The Older Woman (5 page)

“So?” he persisted. At this point he’d take whatever he could get—even a pity outing.

“Thanks, but I can’t. I just got off work and I still have some things to do. I have to sleep at some point. Besides, it’s really not necessary for you—”

“Okay,” he interrupted. “Just a thought.”

She began to walk away from him toward the porch steps, but she stopped before she got there and looked back. She didn’t say anything, and neither did he. He could almost feel her trying to make up her mind.

He waited. She definitely had questions, but for some reason she wasn’t quite comfortable asking them.

“It would have to be late,” she said finally.

“No problem—fine with me. Did I say you get to drive?”

“I guessed as much.”

“Around nineteen hundred then? Or whenever. I’ll be here.”

She was still looking at him, still sitting on the fence about it. “Okay. I’ll see you when I wake up. I get to pick the place, right?”

“Right,”

he

said.

She was smiling again—this smile a kind of spider-to-the-fly one that challenged him—and made him a little leery about her expectations. And he’d seen the boyfriend up close. There was money there and a lot of it. He, on the other hand…

“Maybe you should bring along some plastic,” he said. “Just in case.”

“Plastic,” she said as if she wasn’t sure she’d heard right.

“Correct. Hey, you always got to have a contingency plan, Meehan.”

“Right. And you military guys are all alike,” she said, the smile broadening. “See you later, Specialist.”

She turned and ran lightly down the steps.

“Outstanding,” he said under his breath—and he didn’t mean just her capitulation. He watched her as long as he could, infinitely pleased with himself, because he thought she was as surprised that she’d accepted his offer as he was. In any event he was actually going to get that steak and beer, and the company wasn’t half-bad, either. Meehan was used to men who had to hobble, and she knew all about Rita. He wouldn’t have to put up a macho front if he didn’t want to. He could just kick back and be his miserable self.

He took a deep breath, fully aware of how little he had been thinking of Rita just now. And there was the other thing. He had just had a stellar opportunity to tell Meehan that the boyfriend had made a reconnaissance bright and early this morning—and, for whatever reason, he hadn’t taken it.

Chapter Three

S
he is going to bail.

It didn’t take a genius to figure that out. She was late by anyone’s calculation, even with parameters as loosely defined as these had been. And she didn’t look as if she was planning anything so ordinary as a steak and a beer with a broken-down army specialist. And, on top of that, she’d caught him waiting on the front porch swing like the last puppy at the pound.

The boyfriend’s back, Doyle suddenly thought as she stepped up on the porch. And the mission had been scrubbed. He sat looking at her, wondering what to say.

Nothing, he decided. She was the one bailing. He’d let her do the talking. She could talk, and he would just look.

Man, she cleaned up good. In all his years in the army, he’d never gotten used to the way some women could pull that off—looking one way all the time until you more or less forgot they were even female—and then doing whatever it was they did to end up looking like
this.

Meehan was wearing a dress. He’d never seen her in a dress. It was colorful—

really flowery. It made him think of watercolors—and it was kind of floaty and thin. Thin.

He couldn’t see through it—but he kept expecting to. It wasn’t an all-tarted-up kind of dress or anything like that. It was just…attention getting. Her shoulders were bare, except for little string straps, and soft looking, even in this light. Smooth. Touchable. He could easily imagine how good they would feel if he ran his hands over them, how good they would smell…

Don’t go there!
he thought, but it didn’t keep him from wondering.

Like what? Flowers? Roses—or something citrus maybe. But nice.

One of the little string straps dropped off her shoulder. Very

nice…

Take it easy, Doyle!

This was Meehan here—and he was acting like she was a real woman or something.

“Bugs, are you listening to me?” she said.

“Sure. It’s too late to go out.”

“You think so.”

He frowned. “I thought that was what you said.”

“It was a question, Doyle.
Is
it too late to go out?”

“With me, you mean.”

She tried to look into his eyes. “You took a pain pill, didn’t you?”

“No,” he said, grinning. “But I think we need to start over here.
You
asked
me
if it’s too late to go.”

“Right.

Is

it?”

“No way. I’m starving.”

“Can you wait a half hour or so?”

He didn’t think he could wait five minutes, so he didn’t answer her, for no other reason than the way she looked. That alone was worth the delay.

“I didn’t mean to be this late—but I just woke up. I got hung up with a family thing after I left here, and I still need to make a phone call or two.”

“A family thing,” he repeated, because he’d been expecting her to say she was sorry, but she had to run along now, with the bagel guy.

“Right. I’ve got three sisters—two older, one younger. Unfortunately, they think up things for me to do for entertainment.”

“I hear that,” he said. “I’ve got one of those myself. So what are you fixing?”

“My uncle Patrick.”

“And your job would be…?”

“He’s a widower. He’s not taking care of himself. I get to call him up and yell at him.”

“Poor Uncle Patrick,” he said, trying not to grin.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means I’ve been there.”

“I’ve never yelled at you,” she said, clearly believing it.

“Sure you have.”

“I have not.”

“Oh, then that must have been somebody in leg casts who just
looked
like me.”

A smile was just about to get away from her. “Why did I yell at you?”

“No reason whatsoever. I was totally innocent. I guarantee it.”

“That’ll be the day—so are we on for tonight or not?”

“On,” he said. “Definitely on.” Things were getting better and better here.

“Then I’ll be back,” she said.

He expected her to go home, but she went inside Mrs. Bee’s house instead. She didn’t stay long. If she’d used Mrs. Bee’s phone to yell at Uncle Patrick, she’d made it short and sweet.

“That was fast,” he said as she stepped out onto the porch again.

“I delegated the situation to Mrs. Bee—well, actually she volunteered. She knows Uncle Patrick, and she’s a lot more tactful than I am. So let’s go. She wants us to take Thelma and Louise,” Meehan added as he heaved himself up off the swing.

“The more, the merrier,” he said, because he still couldn’t believe that she had actually shown up. At this point he didn’t care who went along, and he was only mildly concerned about the possibility that he might have to swing feeding two more people.

“What?” he said, because of the look Meehan was giving him.

“Well, I expected you to be a little happier about it.”

“About

what?”

“Thelma and Louise. Will you pay attention?”

“I’m happy. I don’t think I know who they are, though—or maybe I do. Church ladies, right?”

“No,” Meehan said, laughing. “Thelma and Louise is a
car.
” She held up a set of keys and dangled them.

“Okay,” he said, still not getting it.

“A 1966 Thunderbird convertible.”

“You are kidding me. Like the one in the movie, you mean?”

“Except this one is red. Leather seats. Mint condition.”

“You

are

kidding
me,” he said again.

“Nope. The late Mr. Bee gave it to her, brand-new, for her fiftieth birthday. She’s called it Thelma and Louise ever since she saw the movie. He didn’t want her to be depressed about hitting the half-century mark.”

“Did it work?”

“Well, driving it certainly cheers
me
up. She wants me to blow it out on the interstate.”

“You know how to do that, I guess,” he said, trying not to smile.

“You just hold on to your hat, soldier.”

She led the way down the steps, and she didn’t offer to help him. He liked that about her—that she didn’t act as if she even noticed that he was incapacitated. Unless he was about to fall on his face.

Everything was working pretty well at the moment, though. Some pain. Not too bad. He wished he’d dressed up a little. He’d traded the PT outfit for civilian cargo shorts and a blue golf shirt, but no way was he in any kind of league with that dress.

The car was carefully locked away in a wooden building in the backyard, one Doyle had seen a million times and never wondered about.

He followed Meehan in that direction, then abruptly stopped.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, looking back at him.

“Before we get too far along here, I better tell you the boyfriend came by this morning—in case you want to do something about it.”

“Oh, I know,” she said.

“You know? What did he do? Call to report someone had broken into your house?”

“Something like that,” she said.

He started walking again. “And you said?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I don’t have to explain what you were doing in my house to anyone—except maybe my sisters. Those three would definitely have to have an explanation.”

He grinned and continued walking to the edge of the driveway, waiting well out of the way while Meehan unlocked the padlock on the door of the outbuilding.

“Damn,” he said under his breath as she eased the shiny red car out of the shed and into what was left of daylight. The vehicle was nothing short of spectacular. How had he missed knowing about this? The car was so fine it would be a privilege just to wash it. Mrs. Bee was full of surprises.

“How do you like it?” Meehan said through the open window.

“Damn,” he said again.

“Exactly,”

Meehan

said.

“So will the top go down?”

“No

problem.”

“Outstanding!” he said with every bit of the enthusiasm he felt.

He hobbled around to the other side. She had the top moving before he reached the passenger-side door. It took some doing for him to get himself inside, but he managed. He sat there for a moment, admiring everything—the seats, the dash—

Meehan’s legs. The radio worked, but it wasn’t original. Mrs. Bee apparently liked her sounds. This one had FM bass-expander stereo.

He was beginning to feel like a kid on Christmas morning. Or the cowboy in the
Thelma and Louise
movie.

“So where are we going?” he asked when he’d finished appreciating everything.

“I’ll leave that to you.”

“No—you pick. Anywhere you want.”

She looked at him for a moment in a way he couldn’t quite figure out. Like she wasn’t sure he meant it—and if he did,
why.

But he did mean it. He didn’t care where they went—of course, his ensemble limited the options.

She picked a place near the mall—the same one he would have picked actually.

“Parking lot is pretty crowded,” she said as she pulled the car into a space.

“No, this is fine. They have great food.”

“And beer,” she said helpfully.

“And beer,” he agreed.

“You might see someone you know here.”

“You, too,” he countered.

“I

don’t

care.”

“Well, me, neither,” he assured her.

“This might work out then,” she said.

“Damn

straight.”

“Can you walk that far? I can pull up to the door and let you out.”

“No, I can make it.” He opened the car door. He didn’t want to be let out. He wanted to hobble across the parking lot in plain view—with her—so all those people neither one of them cared about could see them together and eat their sorry hearts out.

It was hard work, though. He had to stop once to rest before he could make it all the way to the door. There was a line, but the bench full of paratroopers in the crowded waiting area immediately cleared a place for him to sit down. His legs hurt badly enough for him to forego the macho stuff and take it. They even made room for Meehan—which was clearly not a hardship. He didn’t miss the fact that they all appreciated her nonseethrough little dress as much as he did.

The place was rowdy this evening. A group in a far corner had started a swaying, hand-clapping sing-along with the song playing on the jukebox, he thought more because the refrain was the same as their basic training anthem than anything else.

“I like it! I love it! I want some more of it!”

Doyle couldn’t keep from humming with them under his breath. He could smell the steaks grilling and the French fries and onions frying. He was in pure heaven.

It doesn’t get much better than this, he thought.

He glanced at Meehan. She was smiling.

“What?”

he

asked.

“It’s nice to see you enjoying yourself,” she said.

He didn’t reply. Meehan would know that, he supposed, if anybody would. She’d certainly seen him enough times when he wasn’t enjoying himself, when he had a raging fever and was so out of it he hardly knew where he was. He
was
enjoying himself.
This
was a whole lot better than anything he’d participated in in months.

The seating hostess called a name.

“Hey, buddy, you take it,” a soldier close to him said.

“Nah, that’s all right.”

“Go ahead! You can owe me.”

Doyle looked at Meehan. She was waiting for him to decide if he wanted to accept the favor.

He did, and he got shakily to his feet—without help.

“Thanks a lot,” Doyle said to him. “I appreciate it.”

“Nice to have friends in high places,” Meehan said as they followed the hostess to the table.

“Except he’s not a friend. I don’t know him.”

“Then it’s nice the way you guys look after each other,” Meehan said.