Not a stalker? The hell she wasn't! She knew where he lived now, and she was sending him mail. What next? Carrier pigeon?
What a pain. He moved the cursor over to the delete button and zapped her into oblivion for the second time.
Dear Mr. McElwyn,
I still haven't heard from you. You must be on vacation. I've been doing a little research and have discovered that you’re a private investigator. That is so cool. Are skills like that inherited? I would love to do an interview with you for our school paper. Hopefully when you get back, you'll get in touch right away.
Best wishes,
Abigail
The e-mail was so filled with scary implications that Ben choked on his toast, then scalded his tongue when he tried to wash down the bread with black coffee. He was a fraction away from being apoplectic. School paper? Lawyers didn't write for school papers, and neither did matchmaking aunts. Just how old was Abigail, anyway, and why, dear God, did she care if there was a gene for investigative skills or not?
Who the hell was she?
Was it possible?
His mind went tumbling back to a certain midnight in a tumbledown apartment overlooking Narragansett Bay. He'd been lying on his bed, waiting for Sara to come out of the bathroom where she'd been doing things with a diaphragm. He remembered how she looked when she emerged: shy but willing, a feast for him to behold. She had a great body. It was on the old-fashioned side and just made for loving, and he remembered thinking that he was on the verge of having the best night of his life.
He remembered saying, "You all set, then?"
But he could not, for the life of him, remember her answer.
Not her exact words. They had seemed reassuring at the time—but then, she could have said, "Oh, sure; I have a bottle of vinegar in my purse," and he would have been just as reassured. He didn't really care if she was protected or not. All he really cared about at that moment was getting her between him and the sheet. Everything else was just words.
He raked his memory, trying to dredge up the exact ones she'd used. Uh-huh? You bet? Fer sure? Darn tootin'?
Just how safe were diaphragms, anyway? Could they pop, like rubbers?
Could she have lied? Could she have said nothing at all, and could he have made up a lie in his head for her? Had he been that damned horny for her?
Could sperm wiggle their way home around that kind of barrier? Were diaphragms just a truly lousy concept in birth control?
Was Abigail Johnson Bonniface somewhere around twelve years old?
Ben was in a sweat now. He shut his computer down and made himself get dressed and drive to city hall and spend the morning in the dusty, dreary basement there, poring over deeds and assigns, trying to track an ex- spouse's hidden assets, trying to understand how Abigail could possibly think that being a PI was cool.
By the time he walked out it was raining; by the time he got home he was soaked. He had a simple reason for returning to his apartment instead of trying to cozy up to the neighbors of his client's ex-spouse to find out where the bum might be hiding: he needed to change into dry socks. So he peeled off the wet ones and while he was at it, he turned on his computer. Abigail's e-mail glared at him, demanding action.
Delete. Delete delete delete her from his thoughts. Whoever she was, she was an unnecessary intrusion into what he laughingly called his life. He didn't ask for the e-mail. He didn't want the e-mail. He had better things to do than to wonder all day who Abigail Johnson Bonniface was.
He deleted the e-mail, shut the laptop down, and went back out to do his job. He got in his car, turned on the ignition, swore, turned off the ignition, went back to his apartment, and turned on the computer.
He had to go back and poke through the e-mail trash folder, something he didn't like to do on principal—trash was trash—but he retrieved Abigail's last e-mail and, for whatever reason, hit the reply button. Best not to use her name; best to be simple and to the point.
Who are you?
Sincerely,
Ben McElwyn
Before he could second-guess himself, he hit the send button. Off it went. At least the damn ball was finally out of his court, and he'd be able to get some sleep.
Night came, and he tossed and turned.
****
Abigail came home from school and went immediately to her computer to check her e-mail. She hadn't been able to get online for nearly twenty hours, and she was almost sick from the frustration of it.
She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers as she waited. Please, please, please let there be a bmac5 today.
She opened her eyes and there he was: bmac5. It was a miracle! She opened the e-mail in a state of ecstasy but was instantly crushed to see such a short message. It was practically rude. She'd done everything she could think of to be intriguing but not clingy, and this is all he could come up with? Six words? He probably had an admin write it for him. It was so insulting. She felt like a panhandler who had just had someone throw a crummy quarter in her cup.
Deciding to give him a taste of his own medicine, she composed a response:
I think, your daughter.
Sincerely,
Abigail
She sat back and folded her arms across her chest. How would he like getting that?
Should she send it? Really, actually send it? It would teach him such a lesson.
No, she decided, after thinking about it. It was too abrupt. He could have a heart attack or something. Anyway, he hadn't even said if he was the Ben who knew Sara—although if he wasn't, then he probably wouldn't have answered at all. Or maybe he was just plain curious.
Either way, Abigail resolved not to send the e-mail. She would stick with her original plan. First he had to tell her if he knew Sara. Then, and only then, would Abigail tell him who she was.
A shave-and-a-haircut knock on her door told her that her stepfather was on the other side of it. "Abby?" she heard him say. "You in there?"
"Yes! No!" she said, hitting the send button in her panic. Off went her answer through cyberspace, leaving Abigail too shocked to think. She had enough sense to get rid of Ben McElwyn's e-mail, but that was about it. When her stepfather came in smiling, she was speechless.
By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda Page 17
