Pamela Morsi (15 page)

358.1 Other Specialized Warfare

V
iv had the top down on the Mini. Mr. Dewey was standing up on the passenger seat, his little furry ears blowing in the wind. She glanced over at him with absolutely zero guilt. What was the use of having a convertible if one were going to be crated inside it?

Besides, when a pair was on a secret mission, an undercover battle offensive, a covert act of sabotage behind the lines, danger was an accepted part of the plan.

Viv turned down the road that led to her son’s home on Verdant Creek near the edge of town. She pulled around to the back, parking the Mini as close to the kitchen door as possible, making sure that it was completely invisible to anyone who might for any reason pass on the road nearby.

She took a deep breath and then gazed at the eager pet beside her.

“If you’re going to try to talk me out of this, now’s the time,” she told the dog.

He gazed up at her in silence.

“All right then.”

She opened the driver’s-side door and Mr. Dewey scampered out ahead of her. Viv retrieved a grocery bag from the floorboard.

The dog was waiting, his front paws up on the threshold. Viv set the bag on the step and began running her fingers along the upper doorjamb. When she discovered nothing, she continued along the sides. She picked up the mat. Nothing.

Viv took a step back. Surveying the area. Mr. Dewey watched her expectantly.

“Don’t think like a thief,” she admonished herself. “Think like someone who never expects to be robbed.” She looked over the space thoughtfully. “Close. Convenient. Hidden.”

Her gaze stopped on the metal light fixture to the left of the entry. Stepping forward she ran her hands behind it, inside it and then up on the top.

“Bingo!”

She retrieved the key from its magnet and showed it to the dog.

“We’re in,” she told him.

Mr. Dewey wagged his tail excitedly and waited as she unlocked the dead bolt.

Viv hesitated just outside. “Are your feet dirty?” she asked her companion. “Little paw tracks on the floor will be a for-sure giveaway.”

She picked the dog up and carefully wiped his pads and nails on her shirt before letting him into the house. Carrying the grocery bag, Viv followed.

Her son’s place was relatively clean. He was like his father in that. Order was more effective than chaos. And both perceived effectiveness as a moral imperative. That was one of the many traits they shared. Scott’s heart, of course, was much more like her own. Devotion lingered beyond duty, beyond even death. Scott had made a commitment to Stephanie when he was little more than a boy. And despite its disappointments, he would have kept it forever. Viv understood that. In her own way, she felt exactly the same.

But Scott deserved a bigger life, a better life than the one bad luck and bad timing had left him with. Now, with some help, she was going to change that trajectory.

She walked into the bathroom. A wet towel lay on the floor and she resisted the temptation to hang it on the rack. She removed the box from the grocery bag and set it on the vanity next to the commode. The toilet seat was up. That’s what you get with a man living alone.

Viv fumbled with the box lid and then pulled out the first long, slender item. She stripped off the paper, which she carefully deposited in her grocery bag. Then she plunged the contents of the small plastic tube into the toilet. A minute later a second tampon followed the first. Mr. Dewey, front paws on the edge of the bowl, watched her progress. Four were floating and expanding in the water when she spoke.

“We ready for the first flush?” she asked Mr. Dewey.

She took his nonresponse as an affirmation and pressed down on the lever that sent the wads of super-absorbent cotton on their way to the septic tank.

As soon as they were gone, she began opening more.

384.2 Communications

A
fter a long, fruitless day at work, D.J. came home and put off dinner for the preferable hot soak in the bathtub. She pulled her hair up off her neck and lit a candle with the scent of seaside. Then she settled in to allow the steaming water to loosen all the muscles that she held so tight.

She loved the sound of the water running. It enveloped her in a kind of white noise silence that was familiar and safe. She had no illusions as to the origins of this particular pleasure. A million times during her childhood, at crazy times of the day or night, her mother would suddenly grab her from the dinner table, the television, homework or a good book and put her in the tub. At the time she hadn’t really understood it. She had thought it had something to do with being a nice little girl, a clean little girl.

She understood it perfectly now. Her father had an explosive temper. And although he never lifted a hand to either of them, his words could stab as deeply as a knife. All too regularly he sliced his wife to pieces. The sound of running water could insulate a child from those cuts.

D.J.’s childhood, her teen years, her entire relationship with her parents, had been all about insulation, isolation. It was only as an adult that she’d realized that this had been their version of protection.

She closed her eyes and pushed the thought away. There was no changing the past. It simply had to be lived over. And if possible, forgotten completely.

From his napping spot on the bath mat, Dew suddenly perked up. D.J. watched as he jumped atop the clothes hamper and stretched himself tall to try to see out of the frosted glass window.

Mrs. Sanderson had driven off soon after D.J. got home and undoubtedly she’d returned. It seemed as if Dew was anxious to see her. D.J. admitted to herself a slight jealousy. Since coming to Verdant, Dew had become Viv’s near-constant companion. And unlike those days when her arrival from work could send the dog into a tail-chasing fervor of excitement, his attitude lately was more in line with “Oh, yeah, you live around here, too.”

Either the frosted glass discouraged him or he wasn’t as interested as he’d thought. Dew returned to his spot on the rug, although he sat rather than lay.

The water was up to her shoulders and what was pouring in was no longer that hot. Utilizing her left foot, she was able to turn off the tap without giving up her reclined position.

Settling back, she closed her eyes once more, willing herself to relax.

She’d wasted an impressive amount of time at the library trying to jerry-rig more light into the building. She’d gotten a wild idea about mirrors. D.J. thought that she could install a line of mirrors to the upper molding next to the ceiling. If she got the correct angle, she could catch the light coming into the building on the other side of the shelves and reflect it down into the reading room. She figured and fiddled forever, until she was finally resigned to the fact that unless the mirrors could move, which they couldn’t, it would only provide light for a very short period of time and that the reflected glare would as likely blind the readers or burn a hole in the furniture.

“Idiot,” she whispered to herself.

She knew there had to be a way. It made her crazy that she couldn’t think of it. There were wonderful libraries that had no natural light at all. She needed to figure out a way to run a ton of new fluorescents down the length of every shelving range...without having to rewire the entire electrical system to do it.

Dew jumped up again. This time he raced to the door and began scratching at it, as if he could open it himself.

“Dew, stop it!” she told him.

He glanced back at her, but continued to paw at it.

A minute later, D.J. heard someone on her deck, knocking.

“Oh, good grief.”

Dew began making a yipping sound.

If she still lived in the city, D.J. would have been tempted to ignore it. But she didn’t live there. She lived here, in Verdant. And the person most likely to be at her door was her landlady, a member of the library board.

Growling like an angry bear, D.J. hoisted herself out of the soothing bath water. The knocking persisted. D.J. grabbed a towel and opened the bathroom door just wide enough to holler.

“Coming!”

Dew pushed on through and hurried happily to the apartment entrance.

The thought that he was excited to see Viv after spending the entire day with her did not lighten D.J.’s gruff mood.

She wrapped the towel around herself, securing it in place by tucking the loose end into her cleavage. Barefoot, she tramped along the hardwood floors to the deck entrance off the kitchen.

Without bothering a glance, D.J. threw open the door to greet Mrs. Sanderson, only to stare in gaping surprise at the hot guy standing there.

Momentarily he seemed to be as stunned into silence as she was herself.

“Oh geez, sorry. I didn’t mean to get you out of the bath,” he said.

That was the instant that D.J. remembered that she was wearing only a damp towel. She immediately flattened herself into the space behind the doorframe.

“Oh, my God, I thought you were your mother.”

“Sorry,” he repeated. “I’m...I’m looking for her, actually. Do you know where she is?”

“No.”

“Did she mention where she might be heading?”

“No.”

“Does she usually go out in the middle of the week?”

“No—I don’t know. What do you want?”

“I... You wouldn’t happen to know where she keeps a spare key to the house?”

“Why would I know that?”

“It used to be under the begonia pot, but I checked. There’s nothing there,” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve looked all around. Look, I don’t want to bother you, but would you mind if I waited here on your deck?”

D.J. didn’t care what he did, if he’d just let her close the door.

“Sure, that’s fine,” she said.

“Okay. You won’t even know I’m here.”

She doubted that. But she was grateful to get to shut the door. “Dew!”

He didn’t come.

“Dew, come here, boy.”

Her dog ignored her.

“Dew!”

Her pet gave one casual glance in her direction only a second before he jumped up on one of the deck seats and settled himself in, head resting on front paws.

“Go on back to your bath,” Scott said. “The dog’s okay out here with me.”

D.J. had half a mind to go drag the traitor back into the house. But that would involve even more exposure than she’d already volunteered. Instead she offered a terse thank-you before gratefully shutting the door. She leaned her back against it for a long moment. Then, like a condemned criminal accepting her fate, she marched to her bedroom to face herself in the full-length mirror.

She’d held out secret hope that she was overreacting. That it would not be nearly as bad as she was imagining. Unfortunately, that hope was dashed. The damp green towel was only slightly over two feet wide. Not only was it low on her bosom, but it was high on her thighs, as well. And it clung vividly to all her curvy places. It was worse than being naked. Nudity was bold and daring and stark. Damp and skimpy was coquettish and risqué. The jerk probably thought she
wanted
to appear sexy.

She could have yowled in humiliation.

D.J. had no intention of returning to her bath. There would be no way that she could relax with him only a few feet away. The one thing that she wanted now was to be decently clothed.

She began rifling through the nearby boxes looking for something to wear. She’d hung up her business wear and conservative attire, but she still had not gotten around to unpacking her casual things since the move. Summer heat was upon them, and of course all the sweaters and gloves were still on top. She finally located a pair of blue jeans. To that she added a sports bra that smashed her breasts into near nothingness and a T-shirt big enough for a linebacker. Even the sight of her bare toes bothered her. She slipped on a pair of ballet flats.

Once she was completely covered, she returned to the full-length mirror and sighed. Better. Still she couldn’t quite throw off the embarrassment. And it didn’t help to remember that he had, after all, seen her completely naked once upon a time.

She growled again.

Why was he here? What in the world was he doing on her deck?

“Just behave normally,” she counseled herself. “Do what you would do. Pretend he’s not even here and go about your business.”

It was good advice. But D.J. found that following through with it was more difficult. She drained the tub. Hung up her towel. Straightened the bathroom and then the living room. She seated herself on the couch, but she didn’t stay there. She was too jumpy to read. She couldn’t even sit still enough to watch TV. Finally she settled on getting something to eat. Unfortunately, her kitchen didn’t present a lot of great options. In the fridge she stared at the freshly purchased condiments, but there was no meat or vegetables of any kind. She might have even opted for something new, like perhaps a mustard and pickle sandwich. But the cupboard revealed that there was no bread, either. Ultimately she settled on the two things she did have, cheese and crackers.

Next to the cracker box was the bottle of wine her former co-workers had given her at her impromptu goodbye party. She pulled it down to the counter and noted, thankfully, that it was a twist top. She poured herself a small glass, assured that it would settle her nerves. Then she stood in the kitchen, sipping it, too nervous to eat.

“Oh, for cripes sake!” she complained eventually. “Get a grip, Dorothy. He’s not going to out you as a spring break slut. He doesn’t remember you, or he would have said something by now. You are a forgettable blur in his history of sexual conquests. He’s one of the people in your community now. It’s your job to be friendly while maintaining a professional distance. You can either do that or let him make you uncomfortable forever.”

She wasn’t willing to give him that much power. She raised her chin and faced her apprehensions straight on. “Time to put on your big girl panties.”

The word
panties
conjured up the unwelcome image of red lace clinging to a masculine bicep, but D.J. pushed it back.

She put the wine, the plate of cheese and crackers and two glasses on a tray. Then she opened the door to the deck and carried it out.

Dew perked up to give her a happy, tongue-hanging-out smile. Scott immediately rose to his feet.

“Let me help you.”

He took the tray and set it on the metal coffee table in front of the glider.

“You didn’t need to do this,” he pointed out.

D.J. shrugged. “We’ve both got to eat. All I’ve got is cheese and crackers.”

“Sounds great. Besides, beggars can’t be choosers. And I am so hungry I’ve been looking at your dog and licking my lips.”

It was meant as a joke, but D.J. was too on edge to even laugh.

“Maybe you should have gotten something to eat before you came over,” she said.

“I should have,” he agreed. “But I was so ticked off, I couldn’t even think about food.”

“Ticked off?” she repeated.

He nodded. “I got home and my septic system was backed up.”

D.J. made a vaguely sympathetic sound of support. She looked around for a place to sit. Dew did not appear predisposed to vacating the chair he occupied. The only seat available was the one next to Scott on the glider. Chin high, back straight, she sat down.

He didn’t seem to notice her hesitation as he continued with his explanation.

“At first I thought that it was a clog in the kitchen sink. But it’s some kind of serious blockage down the line.”

D.J. knew nothing about plumbing, drains or sewers of any type for that matter, but sitting so near to Scott in the evening shadows, it seemed to be a safe, nonsexy topic for discussion.

“I’m not very familiar with septic systems,” she said. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“It’s
never
happened to me,” he replied.

He poured himself a glass of the dark red wine and added more to hers, as well.

“I’m very careful about maintenance. And I had the sludge pumped last year.”

She didn’t know a thing about sludge pumping, but she nodded and made supporting noises to keep the subject of conversation going.

“How do you think it happened?”

“I don’t have any idea,” he said. “It’s the weirdest thing. I had zero problem when I left this morning. And this afternoon it was completely clogged. Not sluggish or slow, completely shut down.”

D.J. sipped her wine and grasped at an appropriate reply.

“Bad luck,” she said finally. “Do you call a plumber for that? I guess you couldn’t get one to come out this evening?”

“I won’t be able to get anybody to look at it until the harvest is done,” he said with a heavy sigh. “Everybody who does that work is sitting in a combine, on a tractor or the driver’s seat of a truck. Anything other than what is out in the wheat fields is going to have to wait.”

D.J. was getting used to that explanation.

“So I’m out of my house,” he continued. “And with no place to go. Every spare bed and motel room in town has a harvester in it. I’ve come here to throw myself on the mercy of my mother. And now she’s not even home.”

D.J. took another sip of wine as she mentally cursed the fates. It was uncomfortable enough to be in the same town with him, now she was going to have to be in the same house.

“I wonder where she is,” he pondered. “She always tells me that she doesn’t like to drive at night.”

“She didn’t say anything to me,” D.J. clarified once more. “She simply got in her car and drove off.”

She glanced at the strong, masculine curve of his jaw in the shadows as he shook his head.

“Pretty strange thing for her to do,” he concluded.

D.J. was immediately reminded of what Suzy had asked her to convey to Scott. His mother’s odd behavior was being noticed by people in town. As bright and vibrant as she was, Viv appeared to be having some mental lapses that her neighbors found worrying. Sharing that concern with her son was at the very bottom of a long list of things that D.J. didn’t want to do. She’d already tried once. She’d made a deliberate trip to the drugstore to confront him with the facts as stated to her by Suzy, who’d gotten them from Kimmi. She was totally geared up to spill it out, but Scott had misunderstood the direction of the conversation and sent it spinning into the two of them. Their relationship, or the lack of it, was the last thing that D.J. had any interest in discussing. She’d practically run from the building in fear.