She would finish the job in her underwear and hope she didn’t get paint on her bra and panties. She’d worn her red ones in honor of Valentine’s Day. They were lacy, yes, but surprisingly comfortable.
She adjusted the window shutters, slanting them to hide her from outside view while still allowing in natural light. The French doors that led to the balcony had small windows in their top halves. Hopefully no one could see through those.
She kicked off her shoes and socks and then undressed, feeling oddly self-conscious about being half naked in someone else’s bedroom. What if the Duponts came home early? People did that sometimes. Best to hurry. She laid her clothes in front of the wall, put the paint can in the middle of her sweatshirt, and started painting.
She made quick, wide strokes with the brush, working as fast as she could. The bare spot disappeared. So did the startled pigeon. She had just finished the wall when a noise sounded off to her side, startling her. She spun around, paint brush gripped like a weapon.
It took a moment for her to realize the noise was a bedside phone ringing, but by then it was too late. She’d accidentally knocked into the paint can, tipping it over. Paint spilled across her foot and onto her sweatshirt.
No. Oh no. This could not happen. Her sweatshirt had been sufficient to protect the carpet from paint splatters, but it wouldn’t prevent half a can of paint from soaking through.
She needed to get the mess out of the bedroom before it leaked everywhere. She grabbed her jeans and used them to wipe off her foot, so she didn’t leave blue footprints on the carpet. With every second that took, she was acutely aware that the paint puddle was spreading out and soaking through her sweatshirt.
She couldn’t ruin the Duponts’ carpet. That would be horrible.
The phone continued to ring, making it hard to think. She picked up her sweatshirt, paint can and all, cradling both in an attempt to keep the paint from spilling. Where to go? The bathroom was too far away. She’d drip before she got there. That left only one solution that she could see. She darted to the balcony, flung open the door, and stepped outside into the cold air.
Now what? She’d saved the carpet from paint, but the balcony had expensive-looking stonework and she doubted the Duponts would want a paint-soaked sweatshirt lying on the floor. Two wooden reclining chairs sat on the balcony along with a wrought iron coffee table. She couldn’t put her sweatshirt on any of those without ruining them.
She didn’t glance at the neighboring townhouses or the ones across the street. She didn’t have time to worry if anyone had noticed her, although a silent prayer went through her mind: Please don’t let any leering teenage boys or easily shocked old ladies be nearby. Really, anyone with a camera…
The paint was running down her hands. Below was the street, the sidewalk, a small patch of grass, and a couple of bushes bordering the walkway that wound toward the front of the house. If she flung her shirt into the street, how long would the blue spot at the curb last? Months? Years? She could imagine the Duponts grimacing every time they pulled up to their townhouse and saw it. That left one option, the grass.
She hung over the balcony, aimed, and tossed her sweatshirt in the direction of the lawn. As soon as the bundle left her hands, she thought of all the things that could go wrong. She could have horribly bad aim and hit her own car, which was parked on the street. Worse, some random pedestrian could suddenly appear. How awful would that be— death by falling paint can? Fortunately, the sweatshirt hit the lawn with an uneventful thud. The can rolled off, leaving a blue smudge next to her shirt.
Crisis averted. She would clear away the mess she’d made on her way out, and she’d text Mr. Dupont tomorrow to explain what had happened to the lawn. Hopefully he wouldn’t be too upset about his grass getting a coat of paint. She finally glanced at the neighboring townhouses to see if anyone had noticed her on the balcony in her underwear. No one seemed to be around. Good. Finally, one of her prayers had been answered.
She turned to go inside and saw that the French doors had shut. She wiped the paint from her hands so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints anywhere and reached for the doorknob. Her mind was already working on the problem of driving home shirtless. The Duponts had to have something she could borrow. An old jacket. Or a roll of paper towels she could tape together in the shape of a shirt. Anything.
She twisted the doorknob. It didn’t turn.
“No!” She knew what this meant, but couldn’t accept it for several seconds. She kept turning the knob, all the while muttering the word, “No!” over and over again.
Apparently, the front door wasn’t the only one that locked automatically. The balcony doors did, too, and now she was locked out in her underwear.
Chapter Two
Bethany stood on the balcony, reviewing her options. She was three stories up, and even if she had been able to scale down the front of the Duponts’ townhouse, her keys and phone were locked inside. She had no way to drive home, and no means to call anyone for help.
She started shivering, and it wasn’t just from the cold. She wrapped her arms around herself and once more scanned the rows of townhouses surrounding her, looking for anyone who might have noticed her predicament. If a neighbor saw her, they could do something to help, like call the Duponts and have them send someone to let her inside. Or at the very least, contact the fire department to come with a ladder.
No one was around except for a Siamese cat that regarded her placidly from a chair on the balcony to her left. Bethany stood there, bouncing on the balls of her feet to try and keep warm. Her teeth began to chatter. “Okay, God, I need to take back that prayer you granted a couple of minutes ago. I’ll take an easily shocked old lady, or even a leering teenage boy…”
No one decided to stroll out onto their balcony at this moment. Of course they didn’t. Murphy’s law.
The air was chilly and was going to get colder as the day shifted to night. She was probably in for rain, too. This was Seattle, after all. She pulled her hair from its ponytail holder in an effort to keep her neck warm. How long would it take before someone noticed her up here? Should she scream for help? Was there any other way to avoid complete humiliation?
The cat on the balcony to her left jumped from its perch, hurried to its door, and slipped inside.
Wait. The Duponts had a Siamese cat that looked just like that one. She’d painted it onto their bedroom wall, so she knew. Was the next balcony over actually one of the rooms in their townhouse? Had to be. What were the chances that the Duponts’ neighbors had an identical Siamese cat?
The cat had gone through a balcony door that had been propped open. Marta had opened some windows and doors earlier, to air out the place so it didn’t smell like paint. Had she forgotten to close one of them?
The balconies were close together— maybe four or five feet apart. Too far to jump from a standstill. Bethany would have to find another way to get over there. She couldn’t be stuck out here in her underwear when an open door was so close.
The only items on her side were two chairs, a table, and a wind chime. The wooden reclining chairs were built like pool loungers. Long enough to use as a bridge? If she tried, would one of them hold her or would it fold?
She stood there for a few minutes waiting for another solution to present itself or for someone to come to their window and see her. Neither happened, even though she yelled out, “Hey! Is anyone around?” Twice. Sheesh, where were all the people in this neighborhood? Working late at their high-power jobs? Busy with Valentine’s plans? Maybe they were so wealthy they had other homes and only used their townhouses in the summer. This wouldn’t have surprised her. The Duponts were certainly loaded.
Bethany dragged the wooden chair over to the edge of the balcony, reclined it until it lay flat, and then flipped it over. To keep it from folding and collapsing, she took down the wind chime and wound it between the chair slats then tied it tight. With one of the chair’s ends resting on the floor, she leaned the other end against the raili
ng and pushed the middle to see if it would fold. It didn’t. She put more pressure against it. Still held. Maybe it would work as a bridge.
She hefted the chair up and began sliding it across the space between the balconies. The thing was unwieldy, scraped her arms, and before she was done she had several sliver splinters in her fingers. But she held on, afraid the chair would slip from her grasp and fall to the ground before it reached the other balcony. Which perhaps wouldn’t have been a bad thing, if the crash caused someone to come out of their townhouse and notice her.
Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, she didn’t drop the chair. With a little bit of swinging and shoving, she managed to lay it across the balcony railings. Then she stared at her impromptu bridge and wondered if trying to go across it was really worth risking her life. She imagined news stories about a woman found dead in her underwear, mysteriously sprawled on a near stranger’s lawn. Would people speculate whether Bethany had decided to end it all, rather than face another Valentine’s Day with only the prospect of a blind date as comfort?
Dying that way would be so tacky. She spent several more minutes shivering in the cold, contemplating news stories until she felt so frozen, she decided to chance death anyway. People walked across wooden bridges all the time. Wood was a sturdy thing. She’d be fine.
She pushed the table up to the railing so she could step easily on the chair-bridge. Gingerly, she placed one foot onto it. Seemed fine. This was so stupid, so dangerous. If this thing slipped… She didn’t let herself think about it, just put her other foot onto the chair as well.
Holding her breath, she hurried across. And then she was safe on the other balcony. She stood there for a moment, panting like she’d run a marathon. But she didn’t linger outside. She darted through the door and shut it behind her with a sigh of relief. Finally, she could get her stuff and go home.
She was in a bedroom, a large one with flowered wallpaper and a matching bedspread on a queen-sized bed. A guest room? No, it was being used by someone. The clutter on an antique dresser attested to that. Well, it didn’t matter whose room it was. She needed to find the master bedroom. She’d feel better once she had her jeans and shoes on and could look around for a coat closet. When she texted Mr. Dupont about the paint on the lawn, she’d tell him she’d borrowed a jacket and would return it Monday, once they were home.
Bethany stepped into the hallway and stopped short. This couldn’t be right. The hallway should have led to the left in order to reach the master bedroom. Instead, it went straight ahead and to the right. Was there some other way to get to the Duponts’ bedroom? Was she turned around? She’d never gone anywhere in the house except up the stairs and to the master bedroom. The rest of the house was unfamiliar.
She didn’t let herself think about the other option— that she might not be in the right townhouse. She had to be. She just needed to find the stairs and reorient herself.
She went down the hallway until she saw the stairs. And then it became hard to breathe. Because instead of the black wrought iron staircase the Duponts had, this staircase was cherry wood.
She was in the wrong townhome.
Could this day possibly get worse?
An ominous clicking noise behind her announced that yes, things could most definitely get worse. She’d heard that sound before in movies— a gun safety being released.
“Don’t move!” a wavering voice said behind her. An older man’s gravelly voice.
Bethany slowly raised her hands to show she wasn’t armed.
“This is a mistake,” she said, her own voice wavering as well. “I thought this was the Duponts’ townhouse… your neighbors.” She turned around, hands still raised. “I got locked out of their house while I was on the balcony—”
“Don’t come any closer!” The man pointing the gun was probably in his seventies. What hair he had left was completely white. He was short and overweight with an overly large nose and glasses. His hand shook as he held the gun, which was not a good sign. Up until this moment, she’d thought that being found inexplicably sprawled dead on the lawn was the tackiest way to die. But no. Being shot dead in her underwear while breaking into a stranger’s house was even worse.
“This is all a misunderstanding,” she insisted. “Don’t shoot.”
“Stay where you are,” the man barked, hands still trembling.
An elderly woman peeked out from one of the bedrooms and glared at Bethany. She held a phone in her hand. “The police are on their way. Don’t get any ideas.”
Ideas? What did these people think was going through her mind? Bethany kept her voice as calm as she could manage. “I’m not a burglar. I was painting your next-door neighbor’s house, and I locked myself out—”
“Painting in your underwear?” The man scoffed. “I don’t believe you. You’re a burglar, and you dress that way so that if men catch you, they won’t turn you in.” He shook his head reprovingly. “Won’t work on me, hussy.”
“I’ve got paint splotches all over me.” Bethany turned her hands, showing him the blue paint. “See?”
“That’s your cover.”
“My cover?” she repeated incredulously. “If I meant to break inside someone’s home, I would have chosen an outfit that was less conspicuous than red underwear and a bit warmer than a coat of paint.”
The woman scowled. “You thought you could get in here without us noticing, didn’t you? Well, we heard you from the moment you laid that plank across our balcony.”
Too bad they hadn’t noticed a few minutes earlier, when she’d called for help.
Bethany slowly lowered her hands. “Look, I just finished a mural for Mr. Dupont. Really. You can call and ask him.” She asked the next question with trepidation. “Do you know the Duponts?”
They wouldn’t, of course. Because fate was determined to torture her.
“Oh, we know them.” The woman said. “They’re out of town right now, so you’ve no business at their home. Were you robbing them, too? Is that it?”
At least they knew the Duponts. That was a start. “Call Mr. Dupont and ask him.”
The woman made tsking noises. “You’re trying to get me to hang up with the police, aren’t you?”
Bethany looked at the house phone the woman carried. “You don’t have to hang up. Don’t you have a cell phone?”
“Yes,” the woman admitted. “But I don’t use it much. It’s just for emergencies.” Then she didn’t say anything else.
“Well,” Bethany prompted, “this seems like an emergency. Why don’t you use it now?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “How do I know that you’re not trying to get me to leave, so you can pull something?”
The woman was determined to believe that Bethany was enacting some devious plot. Clearly the result of watching too many TV cop shows. In reality, Bethany could hardly think at all— let alone come up with ninja moves that would allow her to escape Gun-wielding Grandpa.
She gestured to the man. “Your husband is pointing a gun at me. I’m not going anywhere.”
The woman pressed her lips together in determination. “Fine. But I’ll be right back.” She disappeared into the room. A shuffling sound came from inside, the sound of drawers opening and closing. A minute passed. The woman reappeared. “Howard, what did we do with that phone?”
“Isn’t it plugged in by the computer?”
“That’s where I thought it was,” the woman said. “But it’s not there now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” The woman sounded offended. “Why don’t you ever believe me when I tell you things?”
The situation just kept getting more surreal. Not only was she being held at gunpoint, she was being held at gunpoint by incompetent people.
“You must have taken it somewhere,” the man said.
Bethany lifted her hand to get their attention. “The police officer you’re talking to probably has another phone. You could ask them.”
The woman didn
’t acknowledge that Bethany had spoken. “I put it in my purse when I went shopping.” She shuffled out of the bedroom, passed her husband and Bethany, and went down the stairs.
Another minute went by. The up and down trill of a siren came from outside, growing louder. The police were almost to the house. It would have been nice if Mr. Dupont could have vouched for her before this moment, but at least with the police here, Bethany wouldn’t have to worry about Howard getting too twitchy and accidentally shooting her.
She wrapped her arms around herself, cold again now that some of the adrenaline was wearing off. The siren grew louder, and then it turned off. Soon after, a knock sounded on the door. Without waiting to be let in, the officer opened the door and yelled, “Police!”
“Come in!” the woman called to him from downstairs. “We’re holding the burglar on the third floor.”
“Are you Mrs. Swanson?” the policeman asked.
They spoke to each other for a few moments in more subdued voices. Bethany couldn’t make out what they said as they walked up the stairs.
Please let this be over soon, she thought. And please let the officer be a reasonable person who has a sense of humor.
When he came into view, she saw that her prayer had been answered— at least about the sense of humor part. She knew the man had one because it was the same cop who’d pulled her over for going through the light. Mr. October, himself. His must have been the closest squad car.
Bethany wasn’t sure whether she should be glad he was the police officer on call or not. Was this good news because he seemed like a nice guy, or bad news because he knew she’d already committed another illegal offense today? She couldn’t decide. Mostly, she had to fight the urge to laugh hysterically.
Valentine's Day Collection (A Timeless Romance Anthology Book 19) Page 2
