I Think I Love You

by Stephanie Bond

  “Who would manufacture a two-foot lightbulb?” she asked, wiping down the novelty item.

  He shrugged. “Maybe it was for a World’s Fair or some kind of exhibition. Believe me, someone out there is looking for a two-foot lightbulb—we just have to make sure they know it’s here waiting for them.”

  “What do you think is the story behind the sign?”

  “A dance hall from the twenties, maybe?” He grinned, reached for her hand, and spun her close. “Do you dance?”

  “Not well,” she mumbled, suddenly tongue-tied at being up against him. Her body remembered this posture. Fondly.

  “That’s okay, because I’ll lead.”

  He moved into a light-hearted waltz, with impromptu turns and fancy hand-offs that required very little skill and movement on her part. But soon she was laughing so hard, she could barely catch her breath. “I’m getting lightheaded.”

  He stopped, concerned. “Do you need to sit down?”

  Their faces were inches apart, and they were both short of breath. Longing pooled in her stomach.

  He kissed her—a good-bye kiss, she realized. Firm and warm and flavored with powdered sugar. Bittersweet and fun and thanks-for-the-memories. She moved her mouth against his, memorizing the taste and feel of him. Suddenly Sam was at their knees, barking frantically.

  They parted and Mitchell frowned down. “What’s wrong, boy?”

  Sam barked again, looking back and forth between them.

  Mitchell grinned. “He’s getting protective—he thinks I’m hurting you.”

  She manufactured a smile, too, then squatted. “See, Sam? I’m perfectly intact.” She lifted her gaze to Mitchell to let him know, too, that he hadn’t broken any hearts in the vicinity.

  His expression was unreadable. A few seconds later, it was as if the kiss had never happened—at least for him. He walked over to wipe a layer of dust from the huge sign. “How long has it been since this thing was moved?”

  She straightened. “It’s been leaning against that wall for as long as I can remember. Want some help?”

  “No, I got it. Just want to take a look at the back to see if it has any identification marks.” With a low grunt, he scooted the massive sign out from the wall a few inches and peeked behind. “Hm.”

  “Hm, what?”

  “There are a few canvases back here, dusty as hell.” He pulled them out, seven in all, ranging from small to medium in size, all unframed. “Good shape, considering.” He blew the dust off one and uncovered a section of a still life. “Probably hobby stuff, but it looks like the kind of thing that people want to hang on their walls. Would you hand me that brush?”

  She did, and stood back as he gently removed over thirty years of dust from the stiff canvases. Sam sneezed a half-dozen times, then retreated for fresher air.

  Regina reached for Mitchell’s laptop and clicked on the fine arts category in the appraisal software, then tabbed down to the area where they’d listed the canvases they’d already processed.

  “Anything interesting?” she asked. When he didn’t answer, she looked up. His face was dirt-smudged. And set in a peculiar expression. “Mitchell?”

  He turned his head. “Remember when you asked me about the most remarkable find I’ve ever come across?”

  Her pulse picked up, and she nodded.

  “Well… don’t get your hopes up, but this either is a Frieseke or a very good copy.”

  She frowned and came to stand behind him. “Is that good? Fine art isn’t my forte.” The painting was small, about sixteen inches by twenty inches. A gardenscape. Very pretty but, to her untrained eye, unexceptional.

  “Frieseke is one of the few American impressionist painters to gain notability.”

  She tried to stay calm. “What year?”

  “He died in 1939. This is dated—” He pulled the canvas closer. “Nineteen twenty-nine.”

  “Okay,” she said calmly. “Let’s just say it is a Frieseke. What is it worth, ballpark?”

  “Ballpark, half a mil.”

  She nodded. “Would that be ‘mil’ as in ‘million’?”

  “It would be.”

  So, she thought later as Mitchell coaxed Sam into the back of the van before hitting the road to Orlando, at least his last day in Monroeville had ended on a high note.

  “The guy from Sotheby’s should be here tomorrow,” he said, then smiled. “But I’ll bet his coffee isn’t nearly as good as mine.”

  She laughed just as if he’d made the most hilarious joke. “Bye, Sam.” She reached inside and scratched the dog’s head, then looked at Mitchell. “And bye… you.”

  He studied her for a moment, then smiled wide. “Bye, you, too. It’s been fun.”

  “Yes,” she agreed as he climbed in and shut the door. “Fun.”

  He hesitated, then started the engine. “Stay in touch.”

  “Sure thing,” she said, just as if she had his phone or PO box number or any way at all to get in touch with him.

  He smiled and waved a cheerful good-bye, and she smiled and waved a cheerful good-bye, just as if she meant it. And she kept meaning it until his van was out of sight.

  Chapter 37

  DON’T swim in your troubles.

  “Watch out!”

  Regina and Justine looked up in time to each receive a faceful of water from Mica’s cannonball jump. They sputtered, and Mica came up laughing. Regina and Justine immediately dunked her under the cool creek water in retaliation, which descended into a lull-fledged squealing splash fest. Exhausted, they swam to the shallow end of the Dilly swimming hole, waded to the bank, and flopped down on their backs in the grass.

  “God, I’m so winded,” Regina said.

  “That’s because you’re old,” Justine said.

  “You’re older than I am.”

  “I’m old, too.”

  “I’m not old,” Mica said, which earned her groans and hisses.

  They lay under a sycamore tree, shaded from the blazing sun. They were healthy and together. Life was good.

  “I can’t believe Mom and Dad are going to be millionaires,” Justine said.

  “Well, not quite millionaires,” Regina said, “after they deduct the commissions and pay off their debts.”

  “Still,” Mica said. “Imagine that painting sitting in the shop all those years and no one knew it was worth a fortune.”

  Regina smiled—it was sort of like the massive slush pile of manuscripts back at her office.

  “Well, I think it’s hysterical,” Justine said, propping herself up on her elbow, “that the painting was under Dean’s nose all those years.”

  They laughed, and Regina was relieved that they could.

  “So, Justine,” Mica said slyly, “have you talked to your Officer Lando since he went back to Shively?”

  “He calls me occasionally,” she said in a noncommittal voice. “Just to keep me updated on Lisa Crane.”

  “He’ll have to come up with a different excuse when they find her,” Regina said.

  Justine frowned and picked a blade of grass. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “He’s crazy about you. And he’s cute.”

  She placed the blade between her thumbs and blew, to no avail. “I don’t date men who are cute.”

  “You might have to start,” Mica said, picking a blade of grass. She blew through her folded hands and produced a low whistle.

  Justine eyed her. “Speaking of cute, how is Everett surviving in LA without you?”

  Mica held her hands up to show Justine her technique. “He wants me to stay here while he lays a few plans to jump-start my career. Everett and I aren’t involved; we never were.”

  “He’d like to be,” Justine said, then blew. A squeak emerged.

  Mica ran her fingers through her short locks. “Everett is wonderful, and I think the world of him. But I’m going to enjoy being by myself for a long while.”

  “That’s all right,” Regina said. “He’s not going anywhere.” Unlike Mitchel
l. She closed her eyes briefly and willed the image of him from her mind. She had hoped that after four days, she would’ve at least forgotten the color of his eyes. Godiva brown, with hazelnut specks.

  “Have you heard from Mitchell?” Justine asked.

  Dear God, had she spoken aloud? “No. And I don’t expect to.”

  “Why not?” Justine coaxed another squeak through her hands. “I thought you two sort of hit it off, seeing as how he saved your ass and all.”

  “And I’m sure he can find plenty of girls in Florida who are a lot less trouble.”

  “Florida? Yeah, that’s for sure.”

  She frowned.

  “You like him, don’t you?” Mica asked.

  “I’m grateful for everything he did.”

  “We’re grateful,” Justine said. “I think you’re something else entirely.”

  She sat up. “My head is hurting. I think I’ll walk home.”

  “Liar,” Justine said, pushing to her feet. “But I’m ready to go, too.”

  “Me, too,” Mica said.

  They picked their way down the bank to where they’d left their clothes. She pulled her loose clothing on over her wet suit and pushed her feet into her tennis shoes. Her sisters did the same, and they set off for the walk home, a path they’d traveled hundreds of times.

  “You know,” Justine said, “you could always call him.”

  Regina looked over. “You mean me call Mitchell?”

  “Yes.”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s not like that between us. He’s a bona fide bachelor.”

  Mica grinned. “You are so in love with him.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Justine said. “You’re in love.”

  She squinted. “How did we get from ‘he’s a bona fide bachelor’ to ‘you’re in love’?”

  “You have that look,” Justine said. “Whenever we mention his name, as if you’re trying hard not to care.”

  “It’s awful, isn’t it?” Mica asked.

  “What?” Regina asked.

  “Being in love,” they said in unison.

  “I don’t feel that way about Mitchell Cooke,” she insisted carefully. Then she pressed her lips together. “But… for future reference… how do you know if you’re in love?” She felt both of them looking at her, so she shrugged. “I might use it in a book.”

  She got a shove and a laugh from both sides.

  “I’m serious—what made each of you think you were in love?”

  Justine and Mica exchanged glances, and she was afraid she’d broken the spell of easy camaraderie they had enjoyed over the past several days. But Justine hugged herself and got a dreamy look on her face. “I thought I was in love with Dean because he talked to me in the dark. Isn’t that crazy? But I thought it was so romantic. I didn’t realize that it was because he couldn’t communicate in the light of day.”

  Mica emitted a thoughtful sound. “I think I fell in love with Dean because he was the first man who treated me as if I mattered. And now I realize that he only treated me well at his convenience and when he thought it would result in more money in his pocket.”

  “But we were young,” Justine added. “I have a feeling the next time I fall in love, it won’t be the same.”

  “Right,” Mica said, her expression feathery. “I mean, I’ll probably still think of the person all the time.”

  “Uh-huh,” Justine said, equally preoccupied. “And everything will seem just a little… better when that person’s around.”

  “But not in a needy way.”

  “Exactly. Because you’ll have the impression that the person feels the same about you.”

  “That you offer something to complete that person’s life.”

  “And that you don’t have to talk all the time to know what the other person is thinking.”

  “And even though that person hasn’t touched you, you somehow just know the sex is going to be incredible.”

  Justine nodded. “Uh-hmm.”

  Mica nodded. “Uh-hmm.”

  Regina looked back and forth between them and refrained from snapping her fingers to bring them back from their reverie. Justine seemed to come around first.

  “That is… if I ever fall in love again.”

  “Right,” Mica said, nodding. “Me, too.”

  Regina smiled and hooked her arms in theirs. “Well, if either of you ever fall in love again, I hope you’ll keep me posted.”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” Justine said.

  “Absolutely,” Mica said.

  They walked home leisurely, enjoying the lush scenery. When they reached the Doll, John and Cissy were sitting on the front porch, holding hands. Their mother fairly glowed. “We have news,” she said.

  Justine and Mica claimed chairs. Regina lowered herself to the front step. “What?”

  “Well—” Cissy glanced at John, then back. “Your father and I are getting married.”

  Her sisters exclaimed and jumped to their feet to embrace their parents, but Regina simply smiled and propped her chin in her hand to take in the flurry of activity. She shook her head, marveling at her new-and-improved family.

  Warmth swelled her chest. The people she belonged to did care about her and one another after all. She leaned back against the column to release thirty-four years of yearning into the air with a long, happy sigh.

  Chapter 38

  DO revisit the scene of the crime.

  Justine gripped the back of the chair in front of her as she glanced around the meeting room. “I’d like to thank Terri Birch for putting together this meeting, and I’d like to thank each of you for taking time out of your busy day to attend on such short notice.”

  Pensive faces stared back at her. Everyone in the room was remembering two weeks ago when Lisa Crane had stormed the meeting and started firing. The image was vivid in Justine’s mind, too, and they all kept looking toward the door, as if the gunwoman, who was still at large, might reappear.

  Justine gestured toward the young woman seated on her right. “I would especially like to publicly thank Bobbie Donetti for her heroics on the last day we were together, and for very likely saving my life.”

  Bobbie, sporting a sling, nodded demurely.

  Justine cleared her throat “I realize that I haven’t been the easiest person to work with over the years. I thought to be successful and to have the things that I wanted, I had to grab onto power and guard it. Over the past couple of weeks…” She gave them a wry smile. “Let’s just say that my priorities have changed.”

  She took a deep breath into the silence. “I don’t know what my future holds here at Cocoon, but I hope I have the chance to work with each of you again to repair any damage I’ve caused. Thank you for hearing me out.” She gathered her purse and left the room, shoulders straight, chin high. She said hello to the secretary outside the door, who seemed surprised that she was acknowledged.

  Justine was halfway down the hall when she heard a voice behind her.

  “Justine.”

  She turned to see Terri Birch striding toward her. “Thanks again, Terri, for setting up the meeting.”

  “You’re welcome. The oversight committee will be meeting tomorrow morning.” She extended a small smile. “Based on what I’ve just seen, I think it would be safe to say we’ll find a place for you here. At a level that will keep you close to your current salary range.”

  Justine nodded. “You’re very generous, Terri.”

  “Despite some of your tactics, you’ve done some wonderful things for the company. We need you here.”

  “Thank you. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”

  Justine left the building with a curious sense of detachment. If she’d learned anything over the past few days, she’d learned that in the scheme of her life, relationships mattered most. Even if she was fired, she’d find her way. She’d put her mistakes behind her and move on.

 
Her next stop was at the city hall building to meet with her probation officer—according to Lando, a year’s probation for mucking up Dean’s murder scene was fair. The woman she would be reporting to over the next twelve months seemed nice enough but harried and overworked. Justine offered to give her a makeover on her next visit and left humming an old song.

  Humming, for God’s sake.

  She walked back down to the first floor, which housed the police department, and asked for Officer Lando. The man at the front desk covered the phone with his hand and gave her directions. She wound her way through hallways and bullpens to the general area, then asked someone else for Lando’s whereabouts. He pointed to a far corner. Lando sat hunched over a tiny typewriter and, from the scowl on his face, was not hitting the keys he’d intended.

  “Hello,” she said.

  He turned around and the scowl dropped from his face. “Hello. You’re back.”

  She nodded. “And my plant is still alive.”

  He stood and smiled. “That’s a good sign.”

  “I came to talk to you about Lisa Crane.”

  His expression turned stoic. “Oh. Okay. Do you want to sit?”

  She shook her head. “I have an idea where she might be.”

  “Where?”

  “I’ll ride with you.”

  “I can’t let you go on a police call.”

  She turned to go. “Then I’ll go by myself.”

  Behind her, he sighed. “Wait up. I’ll drive.”

  A few minutes later, she sat in the passenger seat of his cruiser and gave directions.

  He looked up at the budding she indicated before pulling into the parking lot. “The Rosewood Hotel?”

  She shrugged. “Just a hunch.” If Lisa Crane had found her husband’s hotel receipts, then it was possible that, just as she had wanted to relive her wedding day, Mrs. Crane might also have felt compelled to visit “the scene of the crime.”

  They walked into the lobby and she smiled at the male desk clerk. “Can you tell me if Room 410 is occupied?” Lando backed her up with a badge flash.

  The man checked a computer screen. “That room is unavailable. A homeless person broke in the week before last and set a fire. The damage was nominal, but we’re waiting to have the room professionally cleaned before we reopen it to guests.”