by Nicole Young
I pictured myself across the table from David at the Rawlings Hotel, lifting my glass in toast to a possible future together.
I slumped at the vision.
The only lipstick I owned had to be at least three years old; I’d never had my nails done professionally; and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d bought a new outfit. Goodwill clothing had always served my renovator lifestyle just fine.
Before my thoughts degenerated into an all-out pity party, I reminded myself that David had asked me out before I cut my hair or bought new clothes. He appreciated me for qualities beyond my outer appearance. What those qualities were, I couldn’t yet fathom, but I hoped to discover that on Friday.
Still, stick-on nails with a glossy coat of polish could only enhance my inner attributes.
“A manicure sounds good,” I said.
Tammy led me to an oblong mahogany table near the window. A display rack filled with nail colors took up one end. I sat in a floral-patterned chair and lay a hand on the vinyl pad opposite me. Tammy picked up a file and went to work. White dust gathered on the black surface beneath my fingers.
I peeked at Tammy’s own perfectly manicured hands and wondered how she’d managed to dodge a wedding ring through the years.
“It sounds like you were pretty involved in high school. Do you still stay busy?” I asked, interrupting the steady ssht ssht of the file.
“Absolutely. I spend most of my time with the teens from church. You wouldn’t believe how many hurting families there are in this town. And most of them live in the pretty houses.”
I nodded. I hadn’t lived in one of the pretty houses, as Tammy put it, but I’d endured the lingering pain of my mother’s suicide. I’d probably never forgive Mom for leaving me to be raised by my grandmother.
“Your mother would be spinning in her grave if she knew you were hanging out with that girl,” Grandma would scold. “And look how you’re dressed. Nice girls don’t wear clothes like that.”
It seemed Grandma never approved of anything I liked—my friends, my music, or even the books I read. I finally figured out that life was simpler if I did things Gram’s way.
College had been my first taste of freedom. Unfortunately, it hadn’t lasted long. I remember the sound of Christmas music playing on my roommate’s stereo and the smell of homemade gingerbread cookies from a care package as I answered the phone in my dorm that day more than ten years ago. Nat King Cole’s rendition of “The Christmas Song” became a surreal requiem in light of that brief conversation.
“I’ve got some bad news, sweetie.” Grandma’s voice was filled with false bravado as she told me she was given only a few months to live. “Come on home and we’ll talk about it.”
“Which color do you prefer?”
My head snapped up at Tammy’s question, and I realized I’d been staring vacantly as she’d applied my nail tips. I looked at the myriad of opaque, gloss, and pearlescent polishes on the rack beside me.
Choices.
I excelled in a one-color scheme in all my renovation projects: off-white. When dealing with discerning homebuyers, walls the color of cream cheese frosting were the safest, least offensive choice.
But that seemed far too tame a shade for a Friday night at the Rawlings Hotel.
Tammy leaned her elbows on the vinyl pad. “What will you be wearing? That’s the easiest way to decide.”
What will I be wearing? I chewed my lip. Jeans and a tee would never do.
“What should I wear?” I asked. After all, she was the professional.
She cocked her head and poked her lips to one side. “Hmmm. How about something blue? That will show off your hair and eyes.”
The suggestion brought to mind an exterior paint chip card I’d been contemplating for accent colors at the Victorian. The shade was a rich, medium blue, like the sky over Lake Michigan on a summer morning.
I wrestled my mind back to the moment. I could probably track down some bluesy outfit at one of the local clothing stores.
“Blue it is,” I replied. “Which polish choices does that give me?”
“I hate to do this to you.” Tammy reached for a bottle filled with a pale fleshy-mauve tone. “This is Rebecca Ramsey’s favorite shade. The woman might be a witch, but she has impeccable taste.”
I tested my new nails on the mahogany tabletop, enjoying the clickety-clickety sound of the long tips. Somehow from David’s puppy-dog eyes back at the supermarket, I hadn’t figured Rebecca for a witch. And he’d seemed sincerely remorseful about the divorce papers arriving the other day. But then again, what kind of woman disappears for a year and then writes home with a divorce decree?
“Impeccable taste or not, I can’t imagine wearing her shade to dinner with David.” I searched the rows for a color I could call my own.
The sheer pressure of having to choose a single shade had me swallowing to chase down the acid climbing my esophagus. I panicked, settling on a Flamingo Pink in the second row.
Tammy opened the bottle and painted a stripe down the center of one nail. She paused, waiting for my approval. The bright fuchsia had me squinting. The color went completely against my personality, but I was open to fresh ideas.
“Perfect.” I nodded for Tammy to continue. Ten minutes later, she showed me to an overstuffed chair by the window where I could sit and let my nails harden. I folded my legs under me and relaxed.
Just as my chic new hairdo hit the fabric behind me, the hat-clad head of Martin Dietz bounced past the plate glass and up the steps of the Beauty Boutique. I sat up and gripped the armrests, forgetting the still-wet polish on my fingers.
A pinky nail popped off and landed on the floor with a tiny clink. I stared at my mutated hand. That man was nothing but bad news. If I scrunched up small enough in the chair, I could probably go unnoticed.
I sensed him as he walked in the door. The loud jangle of bells punctuated his entrance, giving clear warning of a black mood.
I hunched lower and listened for his bellowing voice.
Instead, I heard a low rumbling sound that seemed soft and sensual. “Good morning, Tammy.”
“Hi, Martin,” Tammy returned with trademark cheeriness.
I peeked around the tall back of my chair to double-check that I hadn’t been transported to an alternate universe.
Dietz was leaning across the front counter, practically gazing into Tammy’s eyes.
Where was the evil zoning official who had given me such a rude welcome to Rawlings the other morning? I watched, amazed, as he hung his coat and hat on the rack by the door, seemingly laid-back and friendly.
He rubbed his scalp and smiled. “Time for a trim.”
Tammy giggled.
I tried not to puke.
I turned back toward the window, holding my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. It seemed the local ogre had some budding attraction for the local hairdresser. That explained Dietz’s out-of-character generosity toward the church youth. I didn’t peg Tammy as the Beauty-and-the-Beast type, but I figured she could flirt with whomever she wanted as long as she wasn’t hounding after David.
I plucked at a nail tip. It seemed secure enough. Time to get back to the house and start on another upstairs bedroom. Once I got the second floor done, I’d have some furniture brought in and could at least enjoy a mattress and a fluffy pillow at bedtime. With a decent night’s sleep once in a while, I should be able to get the rest of the house done by selling season.
I fished under the chair for my pinky nail, tucked it into my jeans pocket, then walked over to the counter to pay the bill. As I approached, Dietz dropped his relaxed pose and stiffened to full height.
I squinted into his eyes, daring him to make some comment.
He glared at me, his bald head bulging with veins. I half expected him to snort and paw like a raging bull.
Tammy dove between us. “Doesn’t Tish look great, Martin?”
She touched a strand of hair that followed the line of my jaw. “With a
little restyling, we’ve uncovered the real Tish Amble. And she’s beautiful.”
Tammy turned toward Dietz. “Isn’t she, Martin?”
The red drained out of his face and he cleared his throat.
“You certainly look like a different person,” he said to me.
I stood flabbergasted. It seemed Tammy had already tamed the beast. I gave a half smile, slapped enough money on the counter to cover the bill plus tip, and headed for the door.
I practically sprinted the half block to the Whistle Stop Coffee Shop, hoping to put some fast distance between Dietz and me.
The scent of fresh, hot coffee calmed my jostled nerves.
“Brrr,” I said to the bejeweled attendant inside. “Feels like January out there.”
“It’s supposed to get colder this weekend.” The girl’s diamond lip stud flashed with each word.
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “I guess I better warm up with a café mocha. A drop of raspberry in that too, please.”
“Whipped cream today?”
“Absolutely.”
Coffee Girl blended and poured and stirred until my order was steaming in front of me on the counter.
“By the way,” she said, “I watched it.”
I looked at her, perplexed. “Watched what?”
“Casablanca. I didn’t like the ending.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Why not? Rick did the right thing.”
“I know, but he loved Ilsa. They should have been together.”
“Ilsa didn’t love Rick. She loved Victor.”
Coffee Girl leaned over the counter toward me. “Victor Lund was an idea, not a man. Rick was real. I wanted her to love Rick.”
I’d never seen such passion in the usually complacent young woman.
I shrugged. “Ilsa made a tough choice. We can only guess at the outcome.” I picked up the Styrofoam cup. “Thanks for the coffee,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out the door.
The sharp November air sliced through me like hedge cutters. Though it was only noon, dark clouds had moved overhead, creating a perpetual twilight. The first snow of the year would surely grace us by the end of the week.
I came around the rear corner of the house and headed to the garage for the snow shovel. The back porch would be the best place to lean it for the next five months or so.
One foot caught on a ridge in the blacktop driveway and I stumbled. The cup of café mocha flew out of my grasp and settled lidless on the pavement. I caught myself with outstretched palms, saving my secondhand jeans from a bigger hole in the knee. I dusted my hands off and watched the last drops of coffee drain onto the ground. In my side vision, I caught that “something’s not right” feeling. I turned toward the rear of my towering Victorian.
My eyes rested on the basement window, the one just above the spooky old cistern. A stick protruded out the bottom sash, propping open the flip-out window half an inch.
I froze to the pavement. Icy wind forced its way into my lungs. At least I wouldn’t die from lack of oxygen while I waited for my senses to come back on line.
I stood there breathless, trying to figure out how that window ended up open. Just a few nights ago, Brad had assured me everything was locked up. So when had a stick magically appeared in the sill?
12
I stared at the propped-open window and remembered the body I’d imagined beneath the concrete. I wondered what I’d see if I peered through the glass into the cistern. Human features twisted in suffering? I fought a swell of vomit at the idea . . . Behind me in the yard, the ancient catalpa tree groaned.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, I told myself.
A car clattered across the tracks. From a nearby garage came the hum of an automatic door opener. The sounds of everyday life prevailed over the dizzy whirl of my brain. There had to be a rational explanation for the stick in my window, if not for the face in my cistern.
I peeled my feet from the pavement and spun toward Brad Walters’ house. He was the last person in that cellar. He’d better have good justification for the piece of wood that made my house accessible to any crazed axe-murderer in Rawlings.
I banged on Brad’s front door three times with my fist. The sound of my impatience made me take a step back. I didn’t want Officer Walters to think I was some hot-tempered psycho-chick, at least not until I had definite proof that he was behind the open-window incident. Then he’d get a piece of my mind.
I concentrated on my air intake while I admired the tidy exterior of Brad’s home. Bright white trim and dark gray shutters accented cheerful yellow siding. The grass was cut back from the smooth sidewalk, and a row of cone-shaped evergreens lined the front of the house. I looked down at the cement porch beneath me and made a mental note to tell Brad he’d better fix the cracks or potential buyers might count it against him. I couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t replaced the porch the same time he’d had the sidewalk done, which was no doubt within the last couple years.
A faint thudding came from inside the house. I looked toward the door just as Brad opened it. If it hadn’t been almost lunchtime, I would have sworn he was still in his pajamas. He wore a sleeveless white tee and clingy black sweatpants. His hair stuck up on one side like it had recently been mashed against a pillowcase. One of those sleep-induced lines ran down his cheek, and that moist area on the side of his mouth could very well be drool.
One bicep, thick as the pillars holding up my front porch, blocked the doorway. My eyes traveled over the hump of solid muscle. Funny, Brad hadn’t seemed so huge with clothes on.
I tried choking out a hello. Instead, my mouth dropped in dumb awe.
What was wrong with me? I’d seen plenty of well-endowed Uniforms before. I’d seen big, bare-muscled hunks on TV. There was no reason to stare at a man’s body just because it had obviously been put to good use. And let’s face it, I was hitting middle age. I shouldn’t even blink twice at the sight in front of me. I took a step back.
“Everything okay?” Brad asked.
“Ummm . . .” I knew I was here for a reason, I just couldn’t think of it at the moment. I looked at my feet. A crack led up to the door, then branched back in two directions, like a big arrow pointing at Brad, saying, “He’s the one. He’s the one.”
He was the one, all right. Now I remembered what I was here for. I put my hands on my hips. “Everything is not okay. When you walked through my house the other night, you somehow missed the log propping open the basement window. Anybody could have gotten in there. I’m lucky I didn’t get my throat slit in my sleep.”
“Whoa.” Brad crossed his arms. “What are you talking about? What log?”
“Not a log, exactly. More like a stick. But either way, that window isn’t secure. And I want to know why.”
Brad ruffled a hand through his hair. “Hang on. Let me get dressed.”
He shut the door, leaving me alone on the porch. I stared at the six panels of glossy white. If it had been my house, I would have asked him inside. I felt a little put out having to wait here, especially since I hadn’t yet grabbed my winter coat out of the trunk of my car.
I sat down on the first step and scrunched up to keep warm. Directly across the street, the railroad tracks stretched east and west. Behind them lay an unkempt field of grass, then began the first buildings of downtown.
I shook my head. The inferior view coupled with the ear-blasting trains that ran rampant through town would definitely count against poor Brad upon resale. He’d have been smart not to get shackled with the home in the first place. But hey, not everyone was as house-savvy as me. At least my house had a row of shade trees hiding the railroad tracks. And if I were lucky, the next owner wouldn’t even notice the tracks until the papers were signed.
I wondered how Brad had ended up in Rawlings. Where had he grown up? Why had he become a cop? Why wasn’t he married?
I sighed. Maybe I should have said yes to his dinner invitation. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even if he was a Uniform. He’d proba
bly just wanted to welcome me to the neighborhood like he’d said, not quiz me on my pathetic past. In fact, Brad didn’t even seem to care that I’d done time. That alone said heaps about his intentions. If he were looking for a long-term relationship, he sure wouldn’t pick me.
I leaned on my hands and sighed again.
Yep. I was safe with Brad.
The door opened and I turned to see him dressed in work boots, blue jeans, and a gray sweatshirt. Though he still looked built, his jaw-dropping features were now safely covered with fabric.
“Why don’t you show me the problem,” Brad said, coming down the steps.
When he got to the bottom, he turned and looked at me. Tall as I was, my head only reached his shoulder.
“By the way, your hair looks great,” he said.
I touched my new do, suddenly appalled by its lack of length. It seemed anybody could see right to my core without those fluffy flyaways to hide behind. And though Brad’s eyes had appeared dull brown on Halloween night, they were definitely sparkling with x-ray vision today.
I pursed my lips, determined not to be sidetracked by eye color observations. Especially since there was a pair of beautiful blue ones waiting to take me out Friday night.
“Follow me.” I led him up Railroad Street to the edge of his property, then angled through the crackled-white picket gate onto my own land. I kept close to the fence line, which was thick with out-of-control weeds and infant trees mixed with a border of daylily greens. Jan Hershel apparently hadn’t cared much for gardening. The unsightly mess could only come from years of consistent neglect. I was tempted to take a rototiller to the whole yard and start fresh.
But the grounds would have to wait until after I brought the gasping-for-life Victorian back to health. I halted on the pavement and pointed to the basement window. Brad moved past me and knelt down, squinting at the weeds and dirt surrounding the foundation. He stared at the stick in the sill for a minute, patting his fingers to his lips.
“It’s nothing more than a twig, really. I’m surprised you even noticed it. Let’s have a look inside.” He stood and walked toward the back porch.
