Spider Web

by Earlene Fowler

  “What happened?” He carefully slipped the strap of my bra off my shoulder and brushed his fingertips over the baseball-size bruise above my heart. Just the softest pressure caused me to wince.

  I couldn’t meet his eyes. If he wasn’t standing so close, if I couldn’t feel his warm breath on my head, smell his familiar masculine scent—a tantalizing concoction of freshly washed cotton fabric and lemon—if I couldn’t hear the raspy clearing of his throat, I might have been able to make up a story about falling off a ladder at the folk art museum or concoct some fictional accident with a stubborn calf. Heaven knows, my transparent redhead’s skin usually always sprouted a bruise somewhere on my body.

  “It’s nothing,” I whispered.

  He cupped my chin and raised my head to look at him. The pupils of his eyes were tiny drops of ink. His touch was gentle, but his face seemed angry. He cleared his throat; still the words came out raspy. “Did I do this?”

  “You didn’t mean it . . . it was an accident . . . you were half asleep . . . dreaming . . .” I pulled away from his hand and hugged him; pressing my chest against his ribs, willing some of his pain to flow into me so he wouldn’t have to bear it alone. “You didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Stop it!” He took me by the shoulders, holding me away from him. When I flinched again, he threw his hands up as if they’d encountered a hot branding iron. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

  Feeling suddenly chilled, I hugged myself, digging my nails into my upper arms. “Remember Sunday night when you had that bad dream? I tried to wake you . . . it was probably just stress from . . .”

  He moaned and turned away from me, bending over slightly, pressing his balled fists against his temples. “I can’t believe I did that to you . . . Why didn’t you tell me . . . why didn’t you show me?”

  “You didn’t mean it, Gabe. You didn’t know it was me. I’m fine.” I touched the small of his back.

  He straightened up. In the golden light from our bedroom lamps, I could see his spine flex, the muscles move under his shoulders. His snarling Marine Corps bulldog tattoo leered at me. I wanted to cover its mouth with my hand, my lips. I wanted it to be erased forever.

  He turned slowly back to face me, his expression as still and unemotional as I’d imagined he’d been while walking point in-country. He liked walking point, he once told me during a rare moment when he talked about Vietnam. He liked being the first one, he’d said, the one who knew what was happening before anyone else, what was going on in front of him. He wasn’t afraid because at the time he felt like he couldn’t die.

  “I was eighteen,” he’d said. “Stupid as a chicken. Besides, I felt like I had nothing to live for anyway.”

  His statement, spoken so blithely, had left me mute with sorrow.

  “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight,” he said.

  “No, you will not.”

  “No argument. It’s the only way to guarantee I won’t hurt you again.”

  “Gabe, please . . .”

  “Stop!” His voice was harsh and angry. Not at me, I knew. At himself.

  At his loss of control. At his weakness . . . or what he perceived as weakness.

  I felt hot tears well up, threatening to roll down my cheeks.

  “Querida.” He ran his finger down my jawline. “Please, I don’t want to hurt you . . .”

  “You won’t . . .”

  He held up his hand. “And I can’t have you to worry about along with everything else.”

  “I know.” The words caught in my throat, hurting as they tumbled over the lump of salt.

  “Once we catch this sniper, I’ll take care of this.”

  How? I wanted to ask, but didn’t.

  He stared directly at my bruise. “Right now, you are safer in another room.”

  He picked up his reading glasses, unplugged his alarm clock and started downstairs to the guest room.

  “No,” I said. “Not the downstairs one. Up here.” We had another room down the hall that I just recently furnished with a bed, nightstand and desk.

  He turned to look at me, his expression questioning.

  “Look,” I said, pushing my bra strap back up. “When you have one of those dreams, you can’t always come out of it quickly. I have to wake you. I can’t hear you downstairs.”

  His expression was impatient and stubborn. “I don’t want you near me when I’m . . . like that. That’s the whole point of me staying in another room.”

  I could be just as stubborn. “If you sleep in the downstairs I can’t hear you. If you go downstairs, I will too. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll sleep on the floor outside your door.”

  “You are being ridiculous.”

  “Try to stop me.”

  He threw up hands. “Fine, I’ll sleep up here. But if I have a dream, you stay out of the room. Yell at me from the doorway. Throw something at me.”

  “Okay,” I lied.

  He eyed me suspiciously, guessing that I would disobey his order.

  “The sheets are new,” I said. “Just bought them from L.L. Bean. You’ll be sleeping on flannel pinecones.”

  One side of his mouth came up in a smile. “Sounds painful.”

  I slipped my arms around his waist and laid my face on his chest. The hair was soft under my cheek. I inhaled, holding his scent, like the deep breath a smoker would take from a long-anticipated cigarette. “I’ll miss you.”

  He nuzzled the top of my head. “Me too. We’ll figure this out.”

  “I know,” I murmured.

  While he set his alarm and placed his cell phone on the nightstand, I fussed with the blankets and pillows as if he were an invalid child.

  “Go to bed,” he said. “We both need some sleep.”

  After he crawled under the covers, I stood next to the bed, not wanting to leave.

  “Come here,” he said with a sigh.

  I sat on the bed and leaned toward him. We kissed deeply, and the taste of him was still as intoxicating as a shot of whiskey; it made the hallway separating us feel like a vast canyon.

  “Trust me,” he said, cradling my face in his hands. His thumbs stroked my cheeks.

  “I do, Friday.”

  On my way out, followed by a confused Scout, Gabe called out, “Close the door.”

  I turned to look at him, hesitating.

  “Do as I say, Benni.” His voice was firm, uncompromising.

  I shut the door softly and went back to our king-size bed. It felt like a giant’s bed without Gabe’s presence. Scout stood next to me, bewildered by the unexpected change of routine. Gabe and I had slept apart before when we’d argued. Those times had upset Scout, who possessed a true diplomat’s heart. He seemed to understand that it was a squabble, and he’d move between us, nudging our thighs with his nose, trying to communicate in doggie language—can’t we all just get along?

  But this situation confused him. There was tension but not anger. And his pack was sleeping apart. He whined, licked my hand, then went over and stood in the bedroom doorway, looking over his shoulder at me.

  “I agree, it doesn’t feel right, Scooby-Doo. But we have to let him handle this in his own way.”

  I read until past midnight, unable to sleep. Scout lay with his head on his front paws, his chocolate eyes wide and worried.

  “All right,” I whispered, crawling out of bed and tiptoeing down the hallway. I placed my ear against the guest room’s cold door. I could hear Gabe’s snoring, a soft rumbling that wasn’t unpleasant, had never kept me awake. I carefully turned the knob and opened the door. Normally the sound would have instantly awakened him, but he must have been exhausted and in a deep sleep, because he didn’t stir.

  Scout watched me from the middle of the hallway. I left the guest room door open and walked back to our bedroom. “Is that better? You can get to him now. And so can I.”

  Like so many other times when I swore he knew exactly what I was saying, he sighed and went over to his bed, curling up in a tight ball, his nose
pointed toward the bedroom where Gabe slept. In a few minutes, he was asleep and so was I.

  CHAPTER 7

  “YOU LOOK AUSTERE,” I SAID THE NEXT MORNING WHILE spreading blackberry jam on my English muffin. Gabe was dressed in a dark gray suit wearing another small-patterned tie, gray and burgundy this time. “And sexy,” I added, hoping to make him smile.

  Deep lines formed between his slightly bloodshot eyes. “I’ll probably be talking to the press today.”

  “Well, you look very in control.”

  “Wish I felt that way.”

  “You’ll rally, Chief. So, do you think the city will cancel the Thursday night farmers’ market?”

  Gabe shook his head, his jaw tense. “The town can’t come to a sliding stop because of this idiot.”

  We finished the rest of our meal in silence.

  Once he was gone, I called Dove. Though we’d always kept in close touch, once Aunt Garnet and Uncle WW moved to the ranch, I tried to call more often to see if there was anything she needed.

  I was surprised when Daddy answered on the second ring.

  “I’m leaving now,” he said, his voice grumpy. “They . . .”

  “Daddy? Is Dove there?”

  “No one’s here. They all left for town. Just me here. Me, the cows and the chickens.” He gave a forced laugh.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Just fine and dandy,” he snapped. “Except for your gramma and her crazy sister trying to marry me off like some geisha girl up for sale.”

  The simile was not even close to accurate, since geisha girls were entertainers, not prostitutes, but I wasn’t about to correct him and get my own head bit off. “Well, enjoy your time alone. I’ll track Dove down.”

  “Whatever. I’ve got things to do.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

  “You have a nice day, too,” I said to the dial tone. A cranky day for all the men in my life. Even Scout gave me a baleful look when I fed him dry kibble with his normal spoonful of canned dog food. Fortunately, his problem was easier to solve than Gabe’s or Daddy’s. I added a couple strips of cooked boneless chicken. His wagging tail was the nicest comment I’d received this morning.

  This dating thing was really starting to upset my dad. It was past being funny now. I might have to take a chance on getting my nose bit off and speak to Dove and Aunt Garnet about poking into his love life. Though their intentions were honorable, maybe they needed to accept the fact that some people might be happier being single. Daddy certainly didn’t seem dissatisfied with his life. But I’d talk to my gramma and aunt later. Right now, I had enough to worry about with the Memory Festival.

  I dressed in comfortable old jeans, sneakers and a sweatshirt because I would be at the folk art museum today getting things ready for the museum’s booth at the farmers’ market. It would promote both the Memory Festival and the new museum exhibits. Would the fair be safe tonight? So far, there’d been no pattern to the ambushes—one in midday, the other after dark. Would there be a third attack?

  I called Elvia at home to tell her what I knew about the latest attack. Her answering machine came on after the fourth ring. When I tried Blind Harry’s, the clerk said that Elvia and Sophie were at the doctor’s office.

  “No message. I’ll call her later. How’s the Memory Fair flyer situation?”

  “We’re low,” the bookstore clerk said. “People seem real interested.”

  “I’m heading downtown, so I’ll bring more.”

  After dropping off the flyers, I decided to visit my cousin Emory. His office was located a couple of blocks from the bookstore on the second floor above the Ross department store.

  Boone’s Good Eatin’ Chicken’s West Coast offices were decorated with burnished natural oak furniture. Framed photos of 1950s advertising pages depicting chickens and eggs lined the sage green reception-area walls. Oxford American and Reader’s Digest magazines flared out on the antique oak coffee table and an old wooden bowl filled with butterscotch and peppermint hard candies perched on the edge of the receptionist’s desk, which was neat and empty this morning. The offices had the slightly distressed style of a Depression-era country lawyer. I think my cousin had grand illusions of looking like Gregory Peck playing Atticus Finch. The offices had not gotten any bigger now that my uncle Boone had moved out from Arkansas. Uncle Boone left the daily running of the company to Emory now, something that my cousin, who dearly cherished his leisure time, complained about constantly. “Welcome to adulthood,” I always replied to his whining.

  “Hey,” I called out. My voice was a tinny echo in the empty reception room. Normally, one of two women ruled this area—a receptionist named Caitlyn or Emory’s assistant, Birdie, whose office door, next to Emory’s, was closed. No answer.

  “Is anyone home?” I called.

  “Only me and the chickens,” my cousin replied from his office, whose door was partially open. “Come on in, sweetcakes.”

  “Where is everyone?” I asked, glancing around his normally tidy office. Birdie was a fanatic about keeping it neat. Today there were files and papers everywhere, and the air smelled like burned almonds. “What have you been cooking?”

  The smelly culprit turned out to be the coffeemaker on the credenza. I picked up the carafe and twirled the sluggish black liquid. “How long has this been sitting here?”

  He ran both hands through his thick blond hair. “The ladies left for a computer seminar in Santa Barbara yesterday. I’ve been on my own. I made a pot yesterday and just turned on the coffeemaker to heat it up.”

  “Then forgot about it, right?”

  He lifted one shoulder and grinned.

  “Pathetic,” I said, turning off the coffeemaker and unplugging it for good measure. “Why are they both gone at the same time? It’s dangerous leaving you here by yourself.”

  He leaned back in his leather executive chair. “It’s our new computer system. It’ll hook us right up with the plant in Arkansas. The ladies need to take classes to learn how to use it and said it was better if they did it together. I was trying to catch up on some paperwork, but I’m thinkin’ it might be smarter to close up shop until they return.”

  “I’m thinkin’ you might be right,” I said, flopping down in one of his visitor’s chairs. “Is there anything so desperately important that you can’t wait until they get back . . . when?”

  “Friday. Not really.”

  I held up a palm. “Then you have time to talk to me. I need a sympathetic listening ear. Preferably male.”

  He grabbed the coffee brown Hugo Boss jacket slung haphazardly across his chair. “Trouble in paradise?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Let’s walk,” Emory said, taking my hand and tucking it into the crook of his arm. “Tell Cousin Emory all about it.”

  Outside, a weak sun had made an appearance, drying patches of wet pavement. But, in the distance, dark clouds seemed to be gobbling up huge sections of the clean blue sky, warning us that another storm was on its way. Emory glanced up. “Looks like God is getting ready to spit on us real soon.”

  “I do hope you don’t plan on explaining rain to Sophie with that particular metaphor.”

  He smiled. “Speaking of the most beautiful girl in the world next to my darlin’ wife, we got the proofs back of the Easter photos.” He let go of my arm and reached inside his coat, pulling out a thick envelope. “I paid extra to have them sent overnight.”

  On the way downstairs, I flipped through the photos, impressed by Van’s ability to pick the exact right moment to snap the shutter. There were so many cute ones. “Wow, this Van guy really is good.”

  “Not bad for a guy who’s more used to taking photos of hurricane damage, bombed-out cities and other natural and unnatural disasters.”

  “Really? Who did he work for?”

  “Associated Press, I was told, and National Geographic. Then he went independent for a while, took some incredible photos in Beirut. And now he’s a baby photographer. What a co
medown.”

  “I’m sure that’s not all he does.” Out on the street, the sidewalks were busy with people trying to run their errands before the next storm hit. In California, when it rained, people stayed inside as if it were a blizzard.

  “That’s right, he also does college coeds . . . that is, he takes photos of them.” He chuckled at his own joke.

  “Why didn’t he get a job at the Tribune? It seems to me they would snatch someone with his talent and experience right up.”

  “Ageism bites,” Emory said as we passed by the studio where Van Baxter worked. Today there was a younger man sitting behind the desk, talking to three women holding babies. “I don’t really know his story, but he is a bit long in the tooth . . .”

  “That’s crazy. He looks like he’s around Gabe’s age. Forty-eight is not old. Besides, isn’t that against the law?”

  “Call Gloria Allred and see if she’ll take the case. These days a journalist in his late forties is considered over the hill and through the dale and way past great-gramma’s house.” He pulled out a photo of Sophie laughing at the camera, both her dark eyes wide open, sparkling like sunlight on water. “I like this one best. What do you think, three hundred cards?”

  “Who in the heck are you sending three hundred Easter cards to?”

  He looked chagrined. “Crazy, huh? I was thinking about sending them to all the employees at the plant back in Sugartree. With a Visa gift card for twenty-five bucks?”

  “The gift card is thoughtful, but you should restrain yourself to sending her photo to those of us who love her. Her godmother would like five copies.”

  “Absolutely,” he said, taking my elbow and leading me into the new coffeehouse I’d seen on the news the other day, Bitter Grounds. Two uniformed police officers sat at a table near the window. Emory lowered his voice. “So, how is Gabe handling this crazy-ass sniper business?”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. You know, this is the weirdest name for a coffeehouse.” I chose a table in the corner, far from the officers, hoping that no one could hear our conversation. “Seems to me people would steer clear of a coffeehouse that advertises bitter coffee.”