Instrument of the Devil

by Debbie Burke

  Cleaning houses didn’t need a license. But in the troubled economy, the housekeepers she knew were losing clients as even wealthy people had to cut back.

  That left her with either the thrilling prospect of fast food or retrieving shopping carts.

  Her hand rubbed worn spots on the counter. When she and Dwight sold their business, dreams of carefree retirement had filled their imaginations—an RV, travel, remodeling the kitchen—until cancer changed everything. A sharp flake of Formica splintered under her fingernail, leaving bare wood exposed. Those dreams would never come to pass now.

  Unless she used the cash in the safe.

  No!

  That money wasn’t hers, no matter what the bank claimed. Her conscience grated that the idea even occurred to her.

  The smartphone trilled beside her.

  Kahlil’s name showed on the screen. She hesitated, remembering his soulful green eyes. A tickle of excitement ignited during two more rings. Dwight, forgive me. She swiped the answer arrow. “Hello, Kahlil.”

  “Tawny, it is so good to hear your voice.” His velvet tone caressed her ear.

  Thank goodness he couldn’t see her blush over the phone. “How are you?”

  “I am well. Are you doing OK with your phone? Have you come across any new mysteries?”

  “As a matter of fact, it trumpets at me sometimes and I don’t know what for. Also, a screen keeps flashing with something called world clock where it gives the time in Abu Dhabi, Kazakhstan, all these weird places. I really don’t need that.”

  “Didn’t you say your son was overseas? Might be helpful to know when it is a good time to call him.”

  Had she mentioned Neal? Who knows? She felt so flustered the night of the class, she could have blurted out anything. “Yeah,” she said slowly, “if I knew where he was.”

  “Well, if you find out, I can help you set the time for that location.”

  “OK, thanks.”

  “Tawny, I must be honest. I am not really calling about your phone. I would very much like to see you again. May I invite you to dinner?”

  A breath caught in her throat. How long since she’d been asked for a date? She had no idea what people did at her age. Or at Kahlil’s age. He certainly looked too young for her. “I-I don’t think so.” Her voice wavered. Dammit, she needed to sound sure of herself, not wishy-washy.

  “I should explain,” he went on. “When I first saw you, I sensed we shared a common understanding, a connection, you might say, even though we’d never met before.”

  So he’d felt it too, that intensity vibrating between them. She waited for him to continue.

  His voice softened, even gentler than before. “My dear lady, I do not wish to intrude on you. I only wanted to…well, if I may, I would like to tell you a little about myself. The other evening, I sensed great sorrow within you because I know sorrow of my own. Sometimes it helps to share the burden with one who has gone through similar loss.”

  How did he know? She tried to cover her grief around people but didn’t always succeed.

  After several seconds, he said, “My beloved wife died almost two years ago. We had been together since we were children. I never knew another woman.” He took a deep breath. “As much as I wanted to see you again, I did not want to overstep boundaries. I must confess that I looked you up online and was saddened to read your husband’s obituary. I did not mean to pry.”

  Damn. Nothing was private anymore. Or sacred. She never mentioned being widowed to strangers but with the all-pervasive Internet, her caution hardly mattered. She wondered if she should be flattered or creeped out by his interest. “Look, Kahlil, I appreciate your help with the phone but I’m not ready to think about dating.”

  His response came quickly. “Inexperience makes me clumsy. I will not bother you again. But, please, say you will forgive me for being forward.”

  Had Kahlil explained the reason for the vibration between them? Mutual sorrow. Empathy. Unspoken understanding. “There’s nothing to forgive. Honestly. I’m sorry about your wife.”

  “And I for the loss of your husband. Now I will leave you in peace. However brief our friendship, you have brought light into my life.”

  He even talked like a poet.

  What was wrong with seeing him again? He was easy to look at, certainly charming, making her feel a giddiness she thought was long gone. “Listen, why don’t we meet for coffee?”

  “Oh, yes!” His tone sounded boyish with enthusiasm. “I would be so honored.”

  They made a date for the following day. As Tawny tapped the call off, she thought, wow, I never saw this coming. A quiver of anticipation teased her. Dwight would understand, wouldn’t he?

  * * *

  The next morning, Tawny pawed through her closet. What to wear? A skirt and blouse with a scarf? Capris and a sweater? Makeup? Or just mascara and lipstick? No blush, that’s for sure. The mere thought of Kahlil heated her cheeks.

  This is stupid. It’s not a date, just coffee. He’s a kid anyway.

  When had she grown so conscious of age? Fifteen years difference between Dwight and her hadn’t mattered. At least, not most of the time. But he’d left her a widow much too young. She never wanted to go through that kind of loss again.

  In the glaring lights around the bathroom mirror, she noticed new wrinkles. Without her readers, seeing up close grew more difficult every day. Tiny print on food labels and in the phonebook reminded her constantly that fifty might be the new thirty but her eyes were anything but new.

  The last couple of years, she’d given up makeup as a pointless waste of time when she needed all her energy for urgent caregiving tasks. Now, as she tried to focus on her blurry reflection, she feared poking her eye out with the mascara wand. Makeup by Braille. Brown smudges appeared on her skin. With a wet swab, she cleaned off the unwanted smears. When had her eyelids started sagging? She remembered a catalog featuring makeup glasses that allowed one lens at a time to flip out of the way. Maybe she should order a pair.

  She dressed in khaki capris, a long-sleeved forest-green tee-shirt, and added a paisley scarf knotted loosely around her neck. Dressier than workout clothes but nothing glamorous. Simple, casual, the right note to convey this is most definitely not a date.

  He probably just wants a motherly shoulder to cry on about his late wife. Had he mentioned kids? She didn’t think so.

  Really, they had nothing in common except the premature loss of their spouses.

  Tawny checked herself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. Not bad, but, oh, where had that young girl gone?

  Regret nibbled at her for committing to this date with Kahlil. She would always be Dwight’s wife. But it was too late to cancel now. She drove to a coffee shop near Woodland Park.

  Through the window, she saw that Kahlil already had a table with his paper cup and a plate of pastries. His shaggy dark hair was neatly combed and he wore a black turtleneck under his tweed sport coat. She hesitated, wanting to study him for a few more seconds, but he must have felt her gaze because he jumped up and waved.

  She took a deep breath and went in. Here goes nothing.

  He greeted her, “Good morning! What can I order for you?”

  “A mocha latte, please.”

  He pulled out a chair, seated her, then went to the counter. While he placed her order and paid, a new regret seized her. She should have bought her own coffee. Dammit, why hadn’t she thought of that earlier? Such unfamiliar territory. So uncomfortable to be with a man other than Dwight.

  What should she say to this stranger?

  Kahlil returned with her latte and smiled. “May I see your phone? I’ll look at the clock settings.”

  She gave him the cell, grateful he’d taken her off the hook of starting the conversation.

  He swiped back and forth on the screen, dark brows drawn together. Then he scooted his chair around beside her. She caught a hint of aftershave—lime maybe. And an underlying earthiness.

  He held the phon
e up. “See, this is the world clock.” A list of exotic-sounding cities filled the screen. He scrolled down page after page.

  “I’ve never heard of most of these places,” she said.

  “OK, say, for instance, your son is on holiday in Hobart, Australia. It’s nine-thirty a.m. here, while it’s three-thirty a.m. there. If you call him now, he will wake up grumpy.” Mischief touched his smile. “Or you could wait until this afternoon and he would be most happy to receive your call. Do you have relatives in other countries?”

  She shook her head. “No, fourth-generation Montanan.” She broke off a morsel of glazed huckleberry scone and nibbled it. Not bad, but she baked better.

  He flicked the screen. “My mother lives in Paris. It’s five-thirty in the evening there, so I could call her.”

  Curiosity gnawed at Tawny. She took the opening he’d offered. “Are you from France?”

  “I was born in Iran, but my parents immigrated to France in 1979 when the Shah was deposed. We moved around a great deal during my childhood. Then I went to university in Glasgow, Scotland, and post-doc at Texas A & M.” He picked up a scone and ate the corner.

  No wonder she couldn’t pin down his accent, a blend of places he’d lived. Post-doc? Did that mean he had a PhD? “How on earth did you wind up in Montana?”

  “I’m here on a contract job for several months.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a psychologist.”

  Tawny drew back, staring at him. “Really?”

  He gave an apologetic shrug. “Not the kind who sits in a chair listening and nodding.” He mimicked an old-fashioned stereotypical analyst, stroking an imaginary goatee. “Vhat vas your relationship vith your father, my dear? Vere you toilet-trained too early?”

  She had to laugh. “Sorry, you sound more like Groucho Marx than Freud.”

  He threw up his hands. “Alas, I am a failure as an impersonator.” He smoothed his mustache. “My career is not very exciting, I’m afraid. An industrial/organizational psychologist for electrical generation companies. I try to improve work production and efficiency, and place the right person in the right job for their temperament. Quite dull, except for the travel.”

  “Should I call you doctor?”

  “Please, just Kahlil. I only use the title when I’m writing grants or authoring a case study.”

  Tawny blinked. “Over my head. I’ve never read a case study.”

  He pulled an amused grimace. “You have missed nothing unless you enjoy boring statistics.”

  She leaned forward, surprised at her hunger to learn more about this fascinating man. “Where do you travel?”

  “Anywhere there’s a position. Egypt, Dubai, Turkey, Germany, the Czech Republic.” A flick of his hand indicated more countries, too many to count.

  This man was sophisticated, educated, a world traveler. Why was he sitting here with her, a small-town nobody? “What brought you to Montana?”

  His smile glowed. “I’ve read your eloquent authors, Ivan Doig, Rick DeMarinis, and James Welch. After their books, how could anyone resist? When I learned of the contract here, I jumped for the opportunity.”

  Tawny recognized the names but felt too embarrassed to admit she’d never read them. “How does it compare with the books?”

  “Even more beautiful than their words expressed. People are very hospitable.”

  She shrugged. “We don’t know how else to act.”

  “It’s very charming. The people in the class the other night were so friendly.”

  “That’s because we were all drowning and you threw us a life preserver.”

  He laughed, a warm throaty sound that made her toes curl.

  “I have to ask. If you’re a psychologist, why are you teaching about smartphones?”

  He rested an elbow on the table. “Wherever a job takes me, I try to reach out to the community that is hosting me, offer a small token of appreciation for allowing me to join them.” He hefted Tawny’s phone. “Since my hobby is playing with these new toys, I try to help people become more capable at using them. If they leave the class with confidence, it pleases me.”

  Tawny snorted. “It’ll take more than one class to teach me the ins and outs of this monster.” As soon as the words left her lips, she silently cursed. Why did I say that? Sounds like a come-on. How stupid.

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin. When his eyes met hers, she looked away, pretending interest in her scone. The next bite tasted like a dry sponge. She left the rest.

  He finished his scone without comment, only a faint smile. She felt an odd gratitude toward him. She’d stuck her foot in her mouth and he didn’t take advantage of her awkwardness.

  “Do you like to walk?” he asked. “The park is nearby.”

  Relieved, she nodded and rose. “Too pretty a day to sit inside.”

  They left the shop, carrying their coffees, and approached the park. He matched her quick pace on the sun-dappled pathway. Light green leaves unfolded on towering cottonwoods. Blades of young grass poked through winter thatch. The smell of new growth floated on a light breeze.

  “This is a nice town in spring,” he said.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Since February. I’m renting a furnished house. As beautiful as Montana is, I’m not a fan of your snow and ice.”

  “It’s OK if you like winter sports. I snowshoe and cross-country ski. See that pond?” She pointed to the expanse of water where swans drifted. “People ice skate there when it’s frozen.”

  He hugged himself and pretended to shiver. “Brrrr.”

  Waddling ducks and snowy geese chortled as they parted to allow the couple through. “Should have brought the rest of my scone,” she said. “It’s fun to feed them.”

  Kahlil spotted a duck food dispenser, immediately headed for it, and bought some. He grasped her hand and poured the food into her palm. How warm his touch felt.

  She scattered pellets on the ground. The fowl clustered around her, gobbling and quacking for more.

  One duck stayed off to the side of the flock, beady eyes focused on Tawny. It favored a deformed foot. “Poor guy.” She shooed the other birds away and bent down with her palm open. The duck didn’t hesitate to take the food, its bill lightly scraping her skin. She straightened, brushing hands on her capris. When she faced Kahlil, the intensity of his green-eyed stare almost made her jump back. “What are you looking at?”

  His dark brows softened. “Your kindness.”

  She resumed walking, quickly, to escape a blush trying to overtake her. He caught up in an instant, near enough that she felt his breath on her neck. She said, “My husband used to get mad because I always picked up some lame, injured critter and tried to nurse it back to health. Half the time, they died anyway. He called them my ‘lost causes.’” Her throat tightened. “He was my final lost cause.”

  They walked in silence for several moments. Kahlil remained quiet and Tawny felt grateful that he didn’t push her. Finally, she brought up the question she’d been longing to ask. “If you don’t mind talking about it…” She glanced sideways at him. “How did you lose your wife?”

  Head bowed, eyes hooded, he kept walking and didn’t answer.

  Uh-oh. She’d asked too much, too soon. How she hated it when nosy people she barely knew pressed her for personal details about Dwight’s illness. Now, dammit, she’d overstepped those limits herself.

  Another moment passed. She opened her mouth to apologize when he finally spoke, “She died in childbirth. It would have been our first. A little girl.”

  A wave of sympathy, empathy, surged over Tawny. “I’m sorry.”

  “She was thirty-nine, a year younger than I. She was an engineer. Our careers had been our lives before then. The doctors warned us about possible complications. Perhaps we shouldn’t have waited so long. But we did.” A tremor shook his voice. “My heart was torn from my chest.”

  How well Tawny knew that wrenching grief. She squeezed Kahlil’s arm a
nd held on.

  He started to turn toward her but stopped and looked away, maybe to keep her from seeing the sheen of tears in his eyes. For a second, his fingertips barely brushed her hand, still gripping his arm. His shoulders shifted and relaxed, as if he could finally let down the mask hiding his grief.

  She didn’t let go of his arm as they continued over a footbridge that crossed the pond. They moved in silence, her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow, feeling the sinewy muscle through the texture of his tweed sleeve. Their steps fell easily in sync. It felt natural, as if they had strolled linked together for years. As if they shared a long, deep history of memories and heartaches. She hoped he felt the comfort she wanted to give him and she soaked in the quiet consolation he offered.

  Ten peaceful minutes later, they completed the circular path around the park, ending at their cars parked on the street.

  He faced her and tilted his head. “I must go to work now. May I see you again?”

  She nodded, unsure of her voice.

  “I will call you.” He reached to touch her cheek but stopped himself, as if worried he was being too forward. Instead he extended his hand to shake.

  She took it, instantly aware of the electric heat of skin contact. They stood, gazing at each other for a long moment. She didn’t want to give up the warmth of his grasp.

  He finally spoke, “You have given me the first day of joy since my wife died. Thank you.” He released her hand and slid into his car, a silver BMW convertible with the top down. After he started the engine, he looked over his shoulder and smiled. As he pulled away from the curb and drove down the avenue, his eyes watched her in the rearview mirror.

  Tawny leaned against Dwight’s Jeep, letting out a huge sigh. “Oh my God.” She had to wait for her rubbery legs to regain strength before she climbed up on the pipe running board.

  In her pocket, the smartphone trumpeted. Another new noise she didn’t know the meaning of. She pulled it out and stared at the screen. “What are you saying to me?”

  * * *

  It had gone perfectly. Kahlil could not have rehearsed it better. Tawny appeared impressed with his education, profession, and travels, related in an offhand manner to sound modest and likeable. Having been sheltered, she would likely build up glamorous illusions about the adventurous life he tossed out, like a casual jacket over a chair.