Turnabout's Fair Play (31 page)

“Publicly? On the website, for anyone to see? After everything you’ve been through?” As a published author, Caylor should have understood the need to share what she’d written.

“It’s published under my username, which has no connection to me or any way for people to find out who I am. So I thought I was safe from discovery, that I would remain anonymous.”

“If this turns out to be another tragic story about someone finding out you do this …” Zarah fanned herself with her broad-brimmed straw hat—something she’d bought in New Mexico out of necessity.

“Well…sort of. Not the tragic part, though. You see, the story installments caught someone’s attention and…we’d been e-mailing back and forth through the site. Usernames only—no personal information whatsoever. And the e-mails turned a little flirty.”

“So there’s another guy in addition to Jamie?”

“No—I’m getting there.” She told them about Jamie’s visit to the office and seeing the print of the Gawain-Ragnelle woodcut. About Jamie figuring out Liam’s full name. “He asked me if I was that user—and told me he was the person I’d been e-mailing with.”

Zarah laughed. “It’s just like the movie
You’ve Got Mail. You
disliked him in real life, but under the protection of an assumed identity, you fell for him.”

“Yeah—except I’d already started falling for him in real life before things got flirty on e-mail. So not only does he know that I’m a closet geek, but he actually appreciates that about me, being a former dork himself.” A giggle bubbled up at the memory of his flourished bow and departure Friday night.

“What is it, Caylor?” At Zarah’s question, Flannery turned to look at their friend, too.

“I’ve known Flan since before I can remember. I’ve been with you through every relationship you’ve ever had—from the initial euphoria of the crush to the ice cream and Dr Pepper of the breakups. But I have never—
never
—seen you like this before.”

“Like what?” both Zarah and Flannery asked.

“In love.”

“Ha!” Jamie whipped the card down onto the table. “One thousand miles.”

Cookie and Kirby groaned. Yet it had been their idea to play
Mille Bornes
, a card game Jamie hadn’t seen since elementary school. Apparently, they must have been practicing with it—because up until this sixth hand, they’d been trouncing him. But not this time.

Kirby’s phone rang. He squinted at the screen and then smiled, slid his finger across, pressed a button, and held it to his ear. “Hello, Flan.”

Jamie tensed, hoping to be able to hear her, but no such luck. An unreasonable surge of jealousy took him by surprise. Seriously? He was going to get jealous over Flannery calling her grandfather instead of him?

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m glad you’ll be able to make it tomorrow. Sleep well. And don’t worry about me, I’m well entertained.” He said his good-byes and returned the phone to his shirt pocket. “I won’t need to leave in an hour after all. Flannery finished her work project, but she said she didn’t get much sleep. She’s going to turn in early tonight so that she can enjoy all the activities tomorrow.”

“How disappointing for you. I know you’ve said how much you enjoy the music program at the arts center.” Cookie carefully stacked the cards and put them back in the box. “Would you…I know I am no replacement for your granddaughter, but if you still want to go, I would like to go with you.”

Jamie left the dinette table and moved into the kitchen, where he promptly opened the refrigerator door and crouched down behind it so the two older folks could pretend like they were alone.

“That would suit me right dandy.” Like his granddaughter, Kirby was usually very well spoken. But occasionally, he’d pop off with one of these countryisms, reminding them of his rural, farm-boy roots. Jamie imagined it was something he learned to do as a preacher, not only to relate to his congregants but also to keep them on their toes.

“Jamie?”

He stood, closing the fridge door and coming away empty handed at his grandmother’s call. “Ma’am?”

“Will you be all right on your own without us tonight?”

Trying to keep from jumping up and down, Jamie leaned on the peninsula that separated the kitchen from the eat-in part of the kitchen. “I think I can manage on my own.”

“That settles it, then. We’ll take my car, and then I can drop you off at Jamie’s house afterward.”

Jamie didn’t miss the fact that his grandmother laid her hand on top of Kirby’s, nor that Kirby turned his hand over and clasped hers with it.

Too sweet—his grandmother was holding hands with her boyfriend. The childlike excitement that came from getting just what he asked for as a gift made him giddy. He wanted to call Flannery and tell her.

Even though lunch on Friday had been meant to discuss their plan for figuring out ways to put their grandparents together—though, on his part, it had really just been to see Flannery—Cookie and Big Daddy seemed to be doing just fine without them.

Measuring his pace so that it didn’t turn into a happy dance, Jamie went around and kissed his grandmother’s cheek. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“We won’t be out too late.” Kirby looked from Jamie back down at Maureen. “Maybe grab some grub afterward?”

Cookie nodded.

“You kids be good now.” Whistling, Jamie pulled his keys out of his pocket and headed out to the car.

Almost as soon as he hit the interstate, his phone rang. He hit the button to answer his phone through the car’s hands-free system. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Flan.”

He clutched the steering wheel tighter—because raising both arms in victory wouldn’t be prudent while flying down the highway. He did pound the fabric-lined ceiling a couple of times with one fist, though. “What’s up?”

“I’m working on my story, and I’ve gotten to a point at which, in the past, I’ve written it a few different ways. I was thinking maybe I could run them past you and get your opinion on which one you like best.”

Seat dancing—mostly just moving his shoulders and head—was something he could do in the car. “I’d love to help out with that. Hey, by the way, your grandfather and my grandmother are going out again tonight.”

“How did you arrange that?”

“I didn’t—you did, by calling and canceling on your grandfather. Cookie offered to go in your place. They invited me go with them, but I declined, of course.”

“Of course. So where are you now?”

“I’m on I-440 about to get onto 65 and head home.”

“Want to come over?”

Jamie changed lanes quickly to take the north exit instead of the south exit. “I’m on my way. Want me to pick up something for dinner?”

“There’s a new Thai place that delivers. Why don’t we do that?”

Thai, Chinese, pizza, cardboard. Would it really matter? “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Do you still have the security card to get in?”

“Did you really think I was going to give that up once it was in my possession?”

“I guess not. So what are you going to want to eat?” She read the menu to him.

By the time he’d told her what he wanted and she repeated it to him, he’d pulled into a parking space on the street. “Don’t order yet. I’m on my way up.”

Moments later, he knocked on her door, heart hammering. Flannery didn’t want him to kiss her until he’d figured out what he wanted to do with his life. But really, the only thing he wanted to do with his life was spend time with her. He doubted she’d take that as an answer, though.

The person who answered the door was definitely not the Flannery he was used to seeing. With her hair pulled back in a partially up/partially down ponytail, no makeup, and wearing sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt, and from the dark circles under her eyes—and the fact she couldn’t seem to get them open all the way—Jamie could understand why she had canceled on her grandfather, claiming fatigue. Definitely not a ploy on her part to make Kirby and Cookie spend more time together.

She handed him the menu—with a sticky-note on it containing her order—and left him in the kitchen while she padded in her socked feet over to the armchair. Not quite the width of a loveseat, it just about swallowed her whole, leaving only the top of her head and the screwy ponytail showing.

Something brushed against Jamie’s leg. As soon as he looked down, Liam started meowing—though it sounded more like a little kid crying.

“As soon as you order, would you mind getting a can of food out of the pantry and feeding Liam?”

It hadn’t been a poor connection on the phone—her voice really was low and gravelly tonight. Jamie quickly scanned the menu, though he’d been certain of what he wanted. Flannery’s sleep-deprived brain just hadn’t been able to process it.

He placed the order—which was promised in thirty minutes—then turned his attention to Liam. The pantry would be one of those two doors. He opened the one closest to the end of the kitchen. Yep—well, a utility closet with the water heater taking up most of it. But judiciously placed shelves maximized the small space. A couple dozen cans of cat food occupied a high shelf. Never having dealt with feeding a cat before, he grabbed a can without reading the label.

Liam’s crying intensified.

“Oh, cat, shut up.” The moaning complaint from Flannery could barely be heard over the cat’s begging cries.

Jamie bent to pick up the empty bowl from Liam’s mat, happy the can had a pop top, since he didn’t see a can opener on the counter anywhere, and he didn’t feel like digging through her drawers to find a handheld one.

He pulled the lid off the can—and strangled out a gagging cough. “Is it supposed to smell this bad?”

“Yeah.” Flannery lethargically waved a hand over her head. “It usually smells pretty bad. Please rinse the can out before you put it in the recycle bin so it doesn’t stink up the whole place.”

Jamie used the bent can top to scrape the foul-smelling brown stuff into the bowl. He thought Liam might keel over of an apoplexy with the way the cat stiffened as Jamie put the bowl back on the mat, but instead the cat hunkered and chowed down.

After making sure every morsel of the foul-smelling stuff was gone, he found the recycle bin and tossed the can and lid into it.

Finally, he made his way to the living room, dropping onto the end of the sofa closest to her. “What’ve you got for me?”

Sitting cross-legged in the big chair, Flannery had her laptop balanced on her right leg, one spiral notebook on her left knee, and two more notebooks on the coffee table, which she’d pulled over in front of the chair.

They spent the next hour reviewing the scenes she’d written five, twelve, and twenty years ago. The Thai food was great, in that it was delivered on time and hot, but mediocre in its quality. However, Jamie would gladly sacrifice quality food for quality company.

Around eight o’clock, as they discussed the pros and cons of different events from each of the scenes, Jamie got up to put the leftover food away and rinse the plates and utensils to put in the dishwasher.

An idea for a totally new scenario hit him. Shutting off the water so she’d be sure to hear him, he told her exactly what he could see happening in the scene.

Silence met him when he finished.

“Flannery?” He dried his hands and walked over to the chair. In the semidarkness—with no lights turned on in the living room, only the glow of the city beyond the windows—he could easily see he’d lost her. Rescuing the laptop before it slid off onto the floor, he set it and the notebooks on the coffee table, which he pushed back to its original position in front of the sofa.

He considered trying to carry her to her bed, but though she was slender, she was the same height as he. And a runner, if the 10K charity run T-shirt she wore was any indication, meaning muscle tone would make her heavier than she appeared. Plus, she looked so comfortable and peaceful—he didn’t want to disturb her. Instead, he pulled the soft throw from the back of the sofa and covered her with it, tucking it around her shoulders.

Almost jumping out of his skin with the urge to kiss her, Jamie pushed a loose strand of hair back from her cheek, leaned over, and kissed her temple. That was all Flannery would do the other night, so that was all he would allow himself.

Opening the laptop to jot down his idea for her, he discovered he couldn’t when it came up to a screen asking for a password.

Well, he had access to paper and pen. Turning one of the notebooks to a blank page, he started writing. Somehow, in getting the high points of it down in black and white, it seemed a bit cliché, maybe even silly. But he’d let her be the judge. She was the writer, not him.

The blinds provided him with a challenge—figuring out that they were electronically, not manually, controlled and then actually getting all of them to close. He left the light over the stove on, just so she wouldn’t wake up in the dark and hurt herself.

But before he could leave, he had to do one more thing.

He picked up the notebook and took it into the kitchen where he could see. On the last blank page in it, he drew a heart that went from edge to edge, top to bottom, running the gel-ink pen over it several times to thicken the line. Then inside, he wrote a note that he hoped Flannery would understand.