The Search

by Nora Roberts

  “Hey.” He stared at the open drawer, shook his head.

  “I’ve already spent most of the time I have talking to the delightful Fiona. I don’t have much left for you.”

  “You should’ve called my cell. Some of us work for a living.”

  “I did call your cell.”

  “Well, I was working for a living.” He opened the fridge, pulled out a Coke. “Everything good?”

  “Everything’s very good. Simon, you’re living with a woman.”

  “You’re not going to send a priest, are you?”

  Her laugh rolled through the earpiece. “On the contrary, I’m pleased with this new step.”

  “It’s just a thing because of that other business.”

  “She thinks you’re wonderful, generous, supportive and patient.” Julie waited a beat. “Yes, I was speechless, too. Do you know what I see, Simon, with my mother’s super-vision?”

  “What?”

  “I see some rough edges smoothing out.”

  “You’re asking for it, Julie Lynne.”

  “When I ask for it, I get it. We’re good at that, aren’t we?”

  Amused, he took a swig of Coke. “I guess we are.”

  “I like the tone of your voice when you talk about her. And that’s all I’m saying about it. For now.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ll give you good, good and proper next time I see you. Do something for me, Simon.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Be careful. You’re the only second son I have. Take care of your Fiona, but be careful.”

  “I can do that. Don’t worry, Ma. Please.”

  “Now that’s a useless request for a mother. I have to go. I have more important things to do than talk to you.”

  “Same goes.”

  “You were always a difficult child. I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Same to Dad. Bye.” He hung up, took another swig of Coke. “You’re organizing my kitchen drawers.”

  “Yes. You’re free to disorganize them at your whim and will. But doing this keeps me sane. And you made the clever dividers.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I enjoyed talking to your mother. I like the way you sound when you talk to her.”

  Brow creasing, he lowered the bottle. “What is this?”

  “What’s what?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if the rottweiler bit you in the ass.”

  “He did not bite me in the ass or anywhere else.”

  “I’ll check it out later.” He pulled open a drawer at random. “Jesus, Fiona, you lined them.”

  “I’m so ashamed.”

  “Let me point out, neither of us actually cooks, so what’s the point of having lined, divided, organized kitchen drawers?”

  “To be able to find things, whether or not you use them. And what’s the point of having all these things in the first place if you don’t cook?”

  “I wouldn’t have all this junk if my mother didn’t . . . never mind that either.”

  “I can jumble everything up again if it makes you feel better.”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  And she grinned at him, quick and fun. “I’m going to do the cabinets, too. You can just consider it my little hobby.”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to put things back where you think they belong.”

  “See, look how well we understand each other.”

  “You’re sneaky, and don’t think I don’t know it. I grew up with sneaky.”

  “I got that impression.”

  “That’s the problem. You’re not like her, but you are.”

  “How about if I tell you I also understand you’re not really stewing about me organizing the kitchen drawers, but trying to gauge whether this is a prelude to me trying to organize your life.”

  “Okay.”

  “And in the spirit of why fuck around with it, I’ll tell you straight I can’t promise I won’t try, at least in some areas, to do just that. I like to think I know when to back off, give up or adjust, but that doesn’t mean I won’t irritate you with my deadly sense of order. At the same time”—she held up a finger before he could interrupt—“I think I get that at least part of your creativity feeds on disorder. I don’t understand it, but I get it. Which doesn’t mean that your apparently innate messiness won’t irritate me occasionally.”

  He felt, tidily, put in his place. “I guess that’s supposed to be logical.”

  “It is logical. And I’ll tell you something else. The occasional irritation works well for me as a distraction. But then it just fades. I don’t hold irritable well for long under most circumstances. But under the current? There’s just too much that’s bigger to worry about than whether or not you put the corkscrew back in the right drawer or kick your dirty socks under the bed.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Good. I want to get in a workout. Is it okay if I use your stuff ?”

  “You don’t have to ask.” Frustrated, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t ask me things like that.”

  “I don’t know where your boundaries are yet, Simon, so I have to ask or . . .” She closed the drawer he’d neglected to. “I’ll cross over them.” Then she stepped toward him, cupped his face. “I don’t mind asking, and I can handle no.”

  When she walked out, he stayed where he was, hands in pockets, frowning after her.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  He couldn’t figure out if they were fighting. Nothing ever seemed to fall into the nice clear areas of black or white with Fiona—and that drove him a little bit crazy. Because it fascinated him every bit as much as it frustrated him.

  If he knew she was pissed and in fighting mode, he could gear up for it, wade into it or ignore it. But the uncertainty kept him off balance.

  “That’s her point, isn’t it?” He wandered outside with the dogs. “I’m thinking about it, and her, because I don’t know. It’s fucking devious.”

  He frowned at the back of his house. He could pick out the windows she’d washed. She hadn’t gotten to them all, he thought, but she would. Oh, yes, she would. Where the hell did she find the time? Did she get up in the middle of the damn night with a bottle of freaking Windex?

  Now, with the way the sun glinted off clean glass, he couldn’t ignore the dull, weathered paint on the window trim. And just when was he supposed to find the time to paint the freaking window trim, which means painting the door trim?

  And once he painted the trim, he knew damn well he’d have to paint the goddamn porches or they’d look like crap.

  “It was fine before she cleaned the damn windows, and I’d have gotten to it sooner or later. Go up.”

  At the command, Jaws cheerfully climbed the ladder of the slide and trotted down again with a hand signal. Simon gave the dog a treat, then repeated the skill a couple of times before moving to the teeter-totter.

  The other dogs climbed, tunneled, jumped and navigated on their own, using the training equipment as enthusiastically as kids use a playground in the park.

  Simon glanced over as Bogart barked, then watched as the Lab picked his way agilely over a length of board no wider than a gymnast’s balance beam.

  “Show-off. You can do that.” Simon gave Jaws a pat on the head. “Go on up there and do that. What are you, a pussy?” He led the dog over, surveyed the beam. “It’s not that high. You can get up there.” Simon patted the beam. “Go up!”

  Jaws gathered himself, then plopped his ass down. He gave the beam and Simon a look that clearly said, What the fuck?

  “Don’t embarrass me in front of these guys. I’m spotting you, aren’t I? Up!”

  Jaws angled his head, then his ears pricked when Simon took out a treat and set it on the beam.

  “You want it? Come get it. Up!”

  Jaws made the jump, scrabbled for purchase, then dropped off the other side.

  “He meant to do that.
” Simon gave the other dogs a cool stare, then leaned down close to Jaws. “You meant to do that. That’s your story. Let’s try it again.”

  It took a few attempts, and a human demonstration Simon was grateful no one could see, but Jaws finally managed a landing.

  “All right, fucking A. Now you’ve got to walk. Let’s walk.” He took out another treat, held it just out of reach until Jaws picked his way to the end of the beam. “Yeah, look at you. Circus Dog.”

  Ridiculously pleased, he got down to give Jaws a full-body rub. “Let’s do it again. I’d give that one an eight-point-five. We’re going for the perfect ten.”

  He spent the next ten minutes working on the skill, perfecting it before indulging in a wrestling contest in which he was outnumbered four to one. “She’s not the only one who can train. We got that one down, didn’t we? We—Well, shit.”

  He shoved to his feet as it hit him. He was playing with dogs, working with dogs. He carried dog cookies in his pocket as habitually as loose change and his Leatherman. He was thinking about what color to paint his exterior trim and porches.

  He’d made organizers for his kitchen drawers.

  “This,” he said with feeling, “is nuts.”

  He strode to the house. Boundaries? She didn’t know where his boundaries were? Well, she was about to find out.

  He wasn’t going to be maneuvered and manipulated, and trained to be something he wasn’t.

  There, he thought, was the black and the white.

  He could hear her, breathing hard, as he stomped up the steps. Good, he thought, maybe the workout had worn her out and she wouldn’t have enough breath to argue her way out of it.

  Then he stepped into the doorway, and just stood.

  He didn’t notice the clean floor or windows, or that the sweaty shirt he’d peeled off when he’d done some lifting the day before wasn’t on the floor where he’d tossed it.

  How could he? All he could see was her.

  She executed some sort of martial arts routine and looked as if she could kick some serious ass. Lust added the final grip to interest and admiration to choke out temper.

  Sweat dampened her face and the skinny tank she’d changed into. Those long legs, highlighted in a pair of snug black shorts, kicked, set, spun while the wiry muscles in her arms rippled.

  He’d be drooling in a minute, he thought, as she balanced on one leg, kicked, then landed on the other in a graceful blur.

  He must’ve made some sound because she pivoted, set into a fighting stance—eyes cold and fierce. Just as quickly, she relaxed and laughed.

  “Didn’t see you there.” She sucked in air. “Scared me.”

  She hadn’t looked scared, he thought. “What was that? Tae kwon do?”

  She shook her head, gulped from the bottle of water she’d set on the weight bench. “Tai chi—mostly.”

  “I’ve seen people doing tai chi. It’s like sissy New Age in slow motion.”

  “First, it’s really old age, and the slow moves are about control, practice and form.” She crooked a finger. “It’s organic,” she said, “and about centering your power.”

  “I’m still hearing sissy New Age, and that’s not what I was looking at a minute ago.”

  “There’s a reason many of the moves have pretty names that come from nature. Like Push the Wave.”

  She demonstrated, slowly, again gracefully pushing her hands out, palms toward him, then drawing them back, palms up. “But if I intensify that same move for defense, it’s—”

  She shoved him back, knocking him off balance, then pulled him in and past her. “See?”

  “I wasn’t ready.”

  Grinning, she spread her legs, bent her knees and gave him a come-ahead gesture.

  “Okay, you’ve seen The Matrix,” he said, and made her laugh.

  “You’re stronger than I am, bigger, taller, longer reach. You may be faster, but we haven’t tested that yet. If I have to defend myself, I need to be able to center my power and use yours. I used to practice every day, in my obsessive way. Tai chi, power yoga, boxing—”

  Interest piqued. “Boxing?”

  “Yeah.” She put up her dukes. “Want to go a couple rounds?”

  “Maybe later.”

  “I did kickboxing, resistance training, hours of Pilates and whatever else you can think of every week. It made me feel capable and secure. Pro-active, I guess. Then I eased off, and I got rusty. I stopped pushing myself until . . . well, until.”

  “You didn’t look rusty.”

  “Muscle memory. It comes back. And the ever-popular motivation.”

  “Show me. No, wait. This isn’t why I came in here. You did it again.”

  “I did?”

  “Distracted me. Sweaty, sexy body. You don’t need tai chi to throw a man off balance.”

  “Wow.” She gave a little shoulder wiggle. “Now I do feel powerful.”

  “It’s that.” He pointed.

  “It’s . . . the window?”

  “It’s the window. Why did you wash the window?”

  “Because I like clean windows. I like to look outside, and it’s more pleasant to do that when I’m not looking through a film of dust.”

  “That’s only part of it.”

  “What’s the other part?”

  “The other part is getting me to notice the ones you haven’t gotten around to washing yet so I feel guilty. And so I see that the trim needs painting.”

  She picked up her water bottle, uncapped it. “That’s a lot of motivation behind some Windex and a rag.”

  “And there’s this.” He dug in his pocket, pulled out a handful of dog treats.

  “Oh, thanks, but I’m trying to cut down.”

  “Funny. I put these damn things in my pocket every day. I don’t even think about it, I just do it. I just spent a good half hour, maybe more, out there working with the dogs.”

  All patient attention, she sipped her water. “Because I washed the window?”

  “No, but it’s the same thing. It’s the same thing as the house smelling like a lemon drop or me thinking I should probably pick you up some flowers the next time I’m in the village.”

  “Oh, Simon.”

  “Shut up. And it doesn’t matter a damn that we’ve got bigger things to worry about because basic is basic. So . . .”

  He strode to the window, slapped the palm of his hand against the sparkling glass. “Leave it,” he ordered, pointing at the smudged print he left behind.

  “Okay. Why?”

  “I don’t know why. I don’t have to know why, but if I want it gone, I’ll wash it off. You leave it alone.”