Close Call (2 page)

Paul

Paul Jones hailed a
taxi outside Sol's Deli. He reeked of pickle juice, and a splash of tomato soup marred his white shirt. Moira had called to tell him his father had started a small fire in the kitchen but not to worry. Not to worry! He clambered into the cab. How was he supposed to not worry when Pop's behavior grew more erratic every day? When he eluded Moira and wandered off, sometimes dressed, sometimes in bathrobe and socks … when he started to fill the tub and got caught up watching
Judge Judy
so the water overflowed and soaked the linoleum so Paul had to replace it … when—

“Address?” the taxi driver asked, looking at him in the rearview mirror. His fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat of a rap song.

Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath through flared nostrils.
Calm
.
He had a job to do this week. He couldn't afford to be distracted. Moira was an RN; she could handle Pop.
Concentrate.
After a moment he opened his eyes and gave the driver the motel's address.

With a grunt, the driver started the meter and pulled into traffic, making the hula girl suction-cupped to the dash shimmy.

Paul eased his head back against the vinyl seat. He wasn't sure what smelled worse—the cab's mildewy plastic or his clothes. His ability to blend in with a crowd, to rate no more detailed a description than “sixty-something white guy,” was key to his success. Smelling like a pickle factory jeopardized his anonymity. As the taxi sludged along in the stop-and-go traffic, he concentrated on clearing his mind, emptying it of all thought and emotion. It was a trick he'd developed working with a Buddhist monk in Laos when he was in country for the third time in the late '70s, after the war was officially over. It kept him focused.

The opening glissando of Gershwin's “Rhapsody in Blue” trilled from his pocket, almost drowned out by the cabbie's rap crap. What the—? He pulled out the cell phone, conscious of the driver's gaze, and answered cautiously, “Yes?”

A recorded voice said, “This call is for Sydney Ellison from Dr. Field's office to remind you of your dental appointment on Tuesday, August eighth, at eight o'clock. If you need to reschedule, please call—”

“Go back,” he told the startled cabbie.

“Huh?”

“To the deli. And turn off that fucking noise.”

Paul's fingers worried at the curling end of duct tape that patched a foot-long tear in the seat beside him. Every red light and delay twanged his taut nerves. There was no relief at the deli—his phone wasn't there. No one remembered seeing it. He should never have set it on the counter, not for an instant. At least he'd emptied the call log, as always, when he'd hung up. He didn't give a damn about the phone—it was pay-as-you-go and replaceable—but he needed to make sure his client didn't call and say something to this Sid Ellison guy that could incriminate both of them. He'd have to alert his client via email—that was safer and quicker than a face-to-face with Ellison to trade phones.

He climbed back into the cab and pulled his laptop out of its case. “Starbucks. The closest one.”

Sydney

Sydney stared at the
phone in her hand. Damn. How could she have picked up the wrong phone? It was identical to hers, but still. A black man wrapped in an Army surplus jacket, fingerless mittens, and several scarves despite the heat wandered closer, eyeing the deli bags at her feet. A Heinz 57 dog with hound ears pasted himself to the man's shin. She could count his ribs.

“D'ya have any change?” the man asked, bloodshot eyes flitting to her face, then to the neon bar sign behind her, the squirrel chittering from a nearby tree, the crack in the sidewalk. She'd seen the man around since early spring and thought his name was Eli. The dog sat and scratched one floppy ear vigorously with his hind paw.

She found one of the fast-food gift cards she kept on hand and made a mental note to stick some dog biscuits in her briefcase for the next time she saw the pair. And maybe a flea collar, she thought as the dog kept scratching. “Here, sir.”

He glanced at the card, sucked air through his teeth, and shuffled off, turning to say thank you after a few yards. The dog ambled after him.

She waved, picked up the bags, and started walking again. She couldn't go back to the deli now; she'd lose half an hour. Jason was waiting with “big news,” he'd said, and she'd promised to be home by six, which was five minutes ago. Plus, she didn't feel up to dealing with the deli clerk's speculation or questions. She could use the new phone to dial her cell number and arrange an exchange with whoever had her phone.

But something about the call she'd answered kept her from dialing.
The job?
Accident?
The only part of the call that had made sense was the reference to Montoya and the election. Clearly the caller was talking about Fidel Montoya and his Senate bid. He'd been a congressman from Maryland for ten years and was looking to move up, in next week's special election, to a Senate seat. Already pundits were talking about him as a presidential candidate somewhere down the road. A bead of sweat trickled down Sydney's spine and she shivered. Come to think of it, the call had sounded almost like … but no, that was ridiculous. The stuff of movies. People didn't really put out hits, take out contracts—whatever the terminology was—on politicians, did they?

Once the thought had invaded her mind, it refused to budge. She tried to think of an innocent explanation for the “job” looking like an “accident.” Maybe someone was arranging some sort of political trick or campaign disaster? The Montoya campaign had certainly attracted a lot of attention and more than its fair share of detractors. Fidel Montoya was a well-educated liberal who supported open immigration, gay rights, and abortion; right-wing loonies stuck to his campaign like gum to a shoe. They hefted posters, shouted slogans, hacked into his web page, tried to “persuade” people not to attend his rallies. She'd heard some of the more militant groups, given air time by the media, mention lynching, deportation (to the Mexico of his parents), and boiling in oil.

While Sydney thought, her feet had carried her home. She bumped open the waist-high gate with her hip and let it swing shut with a clang. A demanding mew drew her gaze down. Indigo, the neighbor's gray cat, rubbed against her leg.

“Hi, Indy.” She stooped to pat the friendly guy. Surprised to find the cell phone still gripped in her hand, she turned it off and slid it into a pocket. She'd call the deli instead, see if maybe they had her phone. She stroked the cat's back. He arched and let out a series of burp-like purrs, slitting his eyes with bliss.

“You're home.” Jason stood in the open doorway, his dark, gray-streaked hair looking even curlier than usual in the humidity. One hand dug into the pocket of the chinos that slipped off his narrow waist, revealing sharp hipbones and toned abs. The other hand held a champagne bottle. He smiled. A curl of heat warmed the pit of Sydney's stomach. She loved the way his smile split his face, revealing deep dimples and white teeth.

“I'm home.” She went to him and leaned into his kiss. His lips lingered on her. Maybe they could skip dinner … “Mmm. What are we celebrating?”

He held the bottle aloft like a trophy. “Yours truly, Dr. Jason Nygaard, economics professor extraordinaire, was notified today of his selection for a Fulbright grant—”

Oh, no.
Sydney hugged him, dropping the deli bags and briefcase.

“—to teach in Indonesia for a year.”

Indonesia!
She'd known it was a possibility, since he applied four months ago, but—“Congratulations, sweetheart. I'm so happy for you.” Stifling her dismay, she planted kisses along his jaw and neck. “Pour some bubbly and let's toast your achievement properly.” She retrieved the bags, nudging Indigo to get his nose out of the chicken bag.

When they were settled on the small balcony off the back bed
room, champagne fizzing in crystal flutes, she said, “Tell me every
thing. When did you hear? What did they say?” She kicked off her shoes—
aah, bliss
—and propped her heels on the tiny tabletop no larger than a manhole cover. Sipping the Perrier-Jouet, she fought the urge to sneeze as bubbles tickled the roof of her mouth.

“They said I'm going to Indonesia,” Jason said, plunking the bottle onto the table. He went to the rail and leaned against it, gazing down into the garden—geraniums, marigolds, and petunias in planters, and shrubs around a brick patio. A patchwork of neighbors' gardens and yards spread out beyond, some with flowering fruit trees, some with manicured grass, some with ivy-covered walls and bird feeders, all small. Honeysuckle sweetness drifted from a hidden corner; Sydney found it comforting.

“I know. I heard you. I mean, did they say anything like, ‘It was the brilliance of Dr. Nygaard's recent journal article and the enthusiastic endorsements of his colleagues that convinced us to award him this grant'?” Excitement for him sped up her words and she finished with a bounce.

He turned to face her, a half smile on his lips. “Something like that. But did you hear me, Syd? I'm going to Indonesia.” He rolled the champagne flute between his palms.

She knit her brows. “I heard, honey. I'm thrilled for you.” She reached out a hand, but he stayed where he was.

“A little too thrilled, I'd say.”

The words hung between them. Her hand dropped.

She swung her feet down and padded barefoot to where he leaned back against the railing. “What is it, Jason?” She searched his face.

“I guess I was hoping for something more along the lines of ‘Don't go, Jason. I'll miss you, Jason.'”

“I didn't want to be selfish. Don't go, Jason. Stay.” Her stomach lurched in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. “I'd miss you dreadfully.”

“Enough to go with me?” He put his hands on her shoulders, met her gaze squarely.

His offer stole her breath. She opened her mouth but no words came out. She swallowed. “To Indonesia?”

“Yes, to Indonesia,” he said, his green eyes blazing with excitement. “There're bound to be women there who need your kind of help. You could start up an Indonesian branch of Winning Ways, put them on the path to training, jobs, careers … ”

“How would I get funding? Wait.” She held up a hand, pulling back. Jason's hands fell to his sides. Going to Indonesia would mean leaving Winning Ways, the nonprofit she'd worked so hard to build; leaving the women who depended on her. It would mean leaving Connie, leaving her house. She loved Jason, but Indonesia! Sydney's breaths came fast and dizziness made her clutch at the railing. “I can't go.”

“You mean you won't.”

“I can't. I have responsibilities here.”

“Now that your dad's passed, you don't need to stay in the area for him anymore. Your mom's doing fine. You can—”

“It's only for a year,” she said desperately. “We can write, call, every day. I'll be here when you get back. Military families do it all the time.”

“But we're not a family, are we, Syd?” His tone was bleak. “I can tell it's all you can do to put up with me staying here for a couple of weeks.”

“No! Maybe at first. Jason—” Memories of her momentary irritation in the deli overwhelmed her with guilt. She almost missed his next words.

“If you won't come with me, it's over.”

The ultimatum darkened the space between them as the sun set and shadows overtook the garden, swarming the balcony. Pinpricks of light flashed at grass-level. Sydney barely noticed the fireflies as confusion and hurt swamped her.

“That's not fair.”

“It can't always be about ‘fair.'” Jason reached out a hand and tucked an auburn strand of hair behind her ear. “You caught some raw breaks, Syd. Manley was a sexual predator—”

“I was eighteen the first time we—”

“Don't defend him!”

“He's—” She'd meant to tell him George had died, but Jason stopped her with a sharp headshake.

“And Dirk was an asshole. But I'm not, damn it. Don't tar me with the same brush as them.”

“I'm not! I don't want to break up with you.”

“But you don't want to commit to me—to us—either. Because you don't trust yourself.”

“Don't psychoanalyze me!”

“You're playing it safe. You made a couple of bonehead choices when you were young—hell, hardly more than a kid—and now you're afraid, hiding behind family commitments and your work. Grow up, Syd. Life—living—isn't about being safe.”

“Those women need me.”

“Hell, I need you. Doesn't that count for anything?”

His weariness cut through her rising anger. “You know it does.”

“Do I? Look, I want a family—”

“So do I. Someday.” She couldn't think clearly. Her mind jammed with competing images: an infant's head, fuzzed with dark down, resting against her breast; Dirk's cruel smile as he handed her an autographed copy of the tell-all book he'd published after the divorce; her father's hand, drawn down to bone threaded with ropey blue veins, resting in hers. Tears threatened.

“I'll be forty-two in October, Syd. I don't want to be changing diapers when I'm sixty. ‘Someday' has to be now.”

Jason's voice was calm. She knew he'd anticipated her every possible response to his news, and to his ultimatum. Knew he'd prepared himself to walk away.

He drained the champagne from his glass in one swallow. “I leave in ten days. They want me to come over early for some sort of training session. I presume I'm still welcome to stay here, since my condo's not ready and I'll need to rent it out anyway?”

“Of course. Please, Jason, let's talk—”

“Here kitty, kitty.”

The reedy voice startled Sydney. She looked down to see Mrs. Colwell, Indigo's mother, staring up from her side of the low brick wall, not ten feet away. She could tell from the old woman's avid expression that she'd heard every word of their conversation. She battled a surge of irritation. Incurable busybody.

“Have you seen Indigo?” Mrs. Colwell called as Sydney made eye contact. She was only in her sixties but looked older. Hair like spider filaments wisped in patches thinned by radiation treatments. She clutched a robe closed at her neck. Scarlet cashmere. It didn't fit her style or her income—a gift from her daughter, maybe. Over-large glasses magnified her eyes.

“Not for half an hour or so,” Sydney said tightly. Jason brushed past her into the house. “I'm sure he'll turn up. 'Night.” She flipped a hand in an abbreviated wave and went after Jason, knowing it was too late.