Opposite of Frozen

by Jan O'Hara

The sound came again.

  “Was that an ah or an uh or an uh-uh?” she asked innocently.

  “That was an aaaah,” he said, then set his hands lightly on her shoulders and mock-shook her.

  As before, when they had been alone together in Mrs. Horton’s room, or when he’d eaten from her fingers, a sexual heat leaped into the space between them. They stared at one another until she blinked and he released her.

  She bit her lip and moved down to the section holding jeans and leggings.

  Eventually Oliver said, “I’m twenty-eight. You?”

  “Twenty-five. So…getting back to your brother—Shawn, right?”

  The man gave away information about his family like it was gold-plated; even his nod was cautious.

  “Assuming he’s in your age group, the most probable causes of disability are accidents, mental illness, a few cancers, or cardiovascular illness. If it was an accident, you would have said so. Same with a heart attack.”

  “Why rule out cancer?”

  “Because.” She took a breath and turned to watch his reaction. “Unless you personally taught him to smoke, and held him down for every cigarette of his life,” she said softly, “you, good sir, wouldn’t carry that expression of guilt.” She lifted a hand and touched his cheek.

  Oliver blanked his face and stepped back.

  Okay. She’d trespassed again. Other than trying to cheer up the man, which would make her life a hell of a lot easier for the next week, why did she keep doing that?

  “So how close did I get?” she asked breezily. Her bet was on addictions.

  He made as if to hand her a pair of black jeans, but at the last second wouldn’t release them. “I’ll consider telling you if you answer this: What’s the commonality between Mrs. Summers and Mrs. Ingram?”

  Page froze. “Who?”

  He gaze was very blue and very direct. “The seniors you can’t look at without getting teary-eyed.”

  Page swallowed. And to think she’d ever considered him clueless and unobservant. “I don’t—it’s not—I’m not―” She finally settled on a dignified, “I’m ready for the change room now.”

  “Ah,” he said with an air of satisfaction, then laughed when she laughed and smacked him on the butt.

  * * *

  ✽

  Just beyond the section holding china and housewares, they had to walk past an entertainment section to reach the till. It was bordered by bookshelves containing bins on three sides. On the fourth, a hobby horse marked the entrance and provided a partial barrier.

  Page draped her clothing selection on the horse and headed for the shelves. “If we’re going to hang around the hotel, we should pick up supplies for the oldsters.”

  Oliver’s hands were warm as they descended on her shoulders and gently steered her in the opposite direction. “You’re getting distracted from the mission. And don’t call them that. Some people find it offensive.”

  “Taking care of the oldsters is the mission.” And Page had accidentally dropped the affectionate nickname just that morning, earning a laugh from Avis. Mind you, when deciding whether to use Avis as a benchmark for taste, there was the matter of that orange sweater…

  Page let Oliver direct her a few steps and then ducked under his arm. “Two minutes. If that’s too much to ask, you have my permission to leave.”

  He sighed but came to watch her anyway, a reluctant smile growing on his lips as she seized a hula hoop and placed it around her waist.

  “Did they have these where you grew up?” They both laughed as her voice warbled with her movement.

  “Not for the boys.”

  Well, that had been definitive. She stepped out of the hoop and cocked a challenging eyebrow while offering it to him. “Go on, then.”

  “I don’t think so.” He leaned one shoulder against a shelf.

  She shrugged and set the hoop aside. “Suit yourself.” She let her fingers skip over the board games—the Thurston supplied enough of those. “So did you grow up in the South?” At his quizzical look she said, “You have a soft drawl.”

  “Still fishing?”

  She picked over a set of hand puppets for fifty cents each. The gray mouse with soft whiskers slipped easily over her hand and when she flexed her fingers, its nose wrinkled in an endearing expression. Off the top of her head, Page could think of five seniors who would light up upon seeing it.

  “It’s called conversation,” she said. “You might have heard of it?”

  He was trying to hide his smile as he shrugged on his parka. “Phoenix, Arizona.”

  “There, now. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” She added the mouse puppet to her clothing pile.

  Oliver said nothing but reached into the puppet bin. He selected a pink rabbit and tossed it onto the heap.

  While he watched, she ran hands over a wooden chess board that looked to be homemade, a ring-toss set, and then she spotted the ultimate in boy-centric sports: a worn baseball. She held it aloft and pitched it to him with a, “Think fast.”

  It was an easy, underhand throw. They stood only fifteen feet apart. But Oliver, who’d stood there with his blue eyes alive and sparkling, staring straight at her with an indulgent smile, was incomprehensibly slow to react.

  If he’d left the ball alone, simply missed it altogether, it would have landed harmlessly in a stack of stuffed animals. But his hand came up at the last second, deflecting the ball with such force that it hurled over Page’s shoulder, straight into the glassware.

  At the sound of breakage, every head in the store turned to stare.

  Page brought her hand up to stifle a giggle. “Oops.”

  And here, right on schedule, came the prune-faced manager to chew them out like they were a couple of naughty teenagers.

  Page turned to Oliver, laughing. “Sorry for getting us in trouble. I thought you were looking at me.”

  Somehow it was exactly the wrong thing to say.

  Reminiscent of the time before, when she’d been recovering in the armchair and had commented on his physical strength, Oliver’s eyes abruptly narrowed. His face darkened. He seemed to hulk up. His fists clenched, so she found herself shrinking back when he took a step towards her.

  He leaned in and spoke with quiet lethality. “You’re fired.” He strode past her and made for the front door, faster than a spring sheep at a razor convention.

  After a moment’s hesitation she rushed after him. “Oliver?”

  “Miss?” came from behind her.

  Oliver didn’t slow.

  Page held up a hand to acknowledge the entreaty. “I’ll be back, I promise.” She picked up her pace. For a man rigid with anger, Oliver could move with surprising speed. “Oliver!”

  “April, call the police,” she heard in close proximity to her ear, just as she felt her jacket’s hood seized from behind.

  While Page gagged and struggling to keep her footing, Oliver hit the crossbar on the front door. The resulting boom echoed throughout the store and the bells jangled with unholy fervor.

  He was outside, streaking in profile across the windows to the right of the exit. And then he was gone.

  Son of a sledgehammer… Page saw the teen clerk on the phone and remembered the manager’s command to call the police.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Page called, holding up a hand. “There’s no need for that. I’m good for the damages.” She reached reflexively for her backpack before remembering it had been stolen.

  When they told her what she owed, she hid her flinch by retrieving the forty dollars in her bra. Page’s eyes lit on the mother and owl-child, next in line with their purchases.

  While the mother gave Page a sympathetic look and the manager wrote a receipt, Page dropped down to the baby’s level. “Would you put a sports section next to chinaware?” she said in an energetic voice. Page shook her head, and the smiling baby mimicked her.

  “Smart kid,” Page said to the mother. “She has a bright future in thrift store management.”

  If on
ly the child could explain to Page what had just happened with Oliver.

  Chapter 10

  Oliver blinked and came back to himself when something simultaneously struck him at the knees, and enveloped his fingers in a warm, moist grip.

  He stood on a cement stoop in the shelter of a doorway that smelled of detergent and wet socks. Behind the glass of the door, a row of laundry machines whirled with clothing and a woman stood at a table, folding underwear.

  The cause of his disturbance was a small white dog clad in a pink and black tartan sweater. She stood at the limits of her leash, her hind feet planted on the cement, her forefeet on Oliver’s jeans. Her tail was a blur as she licked his fingers.

  One creature attempting to soothe another’s distress?

  The dog looked familiar.

  Indeed, on the street below, Madeline Arbuckle stared up at Oliver. She was wearing her fur coat again, and today’s scarf matched the dog’s outfit. Mrs. Arbuckle clucked at the Shih Tzu and hauled her back, scooping her up into mink-clad arms. One gloved hand seized the dog’s muzzle.

  “Betty Jo,” she scolded, in the tone women reserved for babies. “Manners, please. We don’t jump on people, remember?”

  The dog quivered with ecstatic devotion.

  Madeline turned back to Oliver. “Are you all right? I called your name twice and you didn’t respond.”

  Oliver straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat. He hopped down to street level from the stoop, so he wouldn’t tower over Mrs. Arbuckle. An eddy of wind tumbled a desiccated leaf past and ruffled his hair.

  “Just lost in thought, Mrs. A,” Oliver said. Lost in town, too. He squinted at the mountains, which were in different orientation than the last time he’d been paying attention. Nor did he recognize the street. How far had he come in his red haze?

  This had happened a few times since his injury and he always found it disconcerting. He’d emerge from a state of emotional overwhelm and find himself in a strange location, with no recollection of having traveled there.

  Fortunately, given his visual problems, he’d been smart enough to put his car keys in his safety deposit box, so he’d never driven while in a fugue.

  Unfortunately, he also tended to shut down before gathering all available information, meaning he was prone to misreading situations.

  An image of Page’s guileless, laughing face flashed before him. When she’d thrown the baseball, he had assumed she’d joined the ranks of meddlers and manipulators in his life.

  What if he had misjudged her?

  “Your head is steaming,” Madeline said.

  Not surprising in the sub-zero weather. Oliver was plenty warm, too, though his coat was unfastened and his hands were bare. “I walk briskly. Do me a favor? Point me in the direction of the thrift store.”

  Her carefully groomed eyebrows arched. “What do you want with the Second Verse?”

  “I’m meeting Page.” Hopefully. Though that would depend on how much time had elapsed.

  He was feeling antsy and wanted to get moving, but Mrs. Arbuckle gave him a searching look that said he hadn’t fooled her. “It’s not my place to say anything, but I hope you haven’t been too hard on that girl again.”

  That makes two of us. Otherwise, he’d done Page a grave disservice.

  “She’s had a hard life,” Madeline said, “not to mention she nearly died a few days ago.”

  “Page talked to you about her past?” With Oliver she had been as tight-lipped as, well, Oliver.

  “A person senses these things. Just as I can tell you’re more troubled right now than you want to let on.”

  The restlessness increased. “About those directions…”

  “I can give them to you, but you’re a good three miles away.”

  He’d come that far under the heat of betrayal?

  “Or, if you’re in a hurry, you may share my cab. I’ll drop you on my way to the Thurston.” Mrs. Arbuckle gestured across the street, to a taxi idling outside the storefront for the Pampered Pooch. “John picks me up after Betty Jo’s grooming appointment.”

  “I accept.” Hoping he wasn’t being too obvious about his attempt to speed things along, Oliver seized Mrs. Arbuckle’s elbow on the pretext of escorting her over a patch of ice.

  “You don’t drive?” Oliver asked her, as the taxi driver exited the vehicle.

  “Why bother, when people like John take such good care of me? Right, John?”

  The driver had a craggy face that belonged in a Brooklyn cab. He nodded and took Betty Jo from Mrs. Arbuckle’s arms. “You got it, Mrs. A.”

  Oliver helped Mrs. Arbuckle into the front passenger seat while the driver fastened Betty Jo into her harness in the rear.

  Maybe one day, Oliver could feel similarly grateful about requiring a chauffeur. Right now, though, he couldn’t disappear down that particular whirlpool of regret. All that mattered was getting to Page. Hopefully the cabbie had the lead foot to match his New York face.

  * * *

  ✽

  When Oliver bounded into the store, both the manager and clerk were in the housewares section. The teen was manning a broom while the manager crouched, setting pieces of broken crockery into a large bin. When she saw Oliver, she rose, said something tersely to the teen, and bustled over.

  “Oh no you don’t.” The woman shook her head aggressively. Even the swish of her skirt signaled her disapproval. “There’ll be no repeat of what happened before. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Oliver put on his most placating expression and held up one hand while reaching for his wallet with the other. “I came to apologize for my behavior. What do I owe you?” He craned his neck around the store, looking for Page. The puppets and clothing remained on the hobby horse, undisturbed. There was no sign of their prospective owner.

  “The time to pay me was before you ran,” the manager said.

  “Fair enough. I deserve that.”

  Her mouth compressed when he peeled off a few fifties. “The young lady took care of it.”

  Oliver glanced at the manager’s name tag. “This is a non-profit, isn’t it, Michelle?”

  She nodded reluctantly.

  “Then accept this as a donation. Please.” When she remained unmoved, he toyed with the idea of saying the words that would win her forgiveness. But there was nothing he hated more than vomiting up his emotional baggage in public. Besides, if anyone was owed an explanation, it was Page.

  In any case, the manager’s hand came out without further coaxing and she opened the till to deposit the money. “Do you want a receipt?” Her tone implied he wouldn’t ask for one if he valued his life.

  “Not necessary. I’ll get out of your hair now.” Oliver backed toward the door. “By the way, the woman I was with earlier—when she left, did you see which way she was headed?”

  “No idea,” she said curtly.

  During Oliver’s interaction with the manager, the teenager had continued to sweep while clearly eavesdropping. She set her broom to the side. “Um… I might know where she is.”

  “Well?” the manager said as the teen hesitated. “Speak up, then.”

  The teenager interlaced her hands and twisted them. She winced. In a barely audible voice, looking at the manager rather than Oliver, she said, “I kinda sent her to the Wobbly Dog.”

  “April, you didn’t,” the manager exclaimed.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” the clerk burst out, dropping her arms, “but she said she needed money fast and it was the only place I could think of. She was totally desperate.”

  “What’s the Wobbly Dog?” Oliver asked. Given the manager’s dismay, he had a feeling he already knew.

  “If you want to do right by your friend,” the manager said, “I suggest you go find out. Now I’d like you to leave.”

  Once he had been ejected onto the street, Oliver zipped his jacket and hastened in the direction the manager indicated.

  How could he have let himself forget the big picture? What had h
e done?

  Page was alone in the world, without money or ID, and he’d fired her and run out on her like a madman. Even if she had been manipulating him, he should be shot for leaving her in such a vulnerable position.

  Then, too, he needed Page’s help. Oliver couldn’t manage the seniors on his own, not to mention he needed her help with the profiles.

  He had to get her back, if not for Shawn’s sake, then for the seniors’.

  And if it made Oliver happier to have her around, well, how exactly was that a problem?

  But before he could tell her any of this, before he could plead his case, he had to actually find Page.

  He dodged around a woman pushing a baby carriage and broke into a run.

  Chapter 11

  On the whole, the town of Harmony did its best to live up to its optimistic name. The streets were neatly plowed, the sidewalks free of snow and litter, the storefronts cheerful and labeled with lettered script. The mountain ranges on either side of the valley were snow-peaked and set off by attractive architecture. In summer, it was the kind of place where businesses set out tubs of petunias in coordinated colors. They probably even had block parties.

  The Wobbly Dog was where the fairytale fell apart.

  As Page stared at its sagging gutters and stucco exterior, she didn’t need to go inside to know the floors would be sticky and the glassware streaked.

  Why that should cause the sinking sensation in her chest, though, she couldn’t say.

  Why that should make her think of turning around and marching to the Thurston was even more baffling. But…in her mind’s eye, she could envision it with frightening clarity.

  She stared at the toes of her boots rather than in the direction of temptation.

  All she’d have to do was walk two blocks east, down Elk Street, and swing a right onto Railroad Avenue. Another block and she’d be at the front door of the Thurston. She’d march up the stairs to the second floor, tossing a smile at Gill and the front desk staff along the way.

  In the ballroom, it would take three seconds for a raft of oldsters to notice she was out of sorts. One of them—probably Mavis in her calm, competent manner—would pull Page aside. They’d discover she had been fired and was without means. Either they’d take up her case with Oliver or insist on loaning her money themselves.