Once she had answered the vet’s questions, Charlie glanced around to see Jack lounging against the wall with his hands in his pockets. Raindrops still clung to his hair. The knees of his formerly immaculate gray flannels were dark with wet and smeared with grime from the street. His shirt was also patched with drizzle and dirt. She felt a pang of guilt for ruining his clothes. It occurred to her that she probably didn’t look much better, and she had worn her best pants suit and blouse for the interview.
“We’re going to take him in for X rays. You can wait in the reception area,” the young doctor said.
Jack held the door for Charlie as they walked back into the corridor. The hospital was immaculately clean, smelling of disinfectant and bleach, but the linoleum floor was peeling away around the edges and paint was flaking off water stains on the ceiling. They settled in across from each other on two of the mismatched chairs crammed around three walls of the small waiting room. When Jack stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles, his tasseled loafers practically touched the leg of the chair next to her.
Charlie carefully tucked her feet under her own chair. Her companion had folded his arms across his chest and seemed to be fascinated by a photograph of a basket of puppies that hung on the wall behind the reception desk. She took advantage of his distraction to study him more closely.
His skin was deeply tanned, not surprising in a man whose job was tracking down rocks that fell out of the sky all over the world. In a way, he seemed like a meteorite himself: every line of his face was clean and hard-edged as though any soft substances had been burned away. What she could see of the rest of him looked the same: nothing but necessary and useful muscle filled out those broad shoulders and long legs. She had the unwelcome thought that he’d look terrific in a bathing suit.
“Would you like to call a taxi?” she asked, holding out her cell phone and attempting to channel her thoughts into a more professional direction.
The ice-blue gaze focused on her. “A gentleman would never abandon a lady in the Bronx.”
“Think of me as a journalist and you might have less of a problem with it.”
An arch of his eyebrow was the only response.
She gave him a dazzling smile and switched gears again. “What made you become a meteorite hunter? It’s a rather unusual occupation.”
“Is this the interview?” The dimple was nowhere in sight.
“No, it’s a conversation.”
“With journalists, it’s hard to tell the difference.”
Charlie shifted forward in her seat and gave him her most open and honest look. “Did someone write something bad about you? I couldn’t find a single article that did anything more than mention your name in passing. And one photograph from ten years ago.”
He uncrossed his ankles and crossed them the opposite way. “Journalists focus on the wrong things. You should ask questions about the meteorites, not about why I hunt them.”
“It’s called the human interest angle. People relate better to other people than to rocks. Or maybe they can relate better to the rocks through the people who find them.” Charlie was rather pleased with that twist. She didn’t add that a certain segment of the female population would find Jack Lanett interesting no matter what he did for a living.
“The meteorites speak for themselves.” He leaned forward so his face was only inches from hers. “When you hold a carbonaceous chondrite in your hand and know that it was traveling through space before life was even a tiny spark on this planet—in fact, before this planet was even a planet—no interpretation should be necessary.”
He had cupped his hand as though holding the meteorite, and Charlie couldn’t help but notice how long his fingers were. She forced her gaze upward and encountered a blaze of passion in the usually icy eyes. So he gets excited about his space rocks. What else might fan those flames?
She shook her head sharply to banish such thoughts, and her bun came loose. It sagged lopsidedly down her neck, and she automatically reached up to take out the last few hairpins. Sitting back and tilting her head sideways, she combed her fingers through the tangled strands until they uncoiled enough to braid.
“What are you doing?” Jack’s mellifluous voice sounded slightly strangled.
Charlie glanced up to find his eyes riveted on her flying fingers. “Braiding my hair. To get it out of the way.” She always twisted her waist-length hair into a bun or braid first thing in the morning, and paid no attention to it after that. She slowed her usually swift plaiting to a crawl. Maybe he had a hair fetish, and she could use it to persuade him to reschedule their interview? Peeking through the strands, she saw Jack swallow and shift in his seat.
“You have extraordinary hair,” he said.
“Thanks.” I’ve got him! Her lips curved in satisfaction. “Would you be free…?”
She finished her braid hastily as the door swung open, and the veterinarian walked over to lean against the reception desk. “Your hit-and-run victim has a mild concussion and a couple of cracked ribs, but otherwise he’s in good shape. I want to keep him overnight to make sure his head injury isn’t worse than I think. You can pick him up tomorrow morning.”
Charlie stood up. “That’s wonderful news. I appreciate your seeing him on such short notice.”
“That’s what emergency vets are for,” the doctor said with a smiling shrug. “By the way, I think you’ve got yourself a purebred Kuvasz. Under all that dirt, his fur is white. I’d say he’s about two years old.”
“A Kuvasz?” Charlie didn’t see many pedigreed animals; most strays were mutts.
“They were popular with Hungarian royalty in the Middle Ages,” Jack’s voice drawled from behind her.
The vet nodded. “The kings bred them for guard dogs and hunting. They’re still used today but to guard sheep and cattle.”
“He must belong to someone.” Charlie frowned.
“He hasn’t for awhile,” the vet said. “Under all that fur, he’s pretty undernourished.”
“You mean he’s usually bigger?!” she exclaimed.
The vet laughed.
“I assume he’ll walk out under his own power tomorrow,” Jack said from his lounging position.
“Don’t worry,” Charlie said. “I’ll handle dog transportation tomorrow.”
She thanked the vet and was about to leave when the receptionist spoke.
“I’ll need a name and address in the city.”
“I live in New Jersey,” Charlie said. “I’ll give you my cell phone number.” She started to take a card out of her pocketbook.
“It has to be in the city,” the receptionist said, shaking her head. “We’ve had too many owners skip town without paying the bill.”
Charlie looked at Jack.
“Thirty-five West 68th Street,” he said, then gave his home number. He stood up. “I’ll take that cell phone number from you.”
Charlie handed him her card. Her skin prickled with sympathetic vibrations when his long fingers brushed over the letters of her name as he slid the square of paper into his trouser pocket.
“Just remember I have a recipe for dog meat stew,” he warned.
“Major doesn’t look very appetizing,” she commented, heading for the door.
The Volvo was still double-parked with the flashers on. Charlie started for the driver’s side when she remembered that Jack had the keys. “I’ll drive,” she said, holding out her hand and expecting an argument.
He fished the keys out of his left pocket and dropped them onto her palm. The heat radiating from the metal nearly caused her to dump them on the pavement. Charlie tried to avoid thinking about where the keys had picked up their warmth, but it was hard not to picture gray flannel stretched over a muscular thigh. She took a deep breath and lifted her flushed face to the cold drizzle.
“That’s a nice pose but I’m getting wet.” Jack’s voice had lost all its southern charm.
“Sorry,” she muttered, unlocking the car and sliding behind the whe
el.
She focused on starting the car rather than on the man whose shoulder was only a foot away from hers. “Since I’m going to be in the city tomorrow to pick up Major, I could stop by and do the interview with you then, if it’s convenient,” she said as she put the car in drive.
“I’ll check my calendar,” he said with a sardonic edge to his voice.
“Fine. No problem. Whatever time you’re available, I’ll be there.”
The trip back to Jack’s apartment building was accomplished mostly in silence. Charlie ventured a couple of neutral remarks and was met with monosyllabic replies so she gave up and just steered. As she stopped the car in front of his door, he suddenly said, “Oh, hell, I might as well get it over with. Tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
Charlie repressed a whoop of triumph. “Ten’s good.”
He got out of the car, then turned to lean back in through the door. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?” she said, glancing over to see an odd smile playing around his lips.
“No bun. No braid. Wear your hair down.” He closed the door.
Two
Jack was smiling as he walked into the living room of his rented apartment.
“What are you smirking about?” a voice rumbled from the depths of a black leather sofa.
“Long, blond hair. What are you doing here, Miguel?”
The man on the sofa sat up. Even sitting, he dwarfed the furniture around him. “I came to rescue you from the dreaded journalist. And instead I find you lusting after a woman. What happened to your interview?”
Jack sank into a steel-and-leather chair and propped his feet up on the glass-topped coffee table. “The dreaded journalist has long, blond hair and long, long legs. And a low-cut lacy white bra.”
“Before you seduced her, I hope you answered enough questions for her to write a glowing article for the Times. Or perhaps you were counting on your performance to create the glow?”
“I didn’t seduce her,” Jack said shortly. Then his smile returned. “Although it certainly wouldn’t be a hardship. I keep picturing her wearing that long hair and nothing else.”
“On black satin. I like blondes on black satin sheets,” Miguel mused. “You know, I admire a woman with long hair as much as most men, but you have an obsession about it. I’ve always wondered why that is.”
“Rapunzel,” Jack said.
“Rapunzel?”
“Didn’t your mother read you fairy tales? The prince climbs in and out of the prison tower on Rapunzel’s long braid.”
“Ahh, an escape fantasy,” Miguel said.
“I had many of those at a certain age.”
“Understandably,” Miguel said. “But if you didn’t make love to the reporter, how did you become so intimately acquainted with her bra?”
“She was very wet.”
Miguel chuckled lasciviously. “I see…”
Jack scowled at him. “I got dragged into a rescue mission in the rain.”
“What did you rescue her from?”
“Not the reporter, I helped rescue a dog.”
Miguel looked at Jack. “You don’t like dogs.”
“You want coffee?” Jack stood in a fluid motion. “I’ve got a dealer coming soon so I’d better make a pot.”
“You’d better change your clothes first, mi amigo.”
Jack glanced down at his ruined gray flannels with a grunt of disgust.
“Who’s coming to talk about the rock?” Miguel asked.
“Eileen Kushen.”
“She’s a nasty piece of work.”
“But she represents Curt Vandermade who wants a Mars rock so badly he’ll pay almost anything.”
“I’ll make the coffee.” Miguel rubbed his hands together. “Including a touch of whiskey to lubricate the negotiations.”
“I don’t have any whiskey,” Jack said over his shoulder as he headed for the bedroom.
“But I do,” Miguel said, pulling a flask from his coat pocket. “When I’m visiting you, I always bring my own bottle.”
Charlie flipped the windshield wipers to high as the rain came down in buckets. She was still sitting in rush hour traffic on the Garden State Parkway, trying not to think about Jack Lanett’s last request.
She focused on the skimpy information she’d dug up on him instead.
He was born in Georgia forty-two years ago. His life was a blank until he was twenty-seven, at which age he had found his first major meteorite, a multi-ton “iron” in South America. From then on, the scientific journals carried regular announcements of his finds from all over the world. These culminated in his current spectacular discovery which he was going to auction off at Sotheby’s after letting both the scientists and the general public look at it for the next month or so.
Every article she found had discussed the significance of the meteorites without giving any information whatsoever about the meteorite hunter. Charlie’s idea for the science editor at the New York Times had been a new angle: what made the mysterious Jack Lanett so successful at his rather unique profession?
Of course, her subject had made it clear that he didn’t like her angle.
Which brought her right back to his condition for the interview.
“Men don’t ask women to let their hair down so they can talk,” she pointed out to her reflection in the rearview mirror. Maybe he’ll be so distracted by the sight of my hair he’ll answer my questions without thinking. “And what if he asks you an inappropriate question?” she inquired of the mirror, thinking of his long fingers cupped around an imaginary meteorite and the heat radiating from her car keys. She shivered and cranked the car’s thermostat up another notch. Don’t make that mistake again. Keep it strictly professional, she admonished herself as she resolutely fixed her attention on the bumper in front of her.
As she turned into the driveway of her house two hours later, a welcome sense of sanctuary washed over her. She walked out on the back porch to inhale the scent of mingled salt water and fresh rain wafting up from Corbin’s Canal, the channel her property bordered. The narrow finger of water ran from the ocean to an inner harbor, and usually hosted a steady parade of fishing boats and pleasure craft.
Just now the gray, foamy waves coursed past uninterrupted by wakes but Charlie didn’t care. She loved the water in all its moods. Three deep breaths and she felt ready to face a dozen recalcitrant meteorite hunters.
She wasn’t ready for the telephone message that awaited her.
“Hello, Ms. Berglund. This is Candy Mills. I have a family emergency and I won’t be able to do the home study for your adoption petition. However, I’ve referred you to my colleague Rhonda Brown who will be contacting you soon. I’m so sorry. I was looking forward to seeing your home.”
“Damn!” Charlie said, hurling her handbag onto a big wicker chair by the phone. She stilled as the next message began.
“Charlotte Berglund? I’m Rhonda Brown. I’d like to set up an appointment for your home study sometime this week. Candy Mills says that your paperwork is all progressing well so we want to move the process along. Call me at the same number, extension 12.”
“Whew!” Charlie flopped into the other wicker chair as relief washed over her. “She doesn’t waste any time. That’s a good sign.” Her current foster cat leaped onto her lap. Rubbing his silver-gray head, Charlie glanced at the grandfather clock by the fireplace. “Seven o’clock. Well, Twinkle, do I call and leave a message now or wait until tomorrow to try to reach her in person?”
She picked up the phone. “I’ll call her now. That way she’ll know how gung ho I am.”
After leaving a message on Rhonda Brown’s voice mail, she sat with the cat purring in her lap. She couldn’t resist picturing herself in this very chair, stroking the shining dark hair of a baby girl from China instead of Twinkle’s soft fur. She closed her eyes and was swamped by her longing to cradle a small, warm child’s body, to inhale the sweet scent of innocence only a child possesses. She imagined carrying he
r little girl onto the back porch to watch the boats go by. Charlie would read the names off the sterns until her daughter could read them for herself. They’d wave to all the captains and hear the friendly honk of maritime horns, from the bass of the commercial fishing boats to the toot of the little runabouts.
Another six months and this dream should come true…
Every aspect of Charlie’s life had been validated, notarized, and notarized again. She had been fingerprinted and checked for criminal records. All that stood between her and the child she wanted so badly was the home study. She’d been so confident Candy Mills would approve her; she and the social worker had spent so much time on the phone together they knew each other’s birthdays, favorite foods, and pet peeves. Now she had to start all over again with Rhonda Brown, a total stranger…
“At least, my daughter will have a mother,” Charlie said to Twinkle. “She won’t be raised by a series of reluctant aunts, uncles and cousins like I was.”
The doorbell rang, and Twinkle leaped off her lap to dash under the sage velvet sofa. Charlie sighed. “Trust comes slowly to you, doesn’t it? No one’s going to hurt you here, kiddo.” She opened the door to find Isabelle Starling standing there, wrapped in her usual collection of fringed shawls and ponchos, with a Tupperware container in her hand.
Isabelle, her favorite next-door neighbor, ran both the local organic foods co-op and one of the most powerful environmental advocacy groups in the state of New Jersey. Charlie could never figure out if she was fifty or seventy years old, although given her rich and colorful life history, Charlie guessed closer to seventy. But you’d never know it from looking at her. Eating all those pesticide-free vegetables must work; Isabelle had few wrinkles, no extra flesh, and was bursting with vitality.
“Good evening, Charlie. I made some butternut squash soup and thought you’d like some on this rainy old night.”
Nancy Herkness Page 2
