whispered, voice hissing quick and soft, like a pinched candle flame.

"Nothing. I didn't..."

She uncoiled from me, arms retracting faster than a tape measure snapping back into its case. Hugging her elbows, arms drawn over her bare breasts, she swallowed audibly, voice cracking. "I heard you." I opened my mouth to protest, but she shook her head. "No. I heard what you said." Her shaded expression grew cloudy, impenetrable and then she shook her head, eyes spilling over with pain. "Jesus, why? Why did you?"

And with that, she spun around, snatched her shirt from the ground, and then fled back toward the lake.

Two heartbeats later I was tearing after her, not a thought in my head except I wanted her back, wanted some kind of explanation. I deserved it and I was tired of waiting for her to spill the truth.

Try buttoning a shirt while running. It isn't easy.

"Miranda!" I shouted as I pursued, thus proving I did, indeed, know her name. "Dammit, Miranda, wait!"

She shot through the trees ahead of me. I saw her rounding the curve of the lake just as I broke from the trees, golden hair streaming behind her like some fairytale princess.

I crashed through weeds and bracken, cantering unevenly down the slope to the lake shore.

"Miran- aah-oomph!"

Snagging my foot on a protruding root, I tipped over like a felled tree, smacking the ground hard with my knees and elbows. The pain blotted out thought for a few seconds, and then I pushed myself upright, catching sight of Miranda as she crossed the lawn to Sister and then climbed the front porch steps and went inside.

"Miranda!" I cried again, fruitlessly.

Hauling myself to my feet, I tested my right leg before I put any weight on it. Gritting my teeth and hopping through the weeds, I made it to the lakeshore and then managed to hobble across the lawn without tripping again. I was huffing and puffing pretty hard by the time I reached Sister.

I stopped at the foot of the steps. Do I knock on the door now? Do I just rush in and demand some explanations? No. Even though I was pretty worked up, I couldn't just barge into her house.

A light flipped on in the front room.

"Miranda!" I shouted, feeling all enraged like some histrionic character in a Tennessee Williams play.

The light winked out, followed by curtains twitching and her face peering out the front window. She saw me and frowned. A minute later she appeared at the front door.

"What? What is it? What could you possibly have to say to me?"

The rage evaporated. "I... uh..."

She opened the screen door, holding up a hand to halt any comment from me. "You're sorry? Oh please?"

"But..."

"You can't know how hard it was for me to follow you out there, to give you... to... to do what we did. You have no idea..." Pain furrowed her forehead and leeched the angry color from her cheeks. "I haven't done that... haven't been with anyone since she...she... and..." Her voice broke. "And then you said her name?"

"Miranda, I didn't mean to..." I advanced a few steps and then the security light under the eaves of the porch clicked on, blinding me. I held up a hand, shielding my eyes, as I climbed another step. "...to hurt you. It just came out... I don't know why. Well, I do know why. Can't I just come in? I just need to understand." I squinted against the light, (I hoped), winningly. "You said you wanted to talk."

Another step and I was on the porch, facing her. Tears streamed down her cheeks, glinting wet trails, and her mouth was stretched thin and awry as she fought to hold back sobs of pain. Her hands were clenched into fists, arms straight, like taut angry catapults waiting for the rope to be cut before they launched their fury.

"It's been so hard!" she cried, voice erupting into the kind of high-pitched whine that usually precedes a real breakdown. "I just wanted to start over. But no. Oh, no. Not for me. No matter what I do..." She sighed heavily and her hands flexed at her sides. Biting her lip, she reached up and swiped at her tears. "No matter what, I can't forget. I can't..."

I should have been demanding explanations. I had a right to be irate, didn't I? What pity did she deserve? She very likely was a murderer. But I couldn't endure those tears, couldn't stand to hear that bitter edge to her voice. I closed the space between us and took her in my arms.

"No... I'm sorry. Don't cry." I stroked her hair as I felt her tears make a damp patch on my shirt. "I'm an ass. You should know that about me already. I don't know why I said that. I'm just confused."

Her shoulders trembled and I pulled my arms tighter around her.

"I knew it!" A deep male voice split the night and we both started apart. "I knew I'd find you whoring around over here..."

Dark greasy hair askew, wobbly walk... Mike, reeking of cheap beer, tried to climb the front stairs, missed the first step and then bonelessly collapsed.

"Miranda, don't listen to her. Sick... always has been perverted..." He struggled to rise and fell back down again, all the while cursing and sneering. His eyes narrowed at me. "I knew I'd find you here like a dyke bitch in heat..."

"What the hell are you doing here, Mike?" I didn't know whether to be relieved or pissed. The interruption was welcome, even if it came in the form of a drunken redneck. I spoke before Miranda, but I could see her mouth opening to protest as well.

"Forgot my JB weld and then I saw you two on the porch and I thought I was gonna throw up..." And then his explanation degraded into the type of torrential abuse that only the ignorant seem to favor, flavored with words like pervert, whore, the ever-popular 'carpet-muncher,' and other adjectives I wouldn't care to repeat.

"... bitch thinks she can just get into any woman's pants... corrupting innocent..."

Actually, after the first two or three insults, I stopped being grateful and started to burn with anger. I felt his words enter through my ears and ignite. Furious barely registers what I was feeling.

"Dyke trash, flouncing around..."

All I really remember is thrusting Miranda away, grabbing Mike by the scruff and shaking him like a rag doll. Watching his head whip around was very satisfying. A sensation very like joy flooded through me. I think I even smiled, though it was the kind of smile a doberman gives a mailman. I don't remember what I said or what he begged me not to do or Miranda's pleas for calm. I felt only a weightless freedom and a singing desire to see blood.

He gripped my forearms, pushing with futile effort, his eyes like full moons, lit with drunken alarm. As I shook him, his teeth scraped against each other audibly and his cries multiplied until I, polarized by the need to shred him physically and Miranda's restraining hand on my arms, finally released him, shoving him so hard he stumbled and fell, arms splayed comically, face-first in the dirt.

I started forward, reaching to pull him up again. If I couldn't maim him, I wanted to give him a good verbal bitch-slapping instead, but Miranda wrapped both arms around me and whispered, "No." I opened my mouth to unleash anyway, but Miranda let go and very coolly stepped forward

Mike rolled over and stared up at her, eyes shiny with what looked suspiciously like tears.

"You are trespassing, Mike," she stated, surveying him with icy contempt. "We are going inside. In about five minutes, I'm going to look out my front window. If you're not gone, I'm calling the police and I promise you, I'm pressing charges."

Mike swiped his eyes with the back of his hand and began to spit dust and blades of grass from his mouth. His eyes squinted sinisterly as she turned her back to him and began to climb the front steps, stopping as she reached for the door.

"Oh, and Mike, have your equipment out of here by morning." The front door clicked open and with a barely perceptible wave, she motioned me inside.

Lo,

This morning, you asked if I was happy here with you. I can't believe you don't know the answer to that already. But since you asked, in answer to your question, I want to give you something. You're going to wonder why in the heck I'm giving you a nickel. But think hard. You'll understand.

Do you remember when we first met?

I know I've asked you this before, but humor me. Picture it. I can see you just as you were that day, all of sixteen years old, wearing those oil-smeared coveralls, with matching streaks on your cheeks and dimpled chin. Your pretty, black hair was all bundled up into that cap. I thought you were a boy at first. Until my momma said something about you.

And you were scowling at me. I'd never seen such a fierce look in all my born days. You scared me. I was a frightfully meek thing then, it's true, but that look of yours just rattled me right to the bone. I know you shake your head when I say that, but there are still times when you seem just like that fierce, menacing stranger to me.

Of course, you must have thought me a silly, prissy little girl, standing there in my white dress afraid to touch anything for fear of getting my church clothes dirty. I remember Daddy was pumping gas and I had wandered off, as usual. I peaked my head into that garage. Your brother was strutting around with his shirt tied around his waist. But I wasn't looking at him. I couldn't tear my eyes away from you.

It was so hot that day, the air felt like molasses. It hurt to breath it. And I was so thirsty after sitting in that hot, hot chapel and then the stifling ride in the car (with the windows rolled up because Mama didn't want her hair mussed.)

You know, I bless the day my nickel got stuck in your soda machine. Isn't it the funniest thing? Sometimes the littlest detail can change your life. Who knows what would have happened if you hadn't come over and wrestled with that cantankerous machine? I don't think I would've dared to try to talk to you otherwise.

And now here we are, all these years later.

Am I happy?

Betcha a nickel I answer yes.

Love,

Mo

CHAPTER 26

"He's an idiot. I should've warned you about him."

I lurked just inside the door, hands shoved into pockets, the hair standing up on my arms. The adrenaline hadn't worn off quite yet.

A swath of darkness blanketed the front hall and the living room, sliced by light lancing through from the back hall and invading softly from the front porch. A shadow separated itself from the black and I saw her move away from the light, positioning herself near the fireplace where a sliver stealing from between the closed curtains caught her profile.

"You asked me a question..."

Her half illumined face was like a tomb, granite hard, smooth, hiding secrets about death. Which question did she mean? I wanted to take back my questions, all of them, and go. I didn't want to see what was beyond that stony look. But it was too late for that.

"You don't have to..." I said, moving into the room slowly. I paused at the window, leaving a wide expanse of shadowy floor between us. She sighed quietly, though visibly and I could hear a tiny shudder in the breath. For a long moment she didn't speak.

"I had hoped this place would be different, you know," she began, her voice quavering and childlike. I settled onto the edge of the sofa, relaxing my clenched muscles a fraction.

"Hope and I, we'd been living in the most depressing places. You can't imagine... hotel rooms and bland apartments. And then one day I woke up, and I was just so, so tired of it... tired of the fluorescent lights and the nondescript furniture, and the Gideons in the nightstand... tired of running. That's not the way to raise a child..."

She sniffled, turning her head to the side, long blond hair swinging forward, golden even in the dark, covering her face for a moment before she brushed it aside. When she turned back, tears, barely erased by her hand, glittered on her cheek. I crossed my arms, fighting down the instinct to comfort, to silence her for pity's sake.

"And so I started looking. I didn't really know what I was looking for. I went to a few towns. None seemed right. Realtors showed us dozens of houses. And then that woman brought me here."

Miranda paused, and I could see the ghost of a smile on her lips. "I just knew. The second I saw this place. It was so beautiful... and so full of warmth. The sun was shining brightly that day. I remember it made everything golden and mellow. The lake was sparkling so much it seemed to be winking at me. That realtor woman showed us the inside of the house. There was so much to do to it to fix it up, but I didn't care. This was the place." She nodded, still convinced. "When we came out, I remember looking out at the lake and there was this dark shape moving along. I had to squint and I shielded my eyes, but then I saw what it was."

She actually did smile, then. I saw the corner of her mouth go up and I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.

"It was you," she said, "walking up from the lake.

"You were lovely, the sun made you look golden, too, but that isn't what I remember the most. It was your face. Your expression. You looked peaceful... so calm. And I thought, 'I want that.'"

My throat closed up and my heart raced. I really felt like I might cry.

"I wanted that calm," she continued. "I wanted to feel that kind of peace again." Sagging against the sofa, she sank into it, shouldersslumping. "I thought we could start over here. That everything would be... I dunno... easier."

Her smile faded, her mouth stretched, trembling. She became very still and quiet until her lashes fluttered. "This is too hard. I can't..." Inhaling sharply, she turned her head away.

"Don't. You don't have..."

"No, I do."

"But I know, Miranda. You don't have to tell me. I know about your husband. I know I should care, I should be afraid... I should do the right thing. I should go to the police. But right now..."

And then Miranda interrupted, proving she was even more mystifying than I had imagined. She laughed. No, she snorted. She cackled. She clutched her sides and doubled over with deep, ungracious guffaws.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." Finally, as I stood staring with my mouth hanging open, she giggled and then sighed, wiping the corners of her eyes. "Actually, I shouldn't be sorry. I should be deeply offended. You think I killed my husband." Another flurry of giggles. "And you really believed..." Sputtering, she chuckled and then sighed. "Oh my... You honestly think that..."

Leveling a serious, though twitching look at me, she composed herself. "You," she said, her voice taking on that deep, bewitching buttery tone, "have quite the active imagination. I don't have a husband, Jo. I've never had a husband... and I certainly never murdered one." For all her amusement, she appeared sincere.

"But... you... and... Now wait a second! I have proof!" She snorted again.

A thought glimmered, shining a light on my fractured reasoning, and I had an 'aha!' moment. "But what about Texas? The license plate and your t-shirt? And what about Hope?"

Eyebrows lifted a fraction. "What about her?"

"Well she obviously had to have a father at some point." Take that!

Miranda gave me a tranquil nod. "She did. A very handsome and obliging test tube."

The breath left my body in an indignant whoosh. "Test tube?" I said incredulously. "But... but... Phillip Burnham? He's the father. He has to be?"

A worried crease appeared on her forehead and she leaned closer, perching on the edge of the sofa, concern written in her eyes. She thinks I'm a lunatic!

"No. Not unless Phillip Burnham was Specimen 47. I told you. I never had a husband."

Floundering in a sea of misapprehension, I clutched at my theories like the flotsam of a sinking ship bobbing on a stormy ocean.

"What about that man!" I fired back, spewing all the facts I had ticked off on my mental guilty list. "I saw him. I heard what he said to you. I heard you that morning on the phone, too! You were warning someone to stay away! And... and... Zoe!" I pointed a triumphant finger to emphasize the gravity of the name and everything it implied. "Zoe Finch. I know all about her."

Miranda blanched, her amusement melting away. "Then you should know about Hope?"

This brought me up short. Hope?

Seeing my bewilderment, she nodded. "I see. You don't know anything."

CHAPTER 27

"You know," she said, rising from the sofa, her tone weary and resigned. "I don't know about you, but a beer sounds like heaven in a bottle right now. Want one?"

I did a double take, doing a head to toe shake like a wet dog. "Beer?"

She was halfway to the kitchen. I followed.

"This is all going to make sense someday, right?" I called after her.

I paused at the kitchen door as she peered into the refrigerator, retrieving two bottles. Her face was studiously blank as she opened them and then handed one to me. I took it from her and then followed her to the kitchen table. She switched on the light and then sat across from me.

"It's not that complex." She raked a hand through her thick hair. Stress had carved tiny lines at the corners of her mouth. Were they always there? Why hadn't I noticed them before? Her face looked pinched and haggard, but it leant her a fragility that touched me. "Zoe was... well, she was my partner. We were together for six years."

"You?" A world of incredulity in one tiny word. She wasn't straight?

"What?" A hint of a smile played about her lips and the lines vanished. "You thought you were the only one?"

I let out a bark of surprise that was something between a cough and a laugh and she laughed, too.

"I told you no husband." She smiled and I returned it, something warm and easy uncoiling, wrapping around us, drawing us together. I was suddenly aware my breath was audible in the quiet kitchen, labored and shallow, straining to remain even, and hers echoed mine. Her eyes were having that magnetic effect again. In some distant part of my brain, I wondered what she saw when she drank me in like that.

"But what about the money," I blurted out, impatience surfacing unexpectedly, and the moment passed.

Miranda nodded, her expression grim and just a shade disappointed. "The money. Ah yes. The bane of my existence." She sighed. "I should have known you would pick up on that." Leaning back, her chair creaked and groaned as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Okay... about the money. I might as well tell you all of it then. Why leave out any of the ugly details, right?" She flashed a mirthless smile my way and her chin sagged. I found myself inching forward in my seat.

"Life insurance," she breathed as if the words had cost her a huge effort. "My partner Zoe had a huge policy and Hope and I were the only beneficiaries. Zoe's family didn't like that at all. They thought Hope should get everything and they should be executors on her behalf. They're a very formal bunch and they've always loathed their token lesbian 'daughter-in-law'. Well, after Hope was born, we hit a rough patch. I don't know if it was a post-partum thing or what. Zoe always was a bit of a player. She left Hope and I for a while. She moved in with some artist she'd been seeing on the side. After a few days, I realized I wasn't as devastated as I thought I'd be. Hope and I got along pretty well without her. I did miss her, but I was also ready to let her go, to start over. I thought we were finished, actually. Zoe's family was thrilled. But after a few months, Zoe came back. We kind of worked things out. It wasn't perfect, but we decided we wanted Hope to have stable homelife.

"After that, the family tolerated me for Zoe's sake, but after Zoe was gone... Well, let's just say they pulled in the welcome mat." Miranda's voice took on a foreign quality, not the honeyed burr of earlier; this was the sound of an exposed wound. "The family already had money... old money. And you know, I think if it had only been about the insurance they would have just left me alone. It would be a pittance to them. And anyway, I didn't really want it. Zoe and I... well at the end it wasn't..." she trailed off, staring down at the table, her finger tracing the swirling grain of the woodwork. "I would have given it to them if they'd asked."

She squirmed and the chair creaked again as she drew her left leg up, arms wrapping around it and chin perched on her knee. "But what truly galled them...per Zoe's will, I had sole custody of Hope. That they couldn't tolerate. I tried to work with them. I was taking her to see them all the time. And I told them they were free to visit us whenever they wished. But it wasn't enough apparently. Three months after Zoe died, they took me to court and tried to take her away from me."

"But she's your child!" I protested, outraged on her behalf.

Her green eyes, remote and icy, flicked to me. "She is. Except I didn't give birth to her."

"Oh." And the puzzle snicked into place with cold finality. "I see."

Miranda, looked away, staring up at the ceiling, holding her breath.

"And so you ran?"

She nodded. "Not at first. The first two judges ruled in my favor. The family took it pretty hard. I tried to be gracious. I still let them see her. They had her at least three or four times a month. But one weekend they didn't bring her back." She hugged her knee closer. "It took six months to make them turn her over to me. And then they started an appeal. I had to leave. I couldn't risk it happening a second time."

"And now?"

Miranda was silent a moment, staring at the ceiling again.

Her chin had a tiny cleft I hadn't noticed before. Odd, I thought, how that detail had escaped me. And her perfume, even though it was very faint, still clung to me. It was like all the tiny minutiae of her had somehow permeated my mind, my skin. How quickly she had hooked me. I wondered at it silently. I knew nothing about her and yet the tiniest facts I latched onto and treasured, assigning them an importance I couldn't even acknowledge yet. She might not be on the most wanted list, but I knew she was dangerous to me, to my peace of mind. And in spite of everything, I was perfectly content to sit there listening to her confess her deepest secrets. I wanted to know everything about her. And that was the scariest prospect of all.

"Now it's different," she whispered, her eyes turning back to mine.

And then a timid cry pierced the quiet. Miranda's shoulders stiffened. The sound was querulous, like the cry of a distant bird. It didn't register. I was too caught up in the moment, in her eyes, in my own thoughts but when it repeated and a tiny blonde head peaked around the doorframe, I understood why Miranda had abruptly pushed away from the table.

"I want a drink of water, Mommy." Hope, clad in a purple flannel nightgown, rubbed her eyes and then blinked up at us both.

"Okay, baby, just a second." She turned to me. "I'm sorry." The apology was a dismissal and I could see she was a little relieved by the interruption. "It's late. I should..."

I scooted my chair back and stood. "No, don't worry about it. We can talk later if you... I mean, if you still want to."

She came around the table and stood next to me, a hand reaching up, brushing my hair back.

"I want to, Jo." Her fingers trailed down my cheek.

"Mommy," Hope whined.

Her hand slid down, quickly squeezing my fingers before releasing them with a brief flash of a brilliant, though apologetic smile.

"Water? Is that what you want? Okay. Come here, Cupcake"

She went to the cupboard and Hope toddled after her. I lingered a moment, my skin tingling from her touch. But as she hunched down, gathering Hope close for a quick hug, I felt completely inadequate and superfluous to the moment. Staying would resolve nothing. I wordlessly excused myself, ducking out through the front door.

I reluctantly strolled back to my house, my brain teeming and my body humming. I didn't want to go inside. It was too empty, too much of what had been. I couldn't vocalize how or why, but I knew I wasn't the same girl that had lived under that roof for eight years. And I didn't want to be her anymore. Instead I sat on the front porch as the sun came up.

How could I possibly sleep after this night? I did, though, drifting off shortly after the sun rose, curled up in an awkward ball on the porch swing.

Lo, darling,

I don't want you to panic, but things aren't going well here. I told my brothers about our plans and let's just say they weren't exactly receptive to the divisions of the estate I've suggested. I may be here a few more days. I know you're angry. I know you'd rather I just give them mother's money and have done with it all, but I think I can work out an equitable agreement yet. I just need to explain to them mother's wishes. Maybe if they see the will for themselves, they'll understand.

I love you, my dear. Thank you for being so patient about this.

Always yours,

Mo

Chapter 28

I woke with the sun, high in a clear sky, shining hot on my face. Sitting up, the swing and my tired bones creaked in protest. I stretched. The lake twinkled a silent good morning at me. A thin coating of dew dampened my clothes and a soft breeze made me shiver despite the sun. An Osprey skimmed the surface of the lake and then plunged beneath, emerging without a splash, a tiny fish in its talons. I watched its progress as it sailed toward the trees, allowing my gaze to move up the bank and past the garden stile to Sister, glowing in the morning light.

The clamor of doubt and emotion that had followed me into sleep had receded. Instead I felt a curious calm, underscored and entwined with a murmur of excitement that made my palms tingle.

I was wrong.

I smiled to myself. I'd never been so happy to be contradicted in all my life.

She wasn't a murderer. She hadn't bludgeoned anybody with an axe.

And more important: She wasn't straight.

Most definitely not.

A jaw-cracking yawn wiped the smile from my face, triggering another stretch. As my arms dropped back to my sides, I glanced at my watch. It was 9:45. Today was Friday.

"Fuck!"

My review with the county commissioners was today... right after the county budget meeting... in 20 minutes.

I shot off the porch, bursting through the front door, taking the stairs three at a time even though my knee felt like it might shatter.

I shrugged into my uniform, doing up buttons and zippers as I launched myself back downstairs and out the back door. I plugged keys into the ignition and just as I began to back the car up, I saw Miranda emerge from her back door.

God, she was beautiful. A soft breeze whispered through her hair.

My heart did a little tap dance. A hesitant smiled bloomed on her lips and she gave a tiny wave. I paused, racked with indecision. Did she want to talk now? This was disastrous! I had no time to stop and explain.

I mimed an apologetic shrug at her and then pointed to my watch before I floored it, peeling out of the driveway. I didn't need to look in the rearview mirror to imagine the crestfallen expression on her face.

"I'm not blowing you off," I said aloud, willing her to understand. "I swear."

***

The home of the county commission was much more impressive and a lot less mobile than Springport's city offices. For one, it was brick and three stories tall. And also, it didn't have wheels. The national, state and county flags whipped and snapped over my head. I passed under them, tripping up the semi-circle flight of stone steps to the set of double doors leading into the building. I blinked in the dimly lit, vaulted entrance. Oil paintings of former governors adorned a small alcove to the left. In front of this, the security desk, supplied with metal detectors and a fully armed guard, played sentry to the long halls beyond it. This stony formality, combined with the impending budget meeting made my stomach queasy. Or it could possibly have been the lack of breakfast, I couldn't say. In any case, it was with a daunted, and slightly cowed posture that I signed in and then scurried down the echoing, marble-tiled halls to a wide paneled door marked 'FORUM 27.'

I entered. The room was wood-paneled like the hall, but the ceilings were low and the furniture stark but serviceable. A few people sat listening in chairs sectioned off by a plastic partition. Ellis stood in the middle of the room at a lectern facing a panel of men and women, the county commissioners. I ducked into a chair at the back, slumping down, hoping my tardiness wouldn't be noted or held against me.

"Yes," Ellis was saying, holding forth in his most self-important tone, his shoulders thrown back and his stomach puffed out like a blowfish, "the neighborhoods benefit, and we all benefit. We need to invest in our future and our children are our future."

"Oh brilliant, Ellis," I thought. "Quoting Whitney Houston always makes for an excellent argument."

"And the current playground equipment? What's the condition?"

"Oh it's all right," Ellis said. "But the 176,000 allocated would buy all new equipment."

I sat up. 176,000?

Ellis made a sweeping gesture with his hands. "It's an investment. A new playground will show that our community is family-friendly. It will help attract new families to the area who will also become new taxpayers. Win, win."

And that's when I really started to simmer. If I had been a teapot, I'd have been whistling. "Excuse me," I interrupted, raising my hand.

A redheaded woman on the end looked up, acknowledging me with a nod. Ellis turned around, saw me and scowled.

"Um," I hastily got to my feet, tamping down my temper with a deep breath. "You're discussing a new playground for Springport?"

The woman nodded. "Yes."

"Right." I scratched my head, mentally tallying the budget figures I'd reviewed last week. "And those funds come from where? The county? The state?"

A portly, balding man in the middle shook his head while scanning a sheet in front of him. "No, the city is funding the majority of the funds. The county has pledged to match it."

I glanced at Ellis. His face was a blotchy shade of puce and his lips had puckered with rage.

"I see," I said, feeling my own face change color. I thought of my men, of Shorty and Roger and Abel, how hard they worked and what they risked day after day, and a lump formed in my throat. Tears pricked my eyes and suddenly I was so angry I was shaking. Taking another deep breath that did nothing but make my heart race faster, I strode past Ellis, taking a stand just behind the partition, gripping it hard as I fought for calm. "Ladies and gentleman, that's all very admirable. I think it's a great idea. And I'm sure that the kids will enjoy having a brand new place to play. But sir," I caught the bald man's eye and held it, "tell me, is a new swing set worth a child's life? Can you promise those new families the security they should be able to take for granted? Well, right now you can't."

I stopped, my throat closing up almost completely. I swallowed hard and continued. "What difference does it make if we have a playground if even one child can't use it, if we lose one child because of a fire that we couldn't handle because of faulty equipment? What kind of message does that send to the people of Springport?"

I sighed and tasted tears as the committee burbled with consternation. The commissioners were frowning, but they were listening. Ellis blustered behind me. "You can't let her..."

"Please continue," the red-haired woman said to me, cutting him off. Her face was stony, but something in her eyes told me she was concerned.

"Thank you," I said, wiping my face. I was beyond embarrassment, my hands were shaking, my cheeks were wet and I could hardly breathe but I went on. "I didn't introduce myself before. My name is Josephine Trilby. I'm the fire chief in Springport and you're probably going to throw the book at me in my review after this, but I just have to speak. I know I'm getting emotional and talking out of turn here, but in my opinion saving lives is a lot more important than a playground. I'm all for community growth, but my department has been stretched to it limits already. My men have even gone as far as to buy their own equipment when needed because there is no money in the budget for things like screwdrivers or extra goggles or gloves. Wages for my department are well below that of national standards, even with the raise that's up for your review."

Ellis huffed, but I raised my voice to drown him out. "My men put their lives on the line each we time we respond to a call just because it's the nature of the job. But using equipment that constantly breaks down magnifies that danger. It triples the odds that one of them won't come back... someday."

"Listen to her," Ellis squawked. "She's using emotions to justify her arguments. The facts are the facts, people. She has no business..."

"Last week," I said, almost shouting to be heard, "my company responded to a house fire. A child was still inside. The engine stalled. Fortunately, we lucked out and by some miraculous fluke, the boys coaxed the engine back to life. But what if we hadn't been lucky? That child might have died. But if you think I'm just being dramatic, go and ask his mom and dad what they think is more important. A new fire truck, or a new playground?"

I paused, allowing that to sink in, scanning their faces. It was so quiet I could hear the tiny clicks of the air conditioning vents, the rustling sounds as people shifted on the benches behind me and the 'ping, ping, ping' of the flags whipping against their poles outside. I stepped back feeling completely deflated, but relieved. Even if it meant utter humiliation and, at the worst, a demotion, I was glad I finally got to vent. I'd done my duty, possibly the only right thing I'd done in days. I was thinking this, preparing myself mentally for the worst as I turned to go and was startled out of my thoughts by a smattering of applause. The people seated behind me began to stand and clap, smiling at me, giving me thumbs-up signs and nods. I felt myself smile as elation flooded through me and the approval grew louder. My head swiveled back to the committee. Their heads were bent, clustered together, talking in low voices. The clapping swelled and I couldn't help but laugh.

Ellis started to mutter furiously, shoving his way past me. "Now listen here..." he raged. The bald man, who was busily writing notes on a yellow pad, lifted his head and completely made it to the top of my list of men I would kiss if I weren't into girls.

"Oh Ellis," he said dryly, "I think we've heard enough from you today."

***

Of course I felt like celebrating. It was a momentous day. People had applauded me. I felt like I should be in a movie, that the credits should be rolling. A great swell of music should be playing and I should be balancing on the shoulders of a cheering crowd or wrapped up in a passionate embrace or at the very least, there should be some kind of theme song playing. Freeze frame.

The reality was much quieter. I left the county building, went to my car and waited until the triumphant smile on my face had softened to a contented quirk of the lips.

There might not be crowds willing to cart me around, but I could still give myself a pat on the shoulder, and maybe find someone willing to give me an 'atta girl'.

I had options. I could have routed Jay from behind his desk, maybe guilted him into taking me out for a congratulatory beer or two. Or I could have sought out mom at the beauty shop. She would have been gratifyingly thrilled on my behalf. I probably could've even gotten a peach cobbler out of the deal. Or I could have shared my news with the guys. And what glorious news it was... after the budget meeting, my disciplinary review had been glanced at and then summarily dismissed as trivial and the City Commissioners had ceded to all of my monetary demands. New equipment and a healthy increase in salary for my men would be in the new budget. A hero's welcome would most definitely be waiting for me at the station.

But I didn't want to share this moment with any of them... not really.

Without realizing it, I had floored the gas. I chuckled nervously at my own impatience, easing up on the accelerator.

Miranda.

The need to see her, to want her, that wasn't new. But the desire to include her, to share everything, to incorporate her into my life, that was something so alien to my psyche, I almost couldn't acknowledge it. I shook it off, telling myself I just wanted to get home, to put my feet up and relax but I couldn't even fool myself with such a feeble lie.

When had this happened? What was it about her? And what had changed in me? I mean, she was still a stranger, right? I didn't really know her. But it felt like I did. Can you feel warm and safe and hot and bothered by a total stranger? A stranger who, until about eight hours ago, I'd thought was an axe murderer?

But she wasn't a murderer. She was a mom... a very hot mom.

A very hot mom with lots and lots of personal issues.

What exactly was I inviting into my life?

She had a child for goodness sake, a very impressionable little human that could easily get all fucked up with my help and influence. Children were sticky and noisy. They asked too many questions and were little attention-vampires. Would raising a four-year old leave Miranda much time for a budding romance? Add to that custody battles with the bitter ex-in-laws and deceased spouses with who-knows-what amount of grieving and guilt thrown into the mix. Without a doubt, my life would grow exponentially more difficult with Miranda in it.

And why would I want that?

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, considering. And then, fingers frozen in midair, I remembered her kiss and a wash of thought-obliterating warmth flooded through me. My heart became unmoored, slipping and sliding around inside me, temporarily lodging in my wrist, in my neck, the soles of my feet. For several long and thoroughly enjoyable moments, I floated, just replaying the feel of her lips against mine. I turned off the main road and grasped at the threads of my thoughts but they slithered away as soon as I tried to bunch them all together.

Who was I kidding? I had made my choice the first time I saw her.

I could handle it. It's not like I'm unacquainted with drama. Drama didn't scare me. I've had plenty of it in my life. Only my drama was of the self-created kind...disastrous relationships, German tourists who might be terrorists, neighbors who were possibly wanted killers.

Okay. Clearly, I had a colorful imagination and way too much time on my hands. It was true. One way or another, be it fictional or reality, I always made sure I had a lot going on in my life. But I had never experienced Miranda's type of drama. Death and parenthood were just too real for my ken. And she had faced both... alone.

The woman was beautiful, smart, strong and brave. The real question was why would she want to be with someone like me?

Maybe she didn't.

Maybe that was the point she never got to during our interrupted conversation.

I agonized over this possibility and my many shortcomings as familiar landmarks flitted by. I barely registered them but I knew I'd be home in a few minutes. Just one more turn.

The sky was cartoon blue with big, white pillowy mounds stuck high and stationary in the foreground. I felt my mood go thin as a weighty nervousness sat on top of my elation. What if she'd reconsidered the kiss? What if she'd changed her mind about me?

What if...

Smoke?

A dark ladder of swirling gray climbed toward the cotton candy clouds.

I smelled it before I saw it, an acrid bite to the otherwise cool, jasmine-scented air. I glanced around and then peered up to the left, sticking my nose to the windshield and squinting. The trees ahead seemed to part, leaning away from the source of the smoke, but it was only an optical illusion. I was just getting closer to the fire...

and I was almost home.

My Beautiful Mona

I was born the day I met you.

I know it's been said many times and by many people far more literary than I, but it's nonetheless true. I didn't breathe until you came into my life. I didn't see until you showed me what was possible. You were the light and beauty of my soul. You found me and my world opened up, changed almost on a cellular level. I don't remember the person I was before you came into my life.

I wish I could forget the person that I became.

And now that you're gone, will I be born again? This time born the way a child is born, lost and cold and bereft of comfort or boundaries. No warm arms wait for me. The world is too large. I am lost in it, Mona. How can I go on without you, my love? Why didn't I see the abyss that was just beyond my horizon? Why can't I just fall into it and find you again? Why don't I have enough courage to take that step?

And the deepest cut, I can't even visit you one last time. Your funeral was barred to me. I meant to slip this in with you. I wanted you to take something more than my soul with you, something solid. But I am denied even that.

Oh Mona, come back to me. Somehow, shine your light on me. Show me the way.

You are my love. You have all of it. Forever.

Lois

I buried the accelerator. It seemed no matter how fast my tires ate up the road, it still stretched out endlessly in front of me. And when I finally spied the rooftops of the Sisters, they were wreathed in plump black clouds. My heart tried to catapult out of my mouth. I clamped down my jaw and tried to inhale. I could hear gravel ricocheting off my Mustangs metal flanks. Usually this makes me slow down... today I didn't spare a thought for the paint-job I would need later. I raced down the driveway and actually screeched to a halt five meters onto the lawn in front of Sister. The smoke was coming from the lake side of the house.

"Miranda!"

"Over here!" I pelted down the lawn, skidded around the corner and almost toppled over her. A sudden spurt of water slapped me in the face as she turned, garden hose accidently pointing toward me for a second before she aimed it back at the blaze.

"I can't stop it!" Miranda yelled. "The roof!"

The roof was still intact. Flames hadn't reached it yet, but they were perilously close. Yellow and orange swathes of heat carpeted the rotten porch boards in undulating waves that were beginning to climb up the gingerbread railings.

"Where's Hope?"

Miranda inclined her head frantically over her shoulder. Hope sat a few feet away on the lawn, her little face pointed, knees drawn up under her chin, visibly shaken.

"Okay, point the hose at the left side. See, right there? The spot that looks blue. Yes! That's it! Now hold it there."

I dashed to the wood pile still heaped to one side of Sister and within seconds, found what I needed. A few rips and the chainsaw roared to life. I sliced and diced, all the while uttering a silent prayer the chainsaw wouldn't explode in my hands. I hacked at the trusses first. Then the supports gave way, one by one and a few seconds later, the roof collapsed in, effectively capping the flames with a giant snap and a fierce whoosh of air. The flames vanished. The porch was in ruins. It's absence and the gaping hole in the roof made it seem as if I had pulled the face off of Sister.

My hands and arms still felt the reverberation of the chainsaw and my ears sang. Behind me, Miranda panted almost soundlessly. Hope whimpered.

"Is that it?"

"No. It's, um," I glanced at Hope's frightened face, "just asleep for awhile but when it wakes up again..." Miranda blanched. "I need to call the station."

***

"So, you want to tell me how it started?"

Forty five minutes that seemed like forty-five years later we were seated on my sofa, Hope lolled sleepily between us, completely worn out from the day's scare, her head on Miranda's lap, feet on my knees. My boys had finished off the job, drowning the embers until Miranda's front porch was an unidentifiable sodden black mass. Engine two had chugged away about fifteen minutes ago.

I'd settled her on the sofa after cracking open the last beer in my fridge and pressing it into her hand. She'd looked at it for a long moment and then set it on the floor. "I don't know. I mean, I think I know but..." Her voice shook but she went on. "I was folding laundry and I heard a car door slam. Then I heard someone outside. I looked out and it was that Mike guy, picking up his tools. So I locked the door and just waited for him to leave." She sighed heavily. "A few minutes later, I heard his car going down the road and that's when I started smelling smoke. I thought the dryer was on fire or something. And then, uh... What are you doing?"

I'd launched myself off the sofa. "You're sure it was him?"

She nodded.

"I'll kill him!" I began stomping around, looking for my keys. I found them on the floor near the kitchen door. Miranda rushed in behind me and put a restraining arm on my shoulder.

"Jo!"

"Well he tried to kill you, didn't he?"

This appeared to give her pause. Her mouth opened around words that wouldn't come. Finally she sputtered, "Well... But... but maybe it was just an accident."

"Huh uh. That was a prime example of redneck homophobic rage. Arson, I'm positive."

"You can tell?"

I shrugged. "I've seen enough of them. Did you tell any of this to the police?"

"No," she whispered in that beautiful, but now more melancholy than I'd ever heard, melted-butter voice of hers. "But I will." She drew herself in, hands cupping elbows and shoulders hunched. Her eyes were so wide but wiped clean of expression. I really had to make myself not go to her and take her in my arms. Anger helped and I didn't want to lose it. I wanted to find Mike first. But Miranda continued to just stand there, stranded in the middle of the kitchen. Her lower lip trembled.

I sighed and set my car keys on the kitchen counter. "I have a friend... I'll call him."

I dialed the police department. Jay wasn't in, but Miranda spoke to the desk sergeant and reported the fire. I got on the phone and told the man what we suspected. He promised to give a message to Jay as soon as he returned. Also, they would send someone out to take Miranda's statement.

We went back into the living room. Miranda slumped next to Hope who sat up a little and then turned over on her side, bunching her arm underneath Miranda's leg and sighing softly in her sleep. Miranda draped her arm over the girl, stroking her soft curls, a pained expression replacing the lost look. "Why would he do this to us? This was supposed to be a safe place. Now I can't even live in my own house." She looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time since our conversation last night. "What am I going to do?"

The caretaker mechanism embedded in every true butch kicked into gear. I couldn't leave her like this, no matter how seductive vengeance seemed.

"Well," I said, sitting down again, "your house isn't a total wash. Most of the damage is confined to the porch and the roof. There's a few places that are exposed. But with a few small repairs it can be liveable again in a few days. I know a good cleanup crew that can get rid of most of the soot damage. And I'll tarp the roof so the rain won't get in." I glanced nervously at her, cleared my throat and then continued. "In the meantime, you and Hope can stay here."

Miranda shook her head. "Oh no. I mean, that's too much. We couldn't..."

"It's no trouble." I was almost disgusted at how eager I was to help... to have her there with me. Quickly, I added as nonchalantly as I could manage, "I can sleep on the sofa and then you and Hope can have the bed. I've got clean towels, clean sheets, good water pressure. Oh and as an added bonus, I can whip up a mean tex-mex omelette. C'mon. It'll be perfect. I'd love to have you."

"You really wouldn't mind?"

"Not a bit. What are good neighbors for?"

She smiled, nodding "All right then. We'd love to stay." and I had to stop myself from hopping up and doing a happy dance.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am..." she went on, "this is just... You've been so great, Jo. I don't know how to thank you."

I waved an abashed hand at her. "Don't. You just have to promise me one thing."

"Name it."

"After all this is over and you're not a guest in my home, which, now that I think about it, could make my next proposal kind of inappropriate and very awkward... Anyway, after that, maybe you'll let me ask you out on an actual date sometime."

She chuckled, nodded and then a fully-fledged, bright-as-the-afternoon-sun smile lit up her face. "You're a nutcase, you know that? And also very cute. So yeah, I'll let you ask me. And I'm pretty sure I can guarantee you'll get a yes."

"Really?" I was too relieved, too shocked and too happy to really understand more than the nod and the smile.

She stood up, sidling closer. Her hands reached out for mine and like that night on the dance floor, her body melted against me. Her arms went around my neck and she whispered, "Really," as her lips found mine.