Karen felt the phone buzz in her pocket, but she ignored it. At the next turn off, she pulled off the road and into an overpriced gas station. “Gotta fill up. You guys sit and talk happily.”
“Can I help?” Rod reached for the door.
“No, but thanks.”
“But—”
“Rod, don’t make me pull out the gun. Please.” Without another word, Karen stepped from the car and strode toward the door. Would he think of the incongruity of mentioning a gun while leaving them unguarded? Karen hoped not.
The moment she stepped inside the little store, she whipped out her phone and read the message. LEO DOWN. SAFE. GOT 4—MAYBE 5.
Good news. Would they see it as such, or would they only hear “injured” and miss that he would make it? Should she not tell them? The moment the thought formed, Karen dismissed it. Leo wouldn’t want that. If anything could make them change their minds about him, it needed to happen before placement—not after.
A new thought occurred to her as she slid twenty dollars across the counter. She paused before she left the building and sent a message. FIRST LASER TREATMENT ON NECK WHILE IN SURGERY?
After three attempts to get the pump to work, Karen rolled her eyes. Opening the back door, she beckoned Rod. “Don’t say anything. Just fix it.” As the door closed behind him, she decided perhaps the trouble could be fortuitous.
Rod shook his head. “I don’t think they’ve turned it on yet. Want me to ask?”
Karen shook her head. “Be right back. Stay there.”
“Like I have anywhere to go.”
When she returned, he’d already started the gas pumping. “Rod, I got word. It’s over.”
“And Leo?”
“Injured, but he’ll be fine after surgery.”
Rod frowned. “What kind of surgery?”
“Don’t know. They just said he was down. That means surgery ninety percent of the time.” She stepped closer. “Look, I don’t know how Allison will take it. Tell her before we take off or once we’re on the road?”
“Doesn’t matter. She’ll be fine. Even if she’s upset, she’ll be fine. That’s the best part of her faith.” Rod replaced the nozzle and closed the gas cap before he added. “I’m so thankful—to all of you. My family is safe. Leo is safe. This is over.”
She smiled. “That’s the best part.”
Ten miles down the road, Karen pulled out her phone, glanced at it, and stuck it back in her pocket. She smiled into the rearview mirror before she said, “It’s over.”
Allison sat upright. “What? They got—who’d they get?”
“Almost everyone.” Karen didn’t wait for Allison to ask. “Leo’s fine—injured but fine.”
“What happened?”
Karen heard what Allison’s parents didn’t. Panic. They considered their daughter unflappable—unshakeable. Allison hid it well, but the rigidity in her neck, the unwavering tone of her voice, and the way she folded her hands told Karen everything. “I don’t know. All I know is that he’s ‘down,’ which usually means surgery. But they also said ‘safe.’ That means it’s not life threatening.”
“Are we going to him?”
“Not yet.” There it was again—her rigidity. Karen hated to say it but necessity demanded it. “Trust me, Allison. We can’t risk it yet.
“But you’re sure he’ll be fine.”
“Positive. They never call safe unless they’re sure.”
Allison didn’t seem convinced. “But things could go wrong—things like infection or whatever.”
“Allison.” Rod’s low firm voice both calmed and unnerved Karen. What had it been like as a little girl to hear that voice when you knew you’d done wrong?
“You’re right. Sorry, Karen.” Allison gripped her pillow to her chest and closed her eyes.
Prayer. Did it really help Christians? They sure acted like it. Karen had one more bit of news to share. “I think they might do the first laser on his neck too—if they can get someone in there fast enough.”
Allison’s head shot up, tears filling her eyes. She turned in the seat and stared at her mother. “He might not look the same—not like my Leo.”
“But he’ll be the same, Alli-son,” Rod murmured. “That’s what matters.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The nurse again—Leo felt fingers checking his hands, arms, the bandage on his neck, his stitches. Each time someone entered the room, fear gripped his heart, twisting it until it grew cold. Without a second thought, his thumb slid over the PCA button. He waited, eyes still closed, for the numbing effects of the morphine drip to remove the pain and anxiety.
“Can you open your eyes for me, Leo?”
A lifetime of vile verbiage when faced with a situation he hated rose up within him, conquering him without the chance of a fight. Leo swore. Realization dawned and his eyes flew open. “Um, sorry.”
“It worked. I got them open.” The chocolate eyes of Gebru, the morning nurse, met his. The man grinned—always grinning. “How are you feeling this morning?”
“Like I got sliced and burned? Well,” Leo corrected, “I did until the latest round of pain medication kicked in. Now, not so bad.”
“I think they will take that away today,” Gebru remarked. “You haven’t used it much.”
“Have a holy horror of drugs.”
Gebru smiled. “That is good. I see many people become too fond of that little button.”
Not even forty-eight hours—it felt like a week. Were the Wahls safe? Allison? Did they get Jenk? The questions piled on him, one after another—questions he couldn’t ask. He couldn’t even ask if anyone had or would visit; they wouldn’t. No one but the man—Connors—would come.
As if the thought produced him, Mark Connors stepped into the room with another man behind him. “Leo? How are you doing today?”
“Doing okay…”
As Mark began to introduce Leo to his companion, Gebru ducked out of the room. “See you later. Call if you need me.”
Once the nurse stepped from the room, Leo turned to Mark. “How is Allison? Is she safe? What about—”
“They’re fine. Sean can’t tell you much yet, but he’s from the marshal’s office.”
They spoke at length. Most of what the men said fizzled out of Leo’s brain seconds after he responded to it. The drugs, the lack of sleep, the concern for Allison, and relief—oh, the relief that the ordeal was over—washed most comprehension from him. He slept.
Keith stood outside Erika’s door, phone in his hand. His thumb punched the send button. Even from the street, he could hear the faint sound of her ringtone. He nearly choked as he heard the distinctive opening notes of Sting’s “I’ll Be Watching You.”
“Keith!”
He chuckled. “Nice ringtone—appropriate.”
“Yeah, I thought it suited you. Of course, the guys at work—wait. How do you know what my ringtone is? Do they still monitor me?” The phone stayed silent as he gave her time to think about it. “You wouldn’t do that—not invade my privacy like that. Not if it wasn’t essential. How?”
His knock should have given him away, but Erika asked him to hold. “Someone’s at the doo—” She stared at him. “You—I can’t believe I fell for that.”
“Didn’t want to disappoint…”
Erika crossed her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. “That’ll depend, I suppose.”
“On what?”
“I think you forgot part of the scene I described.”
Keith shook his head. “No, I remember it quite well. The guy calls from the front step.” He waggled his phone. “Check.”
“And…”
“She answers the door and the phone almost simultaneously.” Keith crossed his arms over his chest in a perfect imitation of her stance. “Almost check. You were a bit slow on the answering the door part, but we can call it a check.”
“And…”
“I think the corny line came next.”
“Mmm hmm…”
Erika drummed her fingers on her arm.
“Um… I don’t suppose, ‘Here’s looking at you, kid’ counts?”
“No.”
He thought for a moment, before grinning. “Then perhaps you can help me choose. Will you have ‘Hear this now: I will always come for you,’ or ‘As you wish?’” At her smile, Keith added, “Corny line. Check.”
“And…”
Indecision rocked him. In the time it took for him to cradle her chin in his hand, he fought his conscience, his heart, and the idea that he would hurt her if he didn’t. She had said “amazing.” What did that mean? What defined it? Her eyes closed. She hesitated, and with that hesitation, Keith felt the lighthearted, romantic moment fracture. All doubts vanished.
He’d meant to keep it brief—gentle, tender, meaningful, but brief. He failed. Understanding shone in her eyes as Erika’s lashes rose and a smile formed on her lips. “Amazing kiss,” she whispered. “Check.”
“Double check.”
Erika’s voice shook with repressed emotion as she shook her head. “Only get a double check if I get a repeat performance.” She stepped back into the apartment, beckoning him to follow. “But um, I’d say we’d better save that for another day.”
Relief battled with disappointment as he stepped inside. The war ended in mutual surrender as his eyes rested on the open Bible on her couch. “Whatcha readin’?”
Her phone rang again—this time Louie Armstrong’s distinctive voice sang “What a Wonderful World.” Keith loved the electivity of it. Did she change them often on whims, or did she choose her “perfect” song for someone and stick with it? He’d never wanted to know those kinds of things about a woman, but he wanted to know more than about her. He wanted to know her.
“Hey, Mr. Moretti. Oh, that’s great, but I have a friend here. He’s probably hungry, so I’ll ha—hold on.” She leaned over and whispered, “Mr. Moretti made a roast. How do you feel about eating with the old guy?”
“Sure.”
Erika’s eyes lit up and she smiled. “Keith says roast sounds great. We’ll be right up. I’m warning you though. We might get into an argument about religion.”
She grabbed his hand and led him to the stairs. “He’s a nice old guy—always making me great food. You should taste his homemade ravioli—oh my g—oodness. Good stuff.”
At the top of the stairs, she knocked, waiting for the man to call out a welcome. Inside the warm kitchen, Keith felt as if he’d stepped into another world. The apartment downstairs had been modern with clean lines, high contrasts, and crisp colors. The upstairs, however, had that charm that can only come from an old house. He’d tried to replicate it in an apartment once—failed. Age does things to a home that imitation cannot.
“Love your house.”
Erika’s eyes slid sideways before she added, “It has that warmth you get in old buildings, doesn’t it?”
Mr. Moretti beamed. “Ah, you two are kind to an old man. I like my house. In it are all the little treasures that mark my life. Gabe didn’t like it—too messy, he said.”
Keith’s eyes traveled over the tarnished tin ceiling, the light fixtures that had once been the height of fashion, and the large china cabinet along one wall. For such an old home, despite the great quantity of bric-a-brac, Moretti kept the place very clean. “I think it’s a matter of taste. I bet there are some wonderful stories in this place.”
That sent the old man into rhapsodies about Erika’s great find of a boyfriend. Mr. Moretti grabbed the plates on the kitchen table and put them back in the cupboard. “We’ll eat in the dining room on Mama’s good plates. She would like that.”
Erika’s eyes widened, making Keith wonder how unusual such a move might be. Still, she carried plates and crystal glasses to the table—dishes without a single speck of dust on them that Keith could see. “How long have you lived here?”
“Mama and I moved here after we had been married five years. We saved, and saved until we had enough and then we moved in—living with crates for tables and chairs. The only furniture we owned was a battered wingback chair and a mattress—no springs.”
“But you had love, didn’t you?” Erika winked at Keith, hinting that she’d heard the story often.
“Yes we did. That was enough back then. Not like today when kids graduate from college and expect furniture nicer than what their parents can afford before they even land a job. We saved for a whole year before we could buy a bed frame and springs.”
“Tell him about the couch.” Erika grabbed trivets from the kitchen wall and set them on the tablecloth.
“Well, Mama was going to have the baby—it was Victor. She couldn’t stand for long there at the end, so I said we needed to find a couch because sitting made her ankles swell—oh, like an elephant they did. Every time I told her that I got kicked.” Mr. Moretti snickered. “But it made her feel good to kick me, so I said it.”
“Very dutiful husband,” Keith remarked as he accepted a bowl of potatoes and carrots and set them on the table.
“Yes, do take notes. Your wife will thank you.”
A sly smile formed on the old man’s lips, but he continued with his story. “Well, we went looking. Do you know how expensive couches were in the fifties? We had exactly one hundred twenty-five dollars that we could squeeze out of our savings and still be able to pay the bills for the baby. Store after store—we went all over Rockland. Found nothing we liked under one hundred thirty.” Mr. Moretti gestured for them to sit. “I’ll be honest,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I didn’t want to spend a hundred. I was tight-fisted back in those days.”
Erika snickered. “He got over it.”
Mr. Moretti gestured for them to sit. “Mama taught me well. ‘Tony,’ she’d say, ‘the money is good for saving for the future. I know. But we also have to live today.’”
“That is a very wise saying. I think I would have liked your wife,” Keith said as he passed the bowl of vegetables to Erika.
“Yes… people loved my Maria.” Mr. Moretti stared at his plate, his fork hovering over a potato. “Wha—oh, yes the couch. Well, we went into this one store and they had the strangest blue couch you ever saw—the color of a Tiffany’s box. Mama loved it. The price—one hundred fifty dollars. I tried to drag her out, but she sat down, tired from all the walking. The salesman came over with those little receipt books they used to carry. He told us how wonderful it was—all the latest styling and things like that. I told him, I said, “It’s too much money. Mama likes it, but I can’t afford it.”
“People today would have put it on a credit card without thinking twice,” Keith muttered.
“Yes. It’s a shame how much debt we have now. Anyway,” the man speared his potato and grinned. “Mama was shrewd—oh that woman could talk down a Je—oh, that isn’t something you say anymore. She was a good bargainer. Let’s leave it at that.” Mr. Moretti winked.
“I can’t bargain to save my life.” Erika admitted. “I feel guilty and end up paying more somehow.”
Keith snickered and exchanged knowing glances with their host. “I think Erika is a softie under her little black hair spikes.”
“You like my hair!”
He grinned. “I do. But you can’t deny they’re spikes. I just illustrated the contrast—”
“Tell him about the couch before he gets any weirder,” Erika insisted.
“Ahh… you remind me of me and my Maria. We used to joke like that all the time. People thought we were mad sometimes, but we never were. Where was I?” He frowned. “Oh, yes. The salesman. Poor man didn’t know he’d met his match. Maria gave me ‘the look.’ It was the one she used when she wanted me to keep quiet. So, I kept quiet.” Mr. Moretti winked at Keith. “Smart men know when to listen.”
“I agree.”
Erika groaned. “Okay, the mutual admiration society has now come to order. The next order of business? The couch!”
“So,” Mr. Moretti continued, “Mama began talking. She told him that she did
like the couch. It was comfortable enough, but the color! Oh, my the color! ‘How am I supposed to find furniture and papers to match such an awful color? It looks ridiculous! Sure, if the price were better, we could take it home and maybe make a cover for it, but not for a hundred fifty dollars!’ The man suggested special ordering it in any color she liked. Maria said no. ‘If I can’t afford one-fifty, how can I afford one-sixty? I’ll do without a couch before I pay that much money for one.”
“Let me guess,” Keith interjected. “She loved the color best of all.”
‘This one is smart, Erika. You don’t let him get away.”
“I’ll think about it,” Erika agreed. “Now go on. This is my favorite part.”
Mr. Moretti set down his fork. Grinning, he continued. “Oh, she found so many things wrong with the couch. The fabric quality seemed lacking in all the samples. The buttons—they would pop and then she would have a mess. Still, she said it was comfortable. And that had to be a positive thing. She asked me about the ‘other couch’—there was no other couch—and if I thought the fifty dollar price difference was worth a little more comfort because the fabric sure wasn’t.”
Keith snickered. He could hear the woman chattering away, wearing down the salesman with sheer verbiage. “Poor guy.”
“That’s exactly right!” Mr. Morietti exclaimed. “My words exactly. I told her we should go. We’d buy the other couch. It was a waste of money to buy one she didn’t even like just because it made her back feel better.” He winked. “Mama was proud of me for that one. Anyway, she struggled to stand—exaggerated greatly, I might add—and walked to the door. The man tried to show us other couches or convince us that the strange blue one was the best on the market. At the door, Mama turned to him and said, ‘I’ll give you one hundred dollars for that ugly thing—just because it’s the most comfortable one I’ve found yet. But you have to deliver it. Any time you want to sell it, you bring it on over to four thirteen Durmont. I’ll take it off your hands. We both know no one is going to buy that hideous blue for one-fifty.”
“Did it work?”
The man nodded. “We weren’t ten steps outside the door when the salesman called us back into the store. By the time I paid for it, he admitted he’d been trying to sell it for months, but no one liked the color—said he wanted to sell it and buy a nice gray one that people would like.”
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