by Linda Turner
When two days passed with no further word from him, she should have been relieved. She needed the time away from him to forget a kiss that never should have happened. In her wildest dreams, she never expected to miss him.
At first, she told herself it was just her imagination. How could you miss someone you barely knew? If she found herself thinking about him more than she should, it was just because she was reminded of him everywhere she looked. The computer and office equipment, most of the food in the refrigerator...all of it was his. Even the majority of telephone calls were for him. It was enough to drive a sane woman right over the edge.
Frustrated, she went out of her way to keep herself busy. When she wasn’t finishing up the paperwork Mitch had left for her, she was checking the references of the different contractors she was considering for the remodeling of the attic. And in between those tasks, she was running the Social Club, which had turned out to be more time-consuming than she’d anticipated. She had to chat with tenants who just wanted to visit, and she had to keep a close eye on the plumber replacing the pipes throughout the building. Then there was the questionnaire the city had sent to all tenants on the River Walk about the new noise ordinance. Just making sense of it was enough to give her a headache, but she thanked God for it. It was hard to think of Mitch when she was trying to comprehend legalese.
The evenings, however, were the most difficult. When the kids were in bed and she was alone with her typewriter in the kitchen, she should have been able to lose herself in her writing. But it was if he’d been waiting all day to slip into her thoughts, and the moment she sat still and relaxed, he pushed past the feeble barriers she’d erected to keep him out of her head. Suddenly he was there, taking up all her thoughts, and she couldn’t manage to string two sentences together without memories of him disturbing her. Disgusted, she put her typewriter away and finally called the one person she could count on to help her get her head on straight. Dana.
“Thank God!” her friend said the second she recognized her voice. “I’ve been worried sick about you! Where are you? Are you all right? If I hadn’t been tied up on a rush case for the district attorney’s office, I swear I would have come looking for you to shoot you! Don’t you know better than to disappear on people who care about you?”
“I’m sorry. I know I should have called. I’ve got to call the Mallorys, too—I’ll do that just as soon as I finish talking to you. I don’t know where the time went. It’s just been so hectic around here—”
“Here? Where’s here? Blast it, Phoebe, I want a phone number where I can reach you! I haven’t slept all week, wondering if you and the kids were in a shelter or out on the street, or what!”
Grinning, Phoebe chuckled. “We’re fine, Mother. In fact, things couldn’t be better. We’re right where I originally intended for us to be...at the Lone Star Social Club.”
“But...I thought the owner was only going to let you stay there a week.”
“He was, but you’re never going to believe what’s happened.” She told her then about Mitch’s job offer and her and the kids’ move into Alice’s apartment. “So you see,” she said, “you did all that worrying for nothing. I’ve got a job and a temporary place to live for now. All I have to do to make that permanent is to finish the remodeling of the attic ahead of schedule, and I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t be able to do that. Things couldn’t have worked out better if I’d written the script myself.”
Not quite convinced of that, Dana said, “I don’t know if I’d go that far. You don’t even know this Mitch character. What if he’s some kind of ax murderer or something?”
Well used to her friend’s suspicious mind, Phoebe laughed. “Then I’d be dead by now. He’s not an ax murderer, Dana.”
“How do you know? Did you check him out?”
“Of course not!”
“Why not?” Dana demanded. “This is the nineties, girlfriend, and there’s a lot of meanness out there. A woman can’t be too careful. Especially when she’s got two children to look out for.”
She had a point—Phoebe knew that. But her sense of fair play was outraged at the idea of investigating a man who had gone out of his way to help her. “But he’s been nothing but nice to us,” she argued. “And I do have some protective instincts. If he was a lowlife, I like to think I’d know it.”
“Scott was a lowlife,” she reminded her quietly. “And I hate to say I told you so, but everyone could see it but you. What if Mitch Ryan is another Scott?”
Instinctively, Phoebe rejected that. There was no way that Mitch was anything like Scott. Granted, they both were sharp, intelligent men with an air of power about them, but Scott was a user who would say anything, do anything, to get ahead. She knew it because he had used her. He’d started romancing her his first week on the job at Wainwright, and it wasn’t until six months later that she learned he was an industrial spy from Wainwright’s biggest competitor. He hadn’t wined and dined her and given her the rush because he fell in love with her; it was because as executive secretary to a vice president, she had security clearance. While she’d foolishly thought he was thinking of marriage, he was just hoping to charm her into helping him steal secrets from the company. Instead, she was the one who turned him in.
“I have nothing that Mitch Ryan could possibly want,” she told her friend. “And even if I did, he’s not Scott. He’s an ethical man who has no problem stating up front what he wants.”
“He’s an entrepreneur, Phoeb,” Dana reminded her. “That means he plays by his own rules. I don’t want to see you get hurt again. Let me do a background check. He’ll never know, and I’ll feel a lot better.”
Hesitating, Phoebe cringed at the thought. But Dana had a point. Scott had completely pulled the wool over her eyes. And she did have to protect the kids. Mitch might be everything he appeared to be, but she really did need to know for sure.
“All right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But I’m doing this under protest. God knows what I’m going to say to him if he finds out.”
“He won’t,” Dana assured her. “Just leave everything to me.”
Phoebe only snorted. That was easy for her to say. She wasn’t the one who was going to have to find a way to look him in the eye when he came home.
“Well, you were right. He’s not an ax murderer.”
Laughing at her friend’s greeting on Sunday night, Phoebe couldn’t help but be relieved. “I told you he was harmless.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Dana replied dryly. “He’s no Boy Scout. In fact, the man’s downright dangerous. And I’m not just talking about business, sweetie. He’s been involved with his share of women.”
Dana was nothing if not good at her job, and Phoebe didn’t doubt for a minute that if she asked, Dana could tell her anything she wanted to know about Mitch’s sex life, right down to what he liked to wear to bed. But that was information she was better off not knowing. “Spare me the details,” she said quickly, amused. “Of course he’s got women coming out the wazoo. He’s rich and good-looking. What’s not to like?”
“Oh, God, I was afraid you’d say that,” Dana groaned. “Damn it, Phoeb, don’t you dare tell me you’re falling for this guy! He’s trouble. You hear me? Everyone I talked to said he thinks love is a four-letter word. That might be fine for some women, but you still believe in fairy tales. I’m afraid he’s going to break your heart.”
“But I’m not even looking for a man. You know that.”
“And that’s when a woman usually finds one,” her friend retorted. “Just watch yourself, okay? I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Phoebe assured her that wasn’t going to happen. But long after she hung up, she couldn’t forget the taste and feel and heat of Mitch’s kiss. The time they’d spent apart had done nothing to lessen its impact.
She should have been worried sick about that, but Mitch soon proved to be the least of her problems. When Becky complained before bedtime about a stomachache, Phoebe just
assumed she’d eaten too much spaghetti at supper. She loved the stuff, especially with meatballs, and she’d had two big servings. Assuring her she’d feel better in the morning, she’d sent her to bed and decided to make it an early night herself. She’d hardly fallen asleep however, when Robby woke her with the disgusted announcement that Becky had just tossed her cookies.
Dazed and still half asleep, Phoebe frowned up at him in the darkness. “Cookies? What cookies?”
“She’s sick, Aunt Phoebe. She just threw up all over me!”
Alarmed, Phoebe threw off the covers and only just then heard the six-year-old retching in the bathroom. “Oh, God! I’m coming, honey! Just hold on.”
Spent, as pale as a ghost, Becky burst into tears at the sight of her. “I’m sorry, Aunt Phoebe! I didn’t mean to get sick. It just happened.”
“Shh. It’s okay, sweetheart,” she assured her as she grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet and quickly wet it in the sink. “I’m not mad at you. Of course you didn’t mean to get sick! You just ate too much at supper. Here, let’s wash your face and get you out of those pajamas and into some fresh ones.” Soothing her, she sat down on the wicker stool next to the claw-foot tub and pulled her onto her lap, only to frown in concern. “My, God, you’re burning up!”
Silent tears streaming down her face, Becky leaned weakly against her. “My head hurts. Can I go back to bed now?”
“In a minute, sweetie. First we need to clean you up, then change the sheets on your bed. Do you hurt anywhere else?”
She nodded glumly as Phoebe helped her out of her pajamas. “My tummy. It aches real bad.”
“I know, honey. It sounds like you’ve got a nasty old flu bug.”
Or a stomach virus or one of those twenty-four-hour things that kids always seemed to get and she didn’t know a thing about. Maybe she should call a doctor. But which one? She hadn’t gotten the kids a doctor yet since they hadn’t been sick since they’d come to live with her, and she could hardly call a strange pediatrician in the middle of the night. But she had to do something. Heat was radiating off Becky in waves, and she didn’t even have a thermometer to take her temperature.
“How about a bath, sweetie?” she suggested. “It’ll bring your temperature down and make you feel more comfortable. Then I’ll change the sheets on your bed and you can go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” she said weakly. “But can’t I have some Children’s Tylenol, too?”
Standing solemnly in the open doorway of the bathroom, Robby said quietly, “That’s what Mama always gave us when we were sick. She used to say it brought a fever down quicker than an ice storm.”
Her heart breaking at the wistfulness of his tone, Phoebe would have given just about anything at that moment to produce his mother for him. It was at times like this, when they had no one to turn to but an aunt they had barely begun to bond with that they had to miss her the most.
“Mama always knew just what to do, didn’t she? She may not be here to hold you, but she’s still watching out for you. I don’t have any Tylenol, but there must be an all-night pharmacy somewhere in town that delivers.” Quickly filling the bottom of the tub, she tested the water to make sure it wasn’t too cool, then turned back to Becky to help her into the tub. “Okay, sweetheart, in you go. Just sit in there for a minute and cool down while I call the pharmacy. Holler if you need me.”
Not only did she find an all-night pharmacy, but she was lucky enough to talk to a pharmacist who had children of her own and knew exactly what Phoebe was going through. “I know it’s unnerving, but these things usually aren’t as bad as they seem. Just keep her comfortable and give her plenty of fluids. The Tylenol will bring the fever down, and if you’re lucky, she’s over the worst of the vomiting. If it gets really bad, though, or her fever skyrockets, you might want to take her to the emergency room, but I doubt that that’ll be necessary. It sounds like the flu.”
“And I was just hoping she ate too much spaghetti for supper.”
The other woman laughed. “Sorry. No such luck. Not if she’s got a fever. And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but usually when one kid in the household comes down with this kind of garbage, the others do, too. So just get ready. Your nephew’s probably already got the bug in his system.”
Phoebe groaned at the thought. “Are you sure? He seems perfectly fine now.”
“Give it another twelve hours or so,” the pharmacist advised sagely. “With mine, it seems like the second one always waits until his brother is just beginning to feel better before he starts moaning and groaning and turning green.”
“But can’t I give him something now to prevent it?”
“Grape juice,” she said succinctly. “Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it’s worth a shot. And it wouldn’t hurt you to drink some yourself. You’re not immune just because you’re an adult, you know. If you’re not careful, the kids could be taking care of you.”
Phoebe doubted that—she was one of those disgustingly healthy people who never got sick—but she thanked her for her help and promised to try the grape juice. Leaving Robby to listen for the buzzer that signaled the delivery of the Tylenol, she quickly changed the bed sheets on both kids’ beds, since Becky had been sleeping on the top bed when she got sick. Phoebe then tossed the soiled sheets in the washing machine, and by the time she returned to the bathroom, Becky was noticeably cooler. But her head still ached and she complained that her stomach was hurting, and before the delivery boy arrived from the pharmacy, she was sick again.
After that, Phoebe lost track of time. She was able to convince Robby to drink a generous glass of grape juice and get him back in bed, but Becky was another matter. Her temperature started to rise again in spite of the Tylenol that Phoebe was finally able to get down her, and she just couldn’t seem to get comfortable. Phoebe tried rocking her, sponging her down, singing softly to her, but nothing seemed to help. When she finally fell asleep at three in the morning, it was more from exhaustion than anything Phoebe did to make her feel better.
So tired she could barely keep her eyes open, Phoebe never remembered crawling into bed. Then the phone rang three hours later and she jerked up with a start, her heart pounding. The new tenants in 2C had no hot water. Just barely managing to stifle a groan, Phoebe promised that the problem would be taken care of just as soon as she could get hold of the plumber. It wasn’t even six-thirty, and the day had begun.
After the night she’d had, Becky slept late—for which Phoebe was thankful—but Robby was fresh as a daisy and showed no sign of the bug that had knocked the stuffing out of his sister. He ate a full breakfast, chattered about a science project that was due Friday, and gave her a big hug before leaving for school with Mrs. Tucker, the neighbor across the hall who volunteered to give him a ride when Phoebe told her about Becky’s illness. He’d barely closed the door behind him when Becky woke up, burning with fever.
When Mitch walked into the apartment a little before noon, he was not in the best of moods. He was, in fact, coldly furious. His flying trip to Dallas had been too little, too late. Over the last few weeks, he’d been negotiating to buy a prime piece of real estate in Dallas. He’d thought he had it all but signed, sealed, and delivered. But while he was cooling his heels in San Antonio, he’d left Applebee a clear field to work his mischief. He’d snatched the deal right out from under him without even breaking a sweat, and no amount of wheeling and dealing on Mitch’s part had changed that.
Disgusted, he’d given serious consideration to calling Phoebe to tell her he wouldn’t be back. Applebee was going to eat him for lunch if he left town again, and only a fool would give the old goat that kind of opportunity. But the Social Club was his family’s legacy and he couldn’t leave anything as important as a remodeling job in the hands of a stranger. Even if that stranger was someone as dependable and efficient as Phoebe. And then there was Alice. He didn’t even want to think of facing her if something went wrong because he wasn’t where he’d promised to
be.
So he’d come back, but he wasn’t happy about it. Knowing Applebee, he’d started planning his next attack before Mitch’s plane had even left the ground.
Muttering curses at the thought, he headed straight for the computer and didn’t notice the condition of the apartment until he tripped over a pile of sheets by the entrance to the laundry room. Swearing, he glanced up and couldn’t believe his eyes. The place looked like it had been hit by a tornado. There were sheets and towels and dirty clothes piled everywhere, and the kitchen sink was full of dirty dishes.
“What the hell!”
What the devil was going on? he wondered, stunned. With all Phoebe had to do while he was gone, he’d known she’d be too busy with his work and the kids to do much else, but surely she’d at least had time to do the dishes and throw a few loads of clothes in the washing machine. From the looks of things, she hadn’t cleaned so much as a glass the entire time he was gone.
Scowling, he strode toward the small hall that led to the bedrooms, intending to find her and demand an explanation, but just then, she stepped out of the bedroom she shared with the kids, and the words died in his throat. Her hair was pinned haphazardly on top of her head, her face devoid of makeup. She wore jeans and a faded sweatshirt that hung almost to her knees, swallowing her slender form whole. Another time, she could have looked as young as Becky, but not today. There were dark circles under her eyes and exhaustion weighed down her narrow shoulders.
Alarmed, he started to reach for her, but she looked so tired, he was afraid she would crumble if he so much as touched her. “What is it?” he demanded hoarsely. “What’s wrong?”
“Becky has the flu,” she said tiredly. “I’m sorry the place is in such a mess, but she’s been so sick that I’ve hardly been out of her sight.”
“To hell with the apartment,” he growled. “How is she? Have you talked to a doctor?”
She nodded tiredly. “After she threw up for the fourth time, I called the emergency room at County General and was able to talk to a pediatrician. Evidently, there’s this really nasty twenty-four-hour thing going around, and poor Becky seems to have it. She’s not throwing up anymore, thank God, but the doctor said to expect the fever to last for at least another twelve hours. She’s sleeping now, but as long as she’s got fever, she’s contagious, so you might think about going to a hotel for the night. Believe me, this is something you don’t want to get.”
