Smitten - LOVESWEPT - 392

by Janet Evanovich

  "Okay. I can live with that. I don't want you feeling pressured into anything as important as marriage. But I'm not leaving."

  "What?" He wasn't teasing or flirting or being difficult. He looked deadly serious, and Lizabeth didn't think that was a good sign.

  "I'm not leaving you alone in this house until the flasher's caught."

  Lizabeth stuffed her hands on her hips. "Lis­ten, mister, this is my house, and I'm kicking you out!"

  "Oh yeah? You and who else?"

  "Me and nobody else. I'm doing it all by myself. I'm . . ." Her attention was diverted by a delivery truck from Kantweillers Department Store.

  A young boy jumped from the truck and walked across the front yard. He handed Lizabeth a box and a clipboard. "Sign here, please."

  "I don't get it," Lizabeth said. "Now what?" She sat down on the porch step and carefully opened the box. Inside was a slightly smaller box wrapped in white-and-silver paper, with a card taped to the top. "Omigod," she said, reading the card. "It's a wedding gift from Emma Newsome!"

  Matt unwrapped the box. "Hey, it's a waffle iron. This is great. You know how to make waffles?"

  Lizabeth sat on her big new bed all by herself. She had the oak chest of drawers pushed in front of her door, but so far it was unnecessary. Matt hadn't shown any interest in breaking her door down. He'd gone off to the job site shortly after the waffle iron was delivered and hadn't returned until six o'clock, when he'd arrived with bags of burgers and French fries. He'd made polite conver­sation and gone to work in the kitchen, pulling out the old cabinets. It was after twelve now, and the house was quiet. Lizabeth thought it felt lonely. She thought it wasn't a house that was comfort­able with quiet. It needed noisy children and dogs that stole pot roasts. Even Ferguson seemed sub­dued today. And the flasher had moved on to greener pastures. He hadn't shown up last night, for the first time in five days. Probably because word got out that she was married.

  She smoothed the new quilt and wiggled her toes. She couldn't sleep. She wasn't tired, and she was afraid if she turned the light off the sadness would overwhelm her, and she'd burst into tears. She had to keep busy. That was the clue to sur­viving, she'd decided. She could watch television, but the television and the VCR were downstairs, on the other side of the blocked door. She picked up the book she'd been reading. A love story. Not tonight. She got up and looked out the window. Her yard was dark and empty. She paced in the room. Okay, so suppose she wasn't locked up in her room. What would she do? For the first time in ten years she was alone with time on her hands. She needed a hobby. She used to knit when she was in college, but it no longer appealed to her. Gardening was good, but it was too dark to garden now. It was pretty much wasted effort. anyway, since Ferguson dug everything up. She cracked her knuckles and paced faster. Maybe athletics was the answer. She began to jog in place. This wasn't so bad. She'd planned to get into shape this summer anyway. She checked her clock. Five minutes. She was barely sweating. Not enough of a challenge. She needed to get out on the road. She pulled a pair of jogging shorts from her bottom drawer and three minutes later was lacing up her running shoes. She pushed the chest away from the door and carefully, quietly tiptoed down the hall. She was at the top of the stairs when she heard Matt's door open.

  "Going somewhere?"

  "Running."

  Matt grinned at her. "Got excess energy?"

  'I've decided to get into shape."

  "At one o'clock in the morning?"

  "One o'clock in the morning is a great time to run," Lizabeth said. "It's cooler, and you don't have to wear sunscreen, and there isn't any traffic."

  "I don't think this is a good idea. There are weird people out there."

  "This is a family neighborhood. Ill be perfectly safe."

  Matt groaned. This was from the woman who thought the flasher was a nice guy. "Wait a min­ute, and I'll run with you."

  "I don't want you to run with me."

  Half an hour later Lizabeth's shirt was soaked through. Her hair hung in wet ringlets and her cheeks were flushed as she plodded beside Matt. "Are we almost home?"

  "Three more blocks," Matt said. "You want to stop and walk a while?"

  "Why aren't you tired? Why am I the only one sweating?"

  "Guess I'm in better shape than you."

  Lizabeth wiped her face with the sleeve of her T-shirt. "Yeah, baking cookies isn't exactly a heavy aerobic workout."

  "Maybe not, but I bet it's fun."

  There was something about his voice that caught her attention. "Haven't you ever baked cookies?"

  "Nope. My cookies come already baked. Hey, I have a terrific idea. Maybe we could work out a talent trade. You could teach me to bake cookies, and I could help you exercise."

  Lizabeth stopped running. She put her hands at her hips and bent forward, trying to catch her breath. "You'd do that?"

  "I'd like to learn how to make pancakes too. I tried once, but they stuck to the pan. And mashed potatoes..."

  "You don't know how to make mashed potatoes?" It was hard for her to believe he'd been on his own for ten years and never learned how to mash pota­toes. She was beginning to understand all the fast-food bags in his bedroom,

  "Learning how to cook is sort of like losing your virginity," he said. "You reach an age where it's embarrassing to ask someone to teach you how to go about it."

  "I've never thought of it exactly that way, but I suppose you're right." She took a couple of deep breaths. "I think I'm ready. Let's try some more running."

  They turned onto Gainsborough and Matt put a restraining hand on Lizabeth's arm, holding her back. "There's someone in the side yard of that gray Cape Cod."

  "That's the Hoopers' house." Lizabeth looked In the direction of the Cape Cod just in time to see a flashlight blink on and sweep a second-story win­dow. "Omigod."

  Matt could clearly see the man. He was dressed in dark sweatpants, was wearing a paper bag mask, and was climbing up the side of the house on a ladder. Matt felt himself tense, felt his adrenaline kick in. "I'm gonna get this guy," he whispered.

  He moved forward like a large eat, running noise­lessly, and Lizabeth wondered where he'd learned to move with such stealth and power. He was across the street in seconds. The man was about to enter the window when he saw Matt charging. The man shrieked, jumped from the ladder, and ran. Matt chased after him, Lizabeth following.

  "What's going on?" Mabel Hooper called from her bedroom window. "Who's out there?"

  Lizabeth could hear the men crashing through bushes in front of her. They were running through backyards, trampling hedges of forsythia, leveling an occasional tomato plant. Dogs barked. House lights blazed up and down the street. The two men broke out into a stretch of open grass. Lizabeth saw Matt leap forward and tackle the fleeing man. She reached them just as Matt shone the flash­light in his face. "Oh dear," Lizabeth said; "It's Mr. Hooper."

  "He was robbing his own house?"

  Ed Hooper scrambled to his feet. "Who do you think you are anyway, Rambo?" He put his hand to his heart. "Scared me half to death. Jeez, don't you have anything better to do than run around the neighborhood in the middle of the night? Why aren't you home in bed like a normal person?"

  Matt grabbed him. "What the hell were you doing climbing the ladder with a bag over your head?"

  "It was my wife's idea. She took one of those magazine quizzes and only got two out of twenty points for sexual excitement. She figured it might be exciting if I pretended to be the flasher. She figured this would push her into the top ten percent."

  Matt clapped his hand on Ed Hooper's shoul­der. "Mr. Hooper, this is a family neighborhood. I don't think you should be playing games in your backyard. Keep It in the bedroom, okay?"

  "I guess you're right," Ed Hooper said. "You need an extra grill for Saturday?"

  "I feel a little silly," Matt said on the way home.

  "I thought you handled that very nicely. You know, you're pretty conservative for a guy who has a tattoo and a motor
cycle."

  When they got back to the house a taxi was parked at the curb and the driver was unloading suitcases. Elsie and the boys stood on the sidewalk.

  Jason was the first to see Lizabeth. "Mom!" he shouted. "Look at us. We're home!"

  "Six hours in a taxi cab," Elsie said. "I feel like Humpty Dumpty when he fell off the wall. All the king's horses and all the king's men ain't never gonna get me back together again." She squinted at Lizabeth. "You two sure worked up a sweat. What are you doing out here?"

  "Running," Lizabeth said. "Great cardiovascu­lar exercise."

  "It's two o'clock in the morning."

  "No traffic this time of the night," Matt said.

  Elsie grabbed her suitcase and headed for the house. "I just want to go to bed. I'm going to have a nice tall glass of cold milk and go to bed and sleep for a thousand years."

  Lizabeth ran after her. "There's something I should explain to you about the kitchen."

  "Tomorrow. I'm too tired to listen tonight." She hauled her suitcase through the front door and came to an abrupt halt when she saw the new refrigerator, gently defrosting in the living room. "What the devil?"

  "It's only temporary," Lizabeth said. "We're remodeling."

  Jason ran on ahead. "Oh man, look at this! Some­one trashed the kitchen." .

  Billy was right behind him. "Boy, I'm glad I didn't do this. We're talking Cinder City here."

  "It was a meteor," Matt said. "It came right through the window. I was standing there, mind­ing my own business, cooking bacon, and this meteor landed on the frying pan and set the ba­con on fire."

  Lizabeth hugged Billy and Jason. "I'm glad to see you, but why are you home so soon?"

  Elsie snorted. "Turned out Paul wanted the boys down there because they were having this big picnic to kick off his candidacy for governor. Paul thought it would look good if he had a family image. You know, Mr. Mom sort of thing."

  "It was supposed to be Saturday, and it would have been boring," Jason said. "Everything Dad does is boring."

  "You were only there for one day!" Lizabeth poured a glass of juice for her son. "How could everything be so boring in just one day?"

  Jason giggled. "Dad said it was the longest day of his life."

  "You don't seem too upset by it."

  "It was kinda fun," Billy said. "First of all, Ja­son got air-sick and threw up on Dad in the air­port, and there were all these photographers who took their picture. Then when we got to the house, someone put a sweat sock in the toilet . . ."

  "It wasn't me," Jason said. "I swear it wasn't me."

  "Anyway, the toilet overflowed, and there was toilet water everywhere. Dad yelled at Aunt Elsie and said she was incompetent, and Aunt Elsie told Dad what she thought he should do with the sock when he got it out of the toilet. It was great, Mom. You should have been there."

  "Anything else?"

  "It sort of went downhill after that," Elsie said.

  Jason drank his juice and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Billy and I were going to get up early and make Dad breakfast in bed, but Dad didn't have any good cereal. He didn't have Fruit Loops or Cap'n Crunch or anything."

  Elsie had her lips pressed tight together, trying not to laugh. "So they made him an egg. In the microwave. Just put the raw egg in there and exploded it! Lord, what a mess. I've never seen anything like It."

  "I didn't know it would explode," Jason said. "I swear I didn't know it would explode."

  Lizabeth looked at her younger son and raised an eyebrow. "Did you get to go swimming?"

  "Yeah, but they have all these rules. You can't swim here and you can't swim there. And you have to stand still while you're waiting in line. And you can't run. They don't let you take any toys into the water. Not even a ball. And they make you practice swimming the whole time. You never get to have any fun."

  Billy grinned at his brother. "It was fun when you dumped Dad in the pool!"

  "Oh yeah!" Jason said. "Mom, he did the most awesome belly flop!"

  "He was swimming with you?" Lizabeth asked. Didn't sound like the Paul she knew.

  "No," Billy said. "He came to see how we were doing, and he had on this white suit and blue shirt with a red tie, and Jason dumped him in the water. Man, was he mad! And there were all these photographers there who took their picture."

  "It was an accident," Jason said. "I slipped get­ting out of the pool and grabbed Dad's pants leg."

  Lizabeth smiled at Jason. "I'm afraid to ask about the tennis lesson."

  'The tennis lesson wasn't so bad," Elsie said. "But you probably want to get some rest before you hear about dinner."

  "I can't believe he sent you home after just one day."

  Elsie headed for the stairs. "Paul said he could see things weren't going to work out like he planned."

  "Well, I'm sorry your vacation was cut short, but it's nice to have you back," Lizabeth said.

  "We would have been home sooner," Billy told her, "but we missed the plane because Dad smashed his thumb in the car door. He had to go to the emergency room and have a hole drilled in his thumbnail. Boy, can he cuss!"

  "That’s when he called a cab," Jason said. "He said he didn't care what it cost, he was going to make sure we got back to Pennsylvania."

  Nine

  "This here's one heck of a barbecue," Elsie said to Lizabeth. "Must be a hundred people here." She rolled a hot dog over on the grill. "You spot the flasher yet?"

  "No. This is harder than I thought. Half the men in the neighborhood fit his description." She wasn't so sure she wanted to identify him, any­way. He'd stopped flashing her, and he'd never really done any harm to anyone.

  Matt ambled over and put his arm around Lizabeth. "Great barbecue." He took a hot dog from Elsie and stuffed it into a roll. "We've got seven different kinds of potato salad, six bowls of three-bean salad, four casseroles of baked beans, and something very strange with curly noodles that I'm afraid to eat. The desserts are even bet­ter. Brownies as far as the eye can see. Mrs. Kandemeyer made cupcakes, Joan Gaspitch made chocolate-chip cookies, and Eleanor Molnar brought a sheet cake that says 'Best Wishes to Lizabeth and Matt Hallahan.' "

  Lizabeth winced. The dining room table was loaded with wedding presents. She felt like a fraud, and she knew she was a coward. "We need to tell these people we're not married."

  "Not me," Matt said. "I'm not telling them. Be­sides, I like being married. I'm not too crazy about sleeping on the couch, but I like the rest of it. I don't have to eat breakfast by myself, and I get to play soccer with the kids after work, and you play Monopoly with me at night." He spread mustard on his hot dog and loaded it with relish.

  Ferguson left his station at the grill and stalked Matt's hot dog.

  Lizabeth watched a pack of kids run across the yard. "If I stopped playing Monopoly with you at night, would you go home?"

  "Nope. I'm protecting you from the flasher."

  "I think the flasher's retired."

  "Why do you want me to go home? Elsie likes me. The kids like me. Ferguson likes me." He reached out and tenderly ran his fingertip along the line of Lizabeth's jaw. "I think you like me too."

  "Oh yeah? What makes you think I like you?"

  "You did my laundry yesterday."

  Lizabeth shrugged. "I had nothing better to do, I got home from work early, and I thought I'd clean up the laundry room."

  "Yes, but you bleached my sweat socks, and you used fabric softener on my T-shirts."

  A smile spread through her before she could catch it. He was right. She'd actually stood there yesterday, fondling his socks, wondering if they were soft enough and white enough.

  "Four days ago you told me you loved me. You said every day you loved me a little bit more. Is that still true?"

  Lizabeth sighed. "Yes. But that doesn't mean I want to get married. We've been all through this."

  "I keep hoping one of these times I'll under­stand. So far it hasn't made much sense to me." He set his hot dog on a plate and
helped himself to potato salad. Ferguson moved with lightning speed and grabbed the frankfurter. "That dog is going to need his stomach pumped before the day is over."

  "He's just a puppy."

  "He weighs a hundred and thirteen pounds."

  Lizabeth was distracted by a man on the far side of the dessert table. She didn't know his name, but his face was familiar. He was one of those people you periodically run into in the su­permarket or at the dry cleaner. He reminded her somewhat of Paul, with his bland, pleasant smile and calculated postures. A lawyer, she decided— probably trust. He wore new docksiders, khaki slacks, and a white button-down shirt. He was in his early thirties, she thought, and a little soft around the edges. He acknowledged Emma and Al Newsome, poured himself a glass of soda, said hello to the Hoopers, and continued to move through the crowd. The whole while he moved, his eyes kept returning to Lizabeth.

  An uneasy feeling rolled in her stomach. It was the flasher. If someone had asked her how she knew, she wouldn't have been able to tell them. She simply knew. She waved and he waved back. A small, hesitant wave with just his fingertips. They stared at each other for a long, embarrassed moment. Now that she'd seen him she was dying to ask him why. Why would he do such a weird thing? Why had he chosen her? Why had he stood there in the rain? She should confront him, she thought, but she suddenly felt uncomfortable. He'd always seemed remote and harmless in his paper-bag mask, standing in a small circle of light on the other side of her window. Now that she saw him as a person she admitted Matt had been right. She knew nothing about this man. He was real. He had thoughts and obsessions and prob­lems. He could be crazy. He could be mean. He could be dangerous.

  She Instinctively moved closer to Matt. He was a safe place in a crazy world. He was the friend she could always count on. He had common sense and strong arms, and he loved her. She took a step backward, coming in contact with his big, hard body. "'Oops," she said. "Sorry." And then she blushed, because she'd intentionally bumped into him.

  Matt brushed his hand along the nape of Lizabeth's neck. There hadn't been any lovemaking since Elsie and the boys had returned, and he ached to touch Lizabeth. Her skin was warm and silky, her hair caressed the back of his hand, and he suddenly felt choked with desire. He didn't care about Ferguson or potato salad. He cared about Lizabeth. And he wondered about the man on the far side of the dessert table who kept star­ing at her. "You know that guy?"