Into the Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She laughed. He was smiling, too, and this time it was more genuine. “I really am sorry about yesterday,” he added as he held open the door to the restaurant, “and I really do appreciate your willingness to have lunch with me.”

  “I thought I already forgave you last night,” she said, taking off her sunglasses and letting her eyes adjust to the lack of blinding sunlight inside. “Although, if you’re really that contrite, I’ll let you make it up to me by telling me where most of Team Sixteen were this morning, all morning. Training, I’ll bet. But what kind of training?”

  “Joan, there are things I can’t tell you, no matter how contrite I am. You know this. Don’t pretend you don’t. I cannot answer any questions that are about past, present, or future operations.” She opened her mouth, but he stopped her. “Yes, you can shout about your security clearance until you’re blue in the face. You can even proposition me—promise me kinky sex till we both drop from exhaustion—but it won’t do any good. You can marry me, for crying out loud, bear my children, and spend the next fifty years with me. But I still can’t and won’t answer questions about operations.” He stepped up to the hostess. “Table for two. Near the windows, please.”

  The young woman flashed her dimples at Muldoon as she gave him a very deliberate once-over. It took her far less time to size up Joan. “One moment, Lieutenant.” She vanished into the restaurant, and Muldoon turned back to Joan.

  Avoid, avoid, avoid his kinky sex comment. She had to ignore it as completely as she ignored that dismissive look from that hostess bitch. Don’t take that bait, Joan. Don’t do it. He was testing her, but she was strong.

  “Okay,” she told him.

  Her surrender completely caught him off guard. The expression on his face was comical. “Okay? Just like that, okay?”

  “Are you really going to argue about my agreeing with you?” she said. “Aren’t you the one who wanted an indigestion-free lunch?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “If I ask you a question that you can’t or won’t answer, you just say pass. Is that okay? It’s easier than me trying to figure out what I can and can’t ask. This way I’ll just ask everything and you can be the censor.”

  He was looking at her as if he were wishing he could climb into her head to find out what she was really up to.

  “Lieutenant Muldoon. What a pleasure.”

  Joan turned to see sheer perfection holding out a manicured hand and smiling up at Mike Muldoon. Petite and blue-eyed with perfectly coiffed honey-blond hair and a figure reminiscent of Pamela Anderson’s, perfection wore Armani today and carried a handbag that matched her high-heeled shoes.

  On closer inspection, perfection was in her early to mid-forties, but since she could probably still cause a riot by wearing a bikini, that quite possibly made her even more perfect.

  Muldoon shook the outstretched perfect hand, morphing neatly into his too-polite evil twin. “Mrs. Tucker. How are you, ma’am?”

  Tucker, Tucker. Joan had heard that name before. And she couldn’t deny she got a charge of sadistic delight in hearing perfection get blatantly ma’am-ed.

  “Call me Laurel, please, and I’m wonderful. Larry’s gone to D.C. for a few days—it’s always a nice break to have him out of the house.” Her voice was as perfect as the rest of her. Musical and sweetly sultry. Shades of Barbara Eden’s Jeannie. Thank you, Master. “You remember my daughter, Lindsey.”

  Lurking behind perfection was a skinny, freckle-faced teenager with short brown curls and a bad habit of biting her fingernails.

  Muldoon nodded at the girl. “Yes, I do.”

  Oh, poor little Lindsey. Joan couldn’t imagine how hard it would be to go through life with perfection for a mother. Talk about difficult childhoods. How could the entire world not compare them and find the daughter lacking? The whispers and stares must be excruciating.

  And poor Lindsey was too young yet to know that the best men, the worthwhile men—the ones worth having and sometimes even keeping—didn’t want anything to do with perfection.

  Muldoon, who was doing his SEAL robot impression with real finesse, turned to Joan with his polite smile carefully in place. “This is Joan DaCosta. She’s on staff at the White House and in town for a couple of weeks.”

  Joan felt the warmth of his hand at her waist and realized that he’d actually put his arm around her. As if they were there on a real date. As if lunch weren’t the most nonromantic meal of the day.

  Perfect Mrs. Tucker—whom Joan finally remembered was married to the skeevy admiral with the thinning hair—had a dead-fish handshake. “Lovely to meet you, Joan. I’m Laurel.”

  “Nice meeting you both,” she said. Lindsey didn’t seem to want to shake her hand. The girl was fiercely occupied by a hangnail.

  “Lieutenant, your table is ready.” The hostess bitch was back, holding a pair of menus.

  “Please excuse us,” Muldoon said. “Mrs. Tucker. Lindsey.”

  He kept his hand on Joan’s waist all the way to their table, only letting her go to hold out her chair for her.

  She waited until he’d sat down and the hostess had handed them both menus. By that time, her imagination had gone into overdrive.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said, leaning across the table so that she could speak in a low voice, “tell me that there’s something going on between you and Laurel.” She imitated the way the woman spoke.

  He laughed, and just like that the robot SEAL was gone and Mike Muldoon was back. “Why not? She’s pretty hot. Don’t you think she’s hot?”

  “Oh, my God, Michael!” She put down her menu without giving it a glance. “Were you…”

  She shut her mouth, able only to make questioning, disbelieving eyes at him, as a waiter brought them bread and filled their glasses with water. Finally he left, and she leaned closer to Muldoon again, lowering her voice even more. “Were you trying to make her jealous or something? Was that what that was? You know, the arm around me thing?”

  “Jealous? Wow, no,” he said, with a laugh. “I was just…I don’t know. She freaks me out a little. She’s always there when I turn around, like she’s maybe looking for some play, or…I don’t know, it’s probably just my imagination, but I thought if she thought I was involved with someone…”

  “Like that would stop her. I thought she was going to drool on your hand. I mean, hello, subtlety! News bulletin just in: Larry’s gone to D.C. for a few days. Why don’t you come up and see me sometime, sailor? Talk about blatant. And right in front of her daughter. Shit. Ain’t no maybe here, babe. She wants your ass.”

  Muldoon smiled weakly. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Maybe again.” She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed so much. “Come on.”

  “I’m pretty sure she’s just playing a game. You know, just flirting with me.”

  “Honey, she was looking at you as if you were dessert, and today was National Break-the-Diet Day.”

  He glanced across the room to where Laurel and Lindsey were being seated with a woman who looked as if her bathroom mirror was a time portal to 1983. Big hair. Big hair.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. “Her husband’s a player. I think on some level it would really appeal to her, you know, to sleep with a SEAL to get back at him for all the times he’s cheated. Particularly since he’s not a fan of SpecWar, and in particular since he’s not a fan of Team Sixteen. Some of the guys think I should play out the scenario, see what she’d actually do if I responded to one of her innuendoes, but I can’t do that. I mean, what if she’s serious? Then what do I do? She’s married. And I don’t mess around with women who are married. Even if they are hot.”

  That was what was holding him back? She was married? “But, ew, isn’t she, like, too…” Joan couldn’t think of the right word.

  “Old?” he suggested.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes! Old. She’s old enough to be your mother.”

  “Actually, my mother had me pretty late in life. Sh
e just turned seventy, so—”

  “I didn’t mean literally, Einstein. I meant in theory. Laurel Tucker’s got to be fifteen or twenty years older than you. That’s creepy.”

  “Why?”

  He was serious.

  “Because it is,” Joan told him.

  “No, it’s not. Susan Sarandon’s almost thirty years older than me. She’s been my fantasy date for years. Still is. She’s in her fifties and I’d do her in a heartbeat. Whoa, that was pretty crude. Sorry.”

  “Crude, schmood. I’m thrilled to death to find out that beneath that glowing exterior, you’re a real, normal, red-blooded human male.”

  “Yeah, I’m not sure about normal,” Muldoon told her with a laugh.

  “Susan Sarandon, huh? That’s…very interesting.”

  “Put her in black leather, and I wouldn’t even care if she had a significant other or not. All rules would go right out the window.”

  Mike Muldoon—the closest thing to an angel in all of SEAL Team Sixteen, hell, in probably all of the SEAL teams on both coasts of the U.S.—liked black leather when worn by mature celebrities. Oh, dear. Joan didn’t know whether to laugh hysterically or run out of the restaurant. “Next you’re going to tell me you’re into domination.”

  She’d meant it as a joke, but he just smiled. “Yeah, well, put a whip in her hand and I’m not running away.”

  She couldn’t manage to keep her mouth shut or even change the subject to something more safe, more staid. “Susan Sarandon’s skinny, isn’t she? I thought you didn’t like skinny women.”

  “Actually she’s extremely curvaceous. Go rent Bull Durham. I think she was a few years older than you when she made that movie. That was the one that made me completely fall in lust with her.” He held out the basket of bread to her.

  It was Italian with sesame seeds on the top. Joan took a piece, and he did then, too.

  God, he was about as subtle as Laurel Tucker with this talk of older women. She helped herself to some butter and tried to pass it to Muldoon, but he shook his head. “No thanks.”

  Joan knew exactly what he was doing here and it was not going to work. Even if he was sincere, which he certainly seemed to be, the rest of the world didn’t have his open-minded perspective.

  So, okay. Maybe she should try her “bad idea for people who work together to date” speech, because apparently the “little brother/let’s be best friends” approach wasn’t working. Or maybe it would work, if she just kept reinforcing it, the way she’d planned.

  She buttered her bread. “What do you think about Brooke Bryant? Hot or not so hot?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “Very hot. Another woman who’s not too thin.” Or too young. He didn’t have to say it—she could read that loud and clear from the look in his eyes.

  “Actually, she yo-yos,” Joan told him, ignoring both his eyes and his unspoken message. “I know her pretty well.”

  He didn’t pick up the conversational ball. He just sat there, watching her and eating his piece of Italian bread.

  “Don’t you want to know what she’s really like?” she prompted.

  “Oh,” he said. “Sure. I’m sorry, I’m…What’s she really like?”

  “She’s very sweet,” Joan said. “A lot more like her father than the newspapers and TV news let you think. She tends to run a little too emotional, but you can’t really blame her considering the kind of stress she’s under—that constant public scrutiny. It would drive me insane.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I bet. That must be really hard.” He cleared his throat. “Look, Joan—”

  She cut him off. “I have a favor to ask you. A big favor.”

  “I’m here to help you,” he said. “If there’s anything in my power that I can—”

  “There is,” she said. “I need to find Brooke an escort to that party Admiral Crowley is hosting over at the Del on Saturday.”

  It was obvious that was not the favor he had been hoping to hear her ask. He carefully wiped the crumbs from his fingers with his napkin, then put it back in his lap. “I could help you find someone to escort her, sure,” he finally said.

  Enough already. “I was thinking of you.”

  “Me.” He took a sip of water. “Why me?”

  “Because I know if you’re with her, she won’t get into any trouble. Because I trust you. Because.”

  He took his time in answering her. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What’s not to know? It’s not like I’m suggesting an arranged marriage. It’s just a date.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Who’s going to be your date?”

  She was prepared for that question. “I don’t need one,” she told him firmly. “I’m not the President’s daughter. Besides, I’ll be working. I’ll be busy running around. Please say yes. This would be such a huge favor…”

  She’d come up with this last night, and had been particularly pleased with the way it would underline to Muldoon just how determined Joan was about keeping their relationship brotherly. Sisterly. Non-loverly. As in please date my friend.

  And best of all, if Muldoon was Brooke’s escort, there was no way Joan would be tempted to do something completely foolish, like dance with him at the party.

  She suspected that dancing with him would be very dangerous. “Please?”

  “All right,” he said. “I mean, yeah, sure. Twist my arm. Brooke Bryant. Wow.”

  Victory. Joan opened her menu. “You—darling dearest—are my new hero.”

  “Great,” he said. “I’m…glad I can help.”

  Haley had gone down for her nap early.

  Mary Lou had had her out in the backyard all morning long, so as not to wake Sam while he slept. They’d stayed there right up until the time he left for work at about eleven—because he didn’t bother to come say good morning or even tell them he was up.

  He just came out right before leaving for the base, to say good-bye, to smother Haley’s cheeks with kisses, to make her laugh and chortle and shriek as he swung her around and tickled her.

  Try changing her diaper after she poops, Mary Lou wanted to say, but she held her tongue.

  “Gotta run” was all he’d said to her as he dumped Haley back into her arms, as he headed for his truck, leaving before she could even ask him what he might want for dinner.

  Haley didn’t want him to go—Mr. Fun, popping in to make her giggle and laugh—and she started to cry.

  They’d gone inside then, and had lunch early. And while Mary Lou was washing up, Haley had started nodding off, despite the fact that she had a teething biscuit on her tray.

  And then it was noon, Haley was sleeping, and Mary Lou had taken the baby monitor and gone out to bring in Donny’s mail. It sure beat sitting in that living room that she’d always dreamed about having, wondering why she wasn’t all that much happier than she’d been back when she was eight or nine and living in some bug-infested shithole with her drunk of a mother.

  Donny had mostly junk mail—catalogues and invitations to apply for credit cards—in his box.

  Mary Lou stood on his front steps and rang his bell, moving back slightly so that he’d be able to see from his windows that she wasn’t one of the invading alien horde.

  The curtain moved and she made herself smile. “Hi, Donny. It’s just me with the mail.”

  But the door didn’t open.

  Mary Lou rang the bell again. Twice this time. “Donny, open up! It’s Mary Lou. I’m worried about you, hon. I have a little extra time today, if you need anything from the grocery store. Or the pharmacy.” Like a refill on your prescription of antipsychotic drugs.

  When he took his meds, Donny was…well, the truth was he was never normal. But at least he was a much more manageable form of crazy.

  She suspected, however, that he’d stopped taking his medicine some time ago.

  She hadn’t realized that yesterday when she’d gone and yelled at him, calling him nasty names. Oh, man, she was a total asshole, taking her bad shit out
on this poor tortured soul.

  “Donny, please, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I didn’t mean what I said. Can’t you let me in so we can talk about it?”

  Nothing. No movement. No faint sound of chanting, even.

  He had probably retreated to his walk-in closet. He’d made it into a kind of a mock bomb shelter—a small windowless room right in the center of the house, where he kept canned goods, a sleeping bag, his favorite comic books, a flashlight, and about a five-year supply of size D batteries.

  Oh, yeah, and his laptop. He ran a cable extension from his bedroom so he could get online. Probably to visit the crazy people’s chat room.

  Since his closet was otherwise occupied, he kept his clothes in anal-retentive stacks around his bedroom. He had about fifty different sweaters. Apparently, that was the recommended Christmas gift for crazy relatives.

  “What do you think Donny wants for Christmas this year, dear?”

  “Who knows what he wants? He’s crazy. Get him a sweater. Even crazy people get cold.”

  Of course, if they took the time to visit him, they’d know to get him books. He loved reading about military history, in particular about Navy SEALs. That was probably why he’d let Mary Lou into his house that first time. Because she was married to a Navy SEAL. Mary Lou wasn’t sure if it was truth or some kind of made-up fiction, but Donny was convinced that someone in his family had once been a SEAL.

  Donny also loved music. Oldies. Like the Beatles.

  He was also a whiz when it came to playing the stock market. Mary Lou didn’t understand any of that stuff, but crazy Donny sure as hell did. He’d told her once that he’d made a million dollars the week before, and she’d thought he was just being his crazy, old, deluded self. But then one day she’d opened his mail for him and caught a look at his account statement from the bank. He had more than a half million dollars just sitting around in his checking account.

  She’d warned him to keep his bank records in a safe place. Don’t leave them lying around for any aliens—or people like the cleaning ladies who came in once a month—to see.