For Your Eyes Only

by Sandra Antonelli

  The empty hair-care bottles were thrown into the trash. Two new bottles sat atop the toilet tank. Willa put them on the ledge in the shower then padded into the bedroom to slip into a pair of cotton panties. She whipped off the turban, hung it over a doorknob to dry, and combed her hair as she went downstairs to prepare dinner.

  Her cell phone rang. She watched it vibrate across the breakfast bar. It bumped into a manila folder that held a paper copy of the day’s document log, which sat on the kitchen countertop beside the TV remote. The photo displayed on the cell showed the caller as Isabel. Willa ignored her sister and switched on the flat-screen TV.

  One of her favorite episodes of The Simpsons played. “Bobo,” she mumbled. She knew it well enough to recite the dialogue with Mr Burns as he searched for his childhood teddy bear. Flipping on the light above the stove, she grabbed a loaf of bread from the top of the microwave. Her stomach growled on cue.

  Peanut butter. It’s what’s for dinner.

  She unscrewed the top from a jar of Jif. The instant she smeared a slice of whole-wheat bread with creamy, peanutty goodness, the phone rang again and the doorbell chimed a backwards, off-key dong-ding. Ignoring Isabel’s persistence, licking her fingers, she went to unlock the deadbolt, peanut butter-coated knife still in hand. She sneezed as she opened the door.

  “Gesundheit.”

  One more sneeze and Willa found herself gazing at a pizza box and John’s lopsided smirk. His nose was red from the cold.

  “Hi,” he said, his eyes traveling from bare feet to peanut butter-covered knife. “I’m here about the shirt and the note you left at my door. Thank you. You know, you didn’t need to replace anything. It’s sweet, but I told you, clothes can be washed and…” his eyebrows rose, “…should I cue the Psycho music?”

  Willa wished she’d owned more attractive sleepwear. Her robe was shapeless, the hemline was unraveling, and there was a tear in the elbow. She wasn’t sure, but her panties probably had holes in them as well. Thank God the muted light from the kitchen was kind. The dimness probably didn’t accentuate the flush she felt in her cheeks. “Peanut butter makes you think of Psycho?” she said.

  “Yes, yes, it does. Look, I know it’s been a couple of days, but I didn’t want you to… You didn’t need to… Did I interrupt your evening wind-down?” John asked, his eyes lingering on her damp hair.

  Exhaling, Willa waved her knife hand. A blob of peanut butter dropped on her sleeve and stuck fast. “I can’t believe you’re telling me I didn’t need to make some kind of restitution. Of course I did. Did the barf come off your boots? Please tell me it came off your boots.”

  “Like I said, they’re not real suede. I hope you’re feeling better than you did the other morning. Listen, about everything, the other night and morning, it’s not…” his mouth twisted, “I tried to be… I wanted to send you…”

  “I’m not normally…” a fan of lilies she almost said. Then ungainly silence and an invisible fog of awkwardness swirled about her ankles. She took a breath. “You’re really a very sweet man. Thank you,” she said, shuffling her feet in the clumsy mist and realizing it was nothing more than a stir of cold air from outside, “but like a shirt makes up for what I did to you. You did this better. I have no idea what to say. I don’t even know how to begin.”

  John shifted the box and adjusted the small stack of mail on top. The heat of the pizza inside was burning his hands while a cold draft blew down his neck. “May I come in?”

  Willa hesitated then held the door open wider. “If you think it’s safe.”

  John stepped inside and followed her to the kitchen. “If we deconstruct the crime, we’ll see what happened wasn’t your fault. In fact, it’s mine. I made the fruit punch; it’s an old family recipe, Tilbrook’s Tropical Fruit Double Punch. I should have slapped a warning label on the side.”

  She went around to the other side of the bar-style counter, set the knife on a slice of bread, and switched off the TV. Sheets of paper covered with what looked like computer server data had been spread out on the counter. He watched her collect them and drop them in an untidy pile on top of the microwave. “Please,” she said, “I’m an adult. It’s my faul—”

  “Queenie. Stop,” John said, holding up a hand. “I came here to say you didn’t need to replace my shirt, but I like that you did. I like the shirt, but, well … it was a hell of a way we left things between us.” He set the pizza and his mail on the countertop and pulled out one of the tall stools to sit upon.

  “Yes, it was.” She played with the sash of her robe, fingering the collar too, smearing peanut butter on the cloth.

  His recent distaste for peanut butter aside, John figured Queenie was probably naked under that holey, ugly, boxy robe. The idea set his body buzzing. She seemed to be buzzing too, only not the same way, not the way he had planned, and yes, he’d planned. For two days he’d planned. Down at the morgue in Albuquerque he’d planned. He had it all set out. Suave, cool, he’d put his plan in motion. He’d picked up a large pepperoni-sausage-extra cheese from Home Run. He’d climbed the stairs outside, his head full of ‘the plan.’ As he’d rung the doorbell he’d realized only an idiot would think a pizza would turn Queenie to putty in his hands.

  A pizza.

  A freakin’ pizza.

  Putty in your hands? Look at her, you dick, she’s nervous. Does nervous look like putty to you? You knew she felt like hell the other morning and you mauled her anyway.

  John leaned an elbow on the counter and his mouth ran away from him. “I wasn’t thinking the other morning, but I should have known better than to attack you like I did, when you felt like you did. I have to say you felt pretty amazing, but that’s beside the point.” Sniff-sniff-sniff. “I got carried away. I was all over you like a kid on a cookie. I’ve been down in Albuquerque the last couple of days, and I would have been over sooner to apologize, since I took advantage of you, but I’m not sorry I kissed you. Sure, I’m sorry you yakked all over me, but I like you. Yeah, it’s only been what? Seventy-two hours, but I like you. I mean, come on, you gave me a shirt so you must like me too.”

  She shrugged. “You’re all right.”

  “Thanks. I’d like to see you. I’d like to date you, so, I was thinking maybe we could have the dinner we missed, tonight. Now.” He sat up and tapped the lid of the Italian-flag-emblazoned pizza box. “That is, if you like pizza.”

  Tongue-tied and hot all over, Willa was astonished. Most men ran as far and as fast as they could from poopy diapers and vomit, especially after coming into contact with one of those two substances, but this man had sent her flowers and showed up at her door with what smelled like pepperoni and sausage pizza.

  And she wanted to eat that pizza. Off his naked body.

  Desperate, ready, or both, a loud ha burst from her mouth.

  John plowed on, but his expression conveyed that he wasn’t certain if she were laughing at him or laughing at what he’d just said. “Unless you’re really invested in that peanut butter sandwich. Or,” he cocked his head, “you’re ready to jump into bed, I’d suggest … oh, geez. Hang on a second.”

  Jump into bed crept up Willa’s spine, little cat’s paws of desire.

  “Wait.” John held up a hand. “Forget I said that. Forget it came out like it did. I only meant you were in your pajamas at seven-thirty, which in my book means you’re pretty tired. I’m not suggesting… Let me start over. This is what I was thinking. I’ve got this pizza and a few DVDs from Netflix. We can eat and watch movies. You might think it’s a little lame, but I sometimes have a theme to my viewing. This week is The Towering Inferno, the original Poseidon Adventure, Airport ‘75, and Earthquake. It’s sort of fitting when you think about it. Disaster movies for a disastrous first date that burned-up, capsized, exploded in mid-air, and crumbled to bits.”

  With another ha, Queenie reached for the light switch. A glow emanated from the overhead fixture, turning her face pink and soft, and her hair … what the hell was it about her hair
that made him want to shove his hands into it, even when it was damp?

  “Disasters,” she said, “play out better on a wide screen and,” she glanced at the little flat screen that had come with the apartment furnishings, “my TV’s not as big as yours.”

  John rubbed the back of his neck, grinning at her. “Disasters come in all sorts of shapes and sizes; it doesn’t matter what you play them on.”

  “Are you saying you think I’m a disaster? Oh, you have no idea.”

  John pushed his mail aside, stacked the Netflix DVD’s on top of his gas bill, and lifted the lid of pizza box. She was right. He had no idea. How could he in three—or was it four—days? What he knew about her would fit into a suitcase and that didn’t matter because here he was, waiting, wanting to find out more.

  Trying hard not to look like the big bad wolf—or an idiot—John took a pepperoni-sausage-dotted slice of pizza. Strings of gooey cheese stretched as he pulled two pieces apart. “It depends on your point of view. What I believe is an easy-to-mop-up mess is your idea of a disaster. What you see as success, I could see as failure. What you think is offensive, I could find hilarious. It’s all subjective.” He sank his teeth into the tip of his pizza and pushed the box towards Queenie.

  She put the lid back on the jar of peanut butter. “It sure is subjective. When I tell my sister to fuck off, I believe I’m being direct. Isabel goes with offensive.” She tore a few sheets from a roll of paper towels, handing two to him.

  “So you harbor quite a little hostility towards your evil twin.” John had another bite of pizza and chewed. He watched her take out a couple of glasses and fill them with tap water.

  “Hostility? Not really. It’s only basic stuff that stems from childhood jockeying for attention and a few other things,” she said, setting a glass in front of him. “Isabel is three minutes older, so she thinks she can tell me what to do, and,” she selected a pizza slice for herself, “she’s especially bossy when the subject has to do with my husband.”

  “Kathleen’s a bossy cow too. She—” John barely maintained a mouthful of partially masticated sausage, pepperoni, and cheese. From the moment they’d met she’d been guarded, and he’d known there’d be a reason for her caution, for her occasional caginess. He was a cop after all, but how had he completely missed a husband? He swallowed quickly, dropping the crust onto a paper towel and looked at her hands. He hadn’t seen a ring, and there was no indentation on the third finger of her left hand, but a lack of a groove or tan line meant nothing these days. People took off rings all the time.

  He inhaled softly and braced himself. “This may be coming a little late, but please, tell me you’re divorced, in the process of divorcing, or legally separated or something. Tell me I didn’t make out with another man’s wife. Throw-up I can handle, making out with a married woman, now that’s a substance that won’t wash off so well.”

  Laughter bubbled from her. “I wish you could see the look on your face. It’s just so … so … precious.” She slid the pizza box back towards him. “Didn’t anyone tell you? I’m a widow.”

  And there it was, the cause for her wariness. She was a widow. “Thank God,” he said. “I mean, good. Aw, crap, not good, but whew, now I won’t be damned for all eternity. And neither will you.”

  “Damned for all eternity?”

  “Sure. We’re talkin’ souls here,” he said, and he was sincere. “A clear conscience is important to a good night’s sleep. While I never bought much into the whole Catholic guilt thing, and yes, I do go to church—chalk up another Irish cliché—I think guilt only comes when you’ve done something wrong. If you’re feeling guilty then clearly you’ve got something to be guilty about.” His lips twitched as he took another triangle of pizza.

  “You sound like such a cop.”

  “You really want to see my badge, don’t you?” he sniff-sniffed.

  That silly laugh set off fluttery puffs of heat inside her. Willa would have fanned herself with the slice of pizza, but pepperoni would have flown everywhere. Was it odd that she heard mambo music, all heavy with horns and a sexy, energetic syncopated rhythm in her head? Was it odd that she felt the same sexy, syncopated rhythm pulse between her legs too? Hello, lust. “Do you carry your badge everywhere?”

  “I just came from work. I have handcuffs too. And I didn’t mean for that to come out sounding kinky. Did it sound kinky to you?”

  “Nickel-plated carbon steel isn’t exactly my idea of kinky.”

  “Now you’ve got me wondering why you’re so familiar with handcuff construction.”

  Willa gave him a sidelong glance and a little police fantasy—one that had him whisper ‘spread ‘em’ in her ear—joined the hot mambo music in her mind.

  Amused with himself, he scratched his chin like he still had his beard. “You’ve been arrested before, haven’t you?”

  The question lifted the fantasy of music and lust from her mind. She hopped up on the countertop, tucking her robe around her knees as she sat, and told him the truth. Well, she told him a truth. “No. I watched the handcuff episode of How It’s Made on the Discovery Channel.” Willa eyed another slice of pizza, her heated desire replaced by sudden, cold fear. “Have you ever arrested someone who wasn’t actually guilty of anything but absentmindedness or being in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “And we’re back to subjectivity. There are a times where the circumstances point to a particular individual’s involvement.” John sniff-sniff-sniffed. “Last year, Lesley got arrested for being in the middle of a fight between two elderly women—her mother-in-law and my Aunt Eilish. The officer called to the scene assessed the situation and made a judgment call. It was unfortunate that Lesley had just disarmed my aunt and was holding the broken bottle at the time.”

  “Mrs Brennan and your aunt got into a fight? Dominic’s mom’s always been a little …,” she made a twirling gesture at her temple, “but I can’t see her getting into a barroom brawl in a coffee house.”

  John polished off the end of his third pizza slice. “Well, she did. In Starbucks,” he said, licking the corner of his mouth. “Miz B spat on my aunt, and then it came down to being a matter of who was the coward of the county.”

  “You’re quoting Kenny Rogers? First ABBA and now Kenny Rogers?”

  “Hey, Kenny’s cool. ‘Coward of the County’ and ‘The Gambler’ are bitchin’ songs. Why should I keep that secret?”

  “Is there anything you keep secret?”

  John brushed crumbs from his hands and reached for more pizza. “Sure. I can’t talk about details of the case I’m working on, but I’m an open book. Also, if I neglected to mention it, I’m divorced. It’s all been processed into the past, so I think you can safely assume I’m not carrying around bitter baggage. At least I’m pretty certain I’m not hauling anything behind me. You, Queenie? I’m not so sure.”

  “Maybe I’m not a big fan of talking about myself, but I’m sure I have a whole steamer trunk full of issues and unfinished business about Miles.”

  “Miles.” He grinned rather thoughtfully. “When I found you in the powder room, asleep with your head on a roll of toilet paper, and I pulled you off the pot, you said, ‘It’s Miles.’ I thought you were talking about distance.”

  “The powder room.” Cringing, Willa quickly ate the cheesiest part of her pizza and licked a smear of tomato sauce off her fingertip. It tasted of garlic, oregano, and peanut butter. “Can we agree to forget about that event and never mention it again?” she said, mouth full.

  “Do I hafta?”

  “Yes. You hafta.”

  “If it pleases Your Majesty.” He gave her a little bow.

  “Smartass.”

  “I think you like smartass as much as I like the shirt you got me.”

  “I have an eye for color.”

  “And a penchant for stains. You’ve got something on your sleeve.”

  Willa looked at her robe and rubbed at the mark, which only ground the peanut butter into the blob of t
omato sauce she’d missed on her other finger.

  “You’re as bad as my niece,”

  “But I have better taste in music. Is your family here in Los Alamos?”

  “Kathleen and her kids are in Albuquerque. My mother and Aunt Eilish live in town. My aunt is married to Lesley’s grandfather. My mom’s in a new townhouse, over in the Quemazon area. You know where that is, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “I used to have a place on North Mesa, and back in the nineties I lived over on Yucca Street. That house isn’t there any more. It burned in the Cerro Grande fire. Were you here during that mess?”

  “Nope.” John watched her nibble on pizza crust. It was a little overcooked for his taste, a little too crunchy, but she seemed to like it and, apparently. he seemed to like watching her nibble, because he was having some trouble keeping his gaze off her mouth. He wondered what sausage and pepperoni tasted like on her lips. “In 2000, I was living in Albuquerque. That was just before my dad died. My parents had a place down in White Rock. You know, they were married fifty-one years. Maureen and I made it to four. She told me I was ‘too nice’ for her and lacked a sense of passion, or something. That was disappointing as hell, but we had a very amicable split. All marriages should end on such ridiculously friendly terms. “

  “You just keep flipping through pages of the Big Book of John.”

  “Aren’t I telling you things you want to know? Isn’t this how we get to know each other better? Isn’t it…” John lifted the glass of water, guzzled it down, then said, “…quid pro quo, Clarice?” Sniff-sniff-sniff.

  “Four days,” she said.

  “Four days what, Agent Heston?”

  Despite her awesome poker face, Willa felt a ghost of a frown drift across her brow at the Agent Heston. She wanted to tell John things, she wanted him to know her, to know about her life, as much as she wanted to know about his, yet the quid pro quo could only go so far. She let the next frown form. “Miles and I were married four days.”