by J. D. Robb
Magic.
Then, even before that word solidified in her mind, his eyes turned Vivid Clover Green.
She gasped and her heart went wild. Her brain telegraphed her muscles to jump and run; her nerve endings sputtered in response. Deeply alarmed, she turned to those behind her for help. They sat placidly, their expressions emphatically kind and benevolent toward her—but not one of them seemed to notice the man with her, much less his kaleidoscope eyes.
The urge to scream swelled in her throat.
Wait! Wait! Eyes don’t change colors. Dad’s viewing . . . don’t make a scene. Maybe his eye trick is a trick of the eye . . . the dim lighting in here sucks . . . I didn’t sleep well last night . . . I could be mistaken . . . Oh, God, let me be mistaken.
Sure enough, when she could look at him again, his eyes were the same mesmerizing blue as before.
She nearly fainted with relief.
He gave her a small, understanding smile. No. More than that . . . His tender expression seemed to be telling her that he not only understood but also knew what she was feeling. He’d startled her, and he was sorry. But that wasn’t all. He felt all of it. He, too, was enduring the same sadness, the loneliness, the sense of loss and being lost that she was suffering.
Impossible. Irrational. Yet, for some strange, amazing reason, she believed him.
Maybe she just wanted to believe him.
Either way, he touched something inside her. Touched and coddled it. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so . . . warmly connected to someone on so short an acquaintance.
Not even an acquaintance really, she realized, her mind scrambling for something to say to him.
“Hi.” He spoke in a soft, deep whisper that tickled her in very odd places.
“Hi.”
“It’s good to be back.”
Back from . . . Mars? Before she could think of a better way to ask him, he gave her an amused you-silly-rabbit look and sat next to her. The sleeve of his tacky black jacket brushed the sleeve of her black blazer and she imagined a comforting warmth penetrating the right side of her body. He smelled of fir trees, spicy cider and warm vanilla.
Christmas.
They looked at one another and exchanged shy smiles.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“No. I’m sorry, I don’t. All—although you do look somewhat familiar. Except for the . . . ah . . .” Perhaps the less attention she gave his attire the better, for both of them. “Did you know my father well?”
“I knew him as well as you did. Maybe a little better, since my memory is longer.”
“Are you a relative, then?”
“Not exactly.”
“A close friend?”
“Of yours, yes.” He was a friend of hers? Her cheeks grew numb as blood drained from her face and her heart struggled to handle the extra load. From where? From when? How could she have forgotten him? No, no! She did not know this man. And she was just about to tell him so when he added, “Strange, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“That it doesn’t really matter if someone dies quickly like your mother did, in the accident, or slips away slowly over several years, you’re never really ready when it happens, are you? And the hurt is just the same.”
She gave a slight nod and looked away, feeling overexposed by his innocent observation. She’d been trying to tell herself that very thing, trying to rationalize the overwhelming sense of being selfish and weak and cruel every time she wished her father back alive, knowing all the pain he’d suffered the last two years. A good daughter would set him free, feel his relief and be grateful for it. Wouldn’t she?
A good daughter would also miss him.
She did miss him. Desperately. Though she hadn’t thought of it that way before—missing him. It wasn’t the same as wishing him back. Missing him was just . . . missing him, feeling the aching void of him in her life. Nothing weak or mean about that. That was just human.
She caught the strange man nodding in her peripheral vision and slanted her eyes toward him. There was a closed-lip smile on his face and an air of satisfaction as he angled one scarlet-shoed foot across a silver-coated thigh and settled himself more comfortably.
“I’m sorry, but where do I know you from? How do I know you?”
“It’ll come to you.” He looked at her then with genuine fondness. She felt a dither near her diaphragm, recognized the tug of attraction and wanted to laugh. Hysterically. Married men, gay men and now lunatics—her dating pool was nearly complete. Of course, if he was also a stone-cold killer, he would top it off nicely. She shook her head slightly. How could she have forgotten someone like him? He leaned close and murmured, “We can talk about all that later. For now, let’s just sit here together and remember him. He was a fine old gentleman.”
She was certain he didn’t belong. He was a stranger—very likely an unhinged stranger escaped from a local facility—but she was struck once again by how much she loathed sitting in the front row all alone, the last of the Gibsons, the sole survivor, the only one left.
There was plenty of room and he wasn’t hurting anyone by being there. And truth be told, she found his presence beside her as consoling as it was disconcerting.
Her gaze returned to the pattern on the rug three feet in front of her. She sighed and began to feel calm and content for the first time in . . . a really long time. When he reached over to gently pat her thigh, she found it reassuring, not forward or offensive at all. Soothing. Relaxing.
She judged him to be about her age. As bizarrely dressed as he was, and as unconcerned as he seemed about exposing his emotions, there was a part of her that admired his spirit and bravery. Envied him, really. He was extreme, unquestionably. Deranged, perhaps. But at least he wasn’t afraid to express himself, to stand out, to do what he wanted to do.
She couldn’t recall the last time she’d made a major life decision on her own and stuck to it. From the day she was born, late in her parents’ lives, until this very moment, everything had been lovingly planned and laid out for her. It was assumed that she would set her feet into the trail of prints they left for her, step after step, and she had. Now here she was, almost thirty years old, living the life her parents had chosen for themselves, and not at all the woman she once dreamed of becoming.
She wore her long mousey brown hair in a simple knot or a ponytail at the back of her head for convenience. Her clothes were neat and functional rather than trendy and attractive. Makeup was a bother she didn’t bother with. She had her father’s short thin nose, her mother’s full lips, and moss-colored, almond-shaped eyes—a gene from her grandmother Gibson, whom she’d never met. All fine donations, but in the end, all they added up to was plain. Charlotte was plain. It wasn’t what she set out to be but—
She jumped when she felt a heavy hand on her left shoulder, and was surprised to see Mr. Robins standing beside her chair. He was a tall somber man who couldn’t have looked more like a mortician if he tried.
He bent at the waist and murmured, “Charlotte. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh. No. I was just . . .” Had he come to ask her new friend to leave? It was undoubtedly for the best, but she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. The man was such a kind, gentle soul. She hoped there wouldn’t be a scene as she envisioned the funeral director dragging him, kicking and screaming, from the room in his absurd outfit—ruby shoes flailing, giant jacket hiked up over the football pants, legs straining therein. “He isn’t disturbing anything, is he?”
Mr. Robins glanced at her father’s coffin. “No, of course not. And there’s still plenty of time if you’re expecting more people.”
“More people?” She hadn’t expected this many people. “No. I think . . . I think this is about it. Has it been two hours already?”
“Almost. But if you’d like more time—”
“No. God, no.” She cut him off and snatched up her purse. “I’ve had plenty of time. Thank you so much for everything you’v
e done. You’ve been very kind.”
“Not at all. Everything has been arranged for the graveside service in the morning, just as we discussed.”
“Nine o’clock, right?” She stood up.
“Our car will pick you up at 8:30 sharp.”
“Great.” She hesitated. “Should we call someone—” She turned and discovered that her peculiar companion had already left his seat. She glanced around looking for him. “Did you see which way he went? It might not be safe for him to be wandering around on his own.”
“Who?”
“That guy who was sitting here.”
“I’m sorry. I just came in. I didn’t see anyone leave.”
“No, he was there a minute ago . . . when you first came up.”
He smiled tolerantly. “You were deep in thought. Perhaps you didn’t notice when he left.”
She stared at the empty chair. Maybe it was just as well that he’d slipped out undetected. She disliked the idea of him locked up somewhere. She thought of electroshock therapy and shuddered. But he was so sweet and friendly and the world could be a terrible place for people like that. She hoped he would be all right.
Mr. Robins was looking at her askance.
“You’re probably right. It’s been a strange few days.”
Two
The days got stranger as the week wore on.
Learning that Mrs. Kludinski and Martha White were planning to attend the graveside ceremony as well, Charlotte invited them to ride in the family limousine with her. In fact, she was prepared to beg them to join her rather than take the sad, solemn ride to and from the cemetery alone—but it hadn’t been necessary.
Like most Seattle days it was cloudy and overcast, the early spring wind was still winter chilly. The service was short and dignified . . . like Dad, she thought, in a moment of light nostalgia. She thought back to her seventeenth birthday and her father’s tradition of marking her height on the bright yellow wall behind the kitchen door. It surprised him and delighted her to discover they were both 5 feet 7 inches tall, and in a rare display of vanity, he’d stretched and wiggled and hyper-extended his spine a quarter of an inch up the wall to top her—then asked her please to stop growing. An inch later she did, though the marks on the wall never changed.
They were leaving the cemetery when she saw the peculiar man again. Dressed as he was in the same outrageous outfit, how could she miss him? He stood beside an angelic head stone and waved as the limo passed by.
“Stop! Please stop,” she called to the driver. “He’s missed the service.”
“Who?” Elderly Mrs. Kludinski and Martha craned their necks to look out every window in every direction. “Who missed the service? I don’t see anyone.”
“That man standing over there by the angel.” She made a vague gesture with her head as she scrambled closer to the door, waiting for the long black Cadillac to come to a complete stop before getting out. “I’m pretty sure I don’t know who he is, but if he walked here I want to make sure he can get back to . . . to wherever he came from. He was at the viewing yesterday, remember? He sat with me?”
She glanced over in time to see the exchange of confused frowns.
“Nice-looking man? About my age? Wearing that weird black jacket?” She was reluctant to use the kicker but she would if they didn’t stop staring at her like that. “Big, sparkling red shoes?”
“Are you feeling nauseated, dear?” Mrs. Kludinski was all concern. “Dizzy? Let’s roll down the windows and get some air in here, shall we?”
Frustrated, Charlotte twisted around in her seat to look through the rear window, straight back to the stone angel, its hands extended in welcome, wings poised for flight—but there was no tall, handsome man in big red shoes. A hard, painful knot of anxiety formed just below her sternum as she got out of the limo. He was nowhere in sight.
And yes, she did feel a little sick about it.
He crossed her mind again two nights later as she sat alone at a table for two eating an early dinner in her father’s favorite Italian restaurant just down the street from their apartment.
No, it was her apartment now.
She hadn’t taken more than two bites when she glanced up and saw the bizarre man in the window, looking in longingly at her favorite scaloppini.
Thrilled, but mostly astounded to see him there, she sucked in a sharp breath and choked on a small piece of shrimp—coughing and hacking and beating her own chest. When she could breathe again and focus beyond the tears in her eyes, he was gone again.
It didn’t occur to her until late the next afternoon that he might be . . . well . . . stalking her. It wasn’t something she normally worried about. She wasn’t rich or beautiful—there were whole days, in fact, when she suspected she was invisible to the human eye. What could be safer?
But all that changed as she sat in the narrow, second-story office of Chancellor’s Furniture Store, downloading the last of the month’s sales invoices off a tediously slow computer. It had been raining off and on all day, and she glanced out the small pane–window to see which it was, on or off.
It was gloomy and bleak and the street lights glowed in soft pools along the sidewalks below. In the pool directly across from the store, the pale light ricocheted off a very large pair of ruby slippers.
He leaned against the lamp post, as if waiting for a bus, but came to attention when he saw her looking down at him. He waved wildly and flashed a wide white grin. He looked delighted to see her. She felt a little delighted herself.
Still, the coincidence of him showing up at her father’s viewing and funeral, then their favorite restaurant, and now outside a client’s business were adding up. And not looking good.
But, weren’t stalkers more stealthy than this? Considerably less obvious? Shouldn’t she feel him watching her, not see him everywhere? And where were his keepers? Surely he’d been missed by now at whatever facility he’d escaped from. Shouldn’t there be people out looking for him?
How could anyone miss seeing him, she wondered, observing the absolute indifference to him in the other pedestrians. Seattle was not an indifferent town. Big and busy, yes, but the absurd and outrageous still turned heads. Her heart twisted at the thought that she might be the only one watching this poor, unfortunate man slipping through the cracks of society.
She did have the good sense to be afraid of his sudden attachment to her . . . or would have had it, if he exuded even the mildest wave of rancor or aggression. But the plain fact was, he didn’t. Approachability, congeniality and kindness. She sensed these things about him—along with a faint underlying familiarity.
The real problem was that even if he weren’t dressed like a clown, even if he seemed like the most normal guy in the world, she still wouldn’t know what to do about him. More to the point, what she should do about his perplexing interest in her. She wasn’t great with men. He clearly needed a friend and for some reason he’d chosen her, but . . . wouldn’t the best and kindest thing for her to do for him be to call the authorities, get him the help he so obviously needed?
“Charlotte?” She turned from the window as Henry Chancellor entered his office with two styrofoam cups of coffee. “Am I too late? Are you finished? You take yours black, don’t you?”
She nodded and took the cup he handed her. “I just finished. You need a new computer up here, Henry.”
“I know. The newer ones downstairs are much faster but . . . I know this one.”
Comfort in familiarity, she’d invented the concept. “I need the social security number for the new mover you hired. But I have everything else I need for this month. Looks like your Beat the Bunny Pre-Easter sale did very well.”
“It’s the season. By the end of March people have forgotten how expensive Christmas was, they’ve spent the whole gloomy wet winter indoors with their furniture, so they’re ready to buy new in the first light of spring. And don’t worry about the boy. He’s my wife’s nephew. I hired him for the month, for the sale. Friday is his last
day. He needed to earn some extra money. I’ve been paying him out of petty cash.” He held up a hand to keep her from speaking. “And, yes, I wrote it down for you.”
He started to cross behind her to a stack of papers on the far side of the desk, but she stood quickly and put her back to the window, giving him his place at his desk—and blocking his view of the street below.
“He wants to take his girlfriend to the prom in a limousine. Ah, here it is.” He ripped off the top sheet of a note pad and handed it to her over his shoulder, waiting for her to walk around him, so he could lean back. But if she did that, he could see out the window. He scooted his chair forward, adding more room to the already adequate space for her to move around him. She glanced over her shoulder to the street and the man waved at her to come down to him. “Can you get through back there?”
“Oh. Yes. I just . . .” She’d have to distract him. She leaned down and picked up her brief case. “I was just thinking that I didn’t go to my prom. Did you?”
He swiveled his chair to the left, away from the window, and smiled nostalgically. “I took my wife, as a matter of fact. My father lent me his 1959 Chevy Belair, and she was the prettiest one there.” She smiled at the warmth in his voice. “My wife, that is . . . although that Chevy was something to look at, too.” She laughed, as he’d hoped she would, and then he narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you have a moment to talk, Charlotte?”
She glanced at the window, at the coffee in her hand, then back at him. “Sure.”
He waited for her to sit in the empty chair beside his desk, keeping his back to the window. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your father.”
“Thank you.”
“Will you be all right? Businesswise? I know he had a great many clients. Will you be adding them to yours, or won’t you have time for them?”
“Oh.” She was anxious to get away—hoping her strange friend wouldn’t wander off before she could get to him, then hoping he would. “I’ll keep some of them. There are several companies that he started with as small businesses, they grew, and he stayed with them. They took up a lot of his time. A lot of my time, too, recently. But they should have their own in-house accountants now. I’ll weed those out and keep most of the smaller businesses. The next few months will be a little hectic but it should work out fine.”
