He could tell she was sorry, but there was something else bothering her, too. “What else?”
She swallowed. “I don’t know if the two things are connected. There’s probably no reason they should be, but we don’t get much crime in our neighborhood, so when my roommate said she saw somebody poking around your truck last week, I got this uneasy feeling in my stomach.” She tried to smile. “Quantum leap, right? But, I mean, who would rob your truck?”
They both turned to look at the vehicle in question. Primer paint and dents too numerous to count. The beat-up Chevy wouldn’t have interested the most desperate of junkies.
“Lydia just mentioned the black car this morning. I don’t know if the two things are connected, but like I said, I got a very bad feeling about this when she told me.”
His instincts told him to run like hell, but he’d learned from the pros. An ill-planned escape was worthless. He remembered one federal agent telling him, “A tracker can read the clues left behind and make it to your next destination before you even decide where you’re going.” He had to cover his tracks, and to do that right, he needed money. Which meant he had to deliver these plants and collect his fee.
“Probably just an addict looking for something to steal.”
“Maybe.” She didn’t appear convinced.
To distract her, he said, “Okay. You can help me load the truck. The sooner I get this order filled, the better.” The sooner I can disappear.
She lit up with a relieved smile. “Great. I’d be happy to, but could I use your bathroom, first?”
He’d never taken anyone inside his house. Maybe this would be a good test. If Ray’s goons had found him, they’d be inside his house soon enough. Were there clues he’d overlooked? “My house is kinda hot,” he said, leading the way. “The window unit is in the bedroom and it barely works.”
“No problem. I’ll be as fast as I can, then I’ll help you load your plants.”
David hadn’t lied about his overly warm home, Liz thought a few minutes later. The windows and shades were closed and a ceiling fan was roaring overhead, but the heat—like the tension between them—seemed tangible.
“You really keep your place neat.”
“Sloppy men are a stereotype perpetuated by television sitcoms. My grandmother made sure I had my clothes picked up and my bed made every morning before I left for school.”
He also took off his cap when he entered a room, she noticed. Without his funky cap, she had a good look at his hair and face. It was a nice face. And his blondish brown hair was thick and wavy.
“You’re right. That was a sexist comment. I’m a bit of a neat freak, but that was the only way to keep my stuff intact around three sisters.”
They were standing quite close. He smelled like dirt and fresh air and some deodorant with a macho name.
“The bathroom is over there.”
His tone was curt. She could tell he was upset about her poking her nose into his driving record. He probably thought she was some kind of kook, too. Why did I say anything about Mom’s prophecies? She never discussed that sort of thing with outsiders. People rarely believed her so why bother? David had seemed just as skeptical as all the rest. “Thanks. I’ll only be a minute.”
She headed in the direction he pointed, but paused to glance into the tiny kitchen. An old-fashioned typewriter—the kind she vaguely remembered seeing at her grandparents’ house as a child—occupied one end of a painted wooden table. A half-empty juice glass and rumpled paper napkin sat at the other.
“I was in a hurry this morning,” he said, scooting past her to carry the glass to the sink. “Do you want a drink of water or anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
She quickly made use of the facilities. The tiny bathroom was tidier than the one at her house—her roommates weren’t big on neatness—and as impersonal as a motel’s. She washed her hands and returned.
David was standing by the front window, gazing toward where her car was parked. She used the time to look around his home. Three National Geographic magazines on a low table beside a recliner that was shrouded in a dark blue throw. Mismatched lamps. A lumpy-looking beige-and-rust plaid couch.
The only clues to the man himself were his plants. Four or five pots with clever arrangements. She walked to a gallon-size pot stuck in a rusted pail. The cactus was one she’d never seen before. Tall, slender arms with hooked barbs. “Cool plant.”
“Thanks.”
“How long have you lived here?”
“A couple of years.”
She started to ask why there weren’t any family photos on display, but she didn’t get the chance. “If you’re done, I need to get back to work,” he said, starting toward the door. “The nursery pays by check and I want to cash it at the bank before the drive-up window closes.”
The word bank reminded her of her own appointment. “You’re right. Let’s get those plants loaded.”
She opened the door and stepped onto the tiny porch. The house was old. Stick built with narrow siding and peeling paint. She had a sense that this entire area might have been a farm at one time, but she didn’t ask. He’d said he was renting and he probably didn’t care about the place’s past.
“Didn’t I hear you say you have a cat?”
He nodded. “Sorta. A stray that thinks he lives here.”
Liz had noticed an impressive stack of canned food on the counter. She was relieved to know that wasn’t David’s dinner.
“My roommates’ cats came from a little girl with a box in front of the grocery store. I hadn’t really planned on getting pets before…well, so soon, but Lydia and Reezira adore them.”
They walked across the empty expanse to where his truck was parked half in, half out of the weathered shop she’d noticed when she drove in. The ground was baked hardpan, cracked and dusty. Miniature whirligigs blew up in the wake of their steps.
He wasn’t happy to have her there. She wasn’t normally so pushy, but she’d missed not seeing him this week. True, she wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, but she liked this man.
Plus, she needed a date for the wedding. How better to get to know a person than by spending time with him under the scrutiny of her large and meddlesome family?
Now, if she could just work up the nerve to ask him.
Chapter 8
“So, when did you know you were a horticulturalist?” she asked, once her eyes became accustomed to the hazy light inside the Quonset-shaped building that had obviously served multiple purposes over the years. One faded and rusted sign used to patch a hole in the tin siding said Mel’s Garage.
He’d tossed a bunch of empty boxes into the back of his truck and moved the vehicle to the long, rectangular greenhouse, pulling partway into one of the open bays. She noticed that only some of the space was used. One area appeared to serve as a storage area for someone’s junk. She was pretty sure the stuff, which included a dust-covered motorcycle circa the 1970s, didn’t belong to David.
“I’m not one. I grow cactus. That’s it.”
And quite well, she noticed. Special lights were suspended over trays of loose, porous-looking soil. Juvenile plants, incrementally ranked by height, were situated beneath roughly framed skylights made of clear plastic. Larger pots containing grayish green mounds with inch-long spikes lined the front of the building, taking advantage of the direct sun.
“Why cactus?” She used her teeth to extract an almost-invisible sticker from her thumb. She’d accidentally brushed against an innocent-looking plant with thick blondish foliage—which had turned out to be needle-sharp barbs.
“I find them interesting. You’ve got to admire a plant that can not only survive but bloom and thrive in some of the harshest climates on the planet.”
She heard passion behind that rather eloquent statement. And something else, too. Sadness? She didn’t ask. Instead, she said, “I have to admit, I’ve never thought of cacti as beautiful. Mom’s always grown flowers outdoors, and she has orch
ids and violets and green plants indoors, but no cactus.”
He put on a leather apron that tied around the neck and waist, a pair of clear goggles and gloves that reached almost to his elbows. “Understandable. They’re not for everybody, but in the past few years, there’s been a lot of interest in plants that don’t need a lot of water—or maintenance.”
“Makes sense. And the combinations you’ve put together on the curbs are really beautiful. Simple yet eloquent.”
David looked at her and tried to decide if she was buttering him up for some reason or actually meant what she said. Her smile seemed sincere. But she had an agenda, too, he decided.
He turned back to his workbench where he’d assembled his delivery. Squaring his hips to the waist-high trestle-type table that he’d constructed of used lumber, he reached around the first box that he and Liz had assembled and pulled it in to better distribute the weight. The tailgate of his truck was down. All he had to do was carry each of the boxes six or seven steps to the truck. No problem. He’d hauled heavier loads.
But two of the boxes he was using today were larger than usual. He’d driven to several convenience stores trying to find the right size, but had finally given up and taken what was available.
“I could take one end. I’m stronger than I look.”
He decided to try the first one on his own. As he lowered the box to the bed of the truck with a soft “Umph,” he felt a muscle in his low back complain. He stretched to push the box all the way to the front then went back for another. “I’m curious about these prophecies of your mother’s. How come yours was a two-part prophecy? Have any of the others come to pass?”
“Well, yes, actually. Grace was told she’d marry a prince, but first she had to save him,” she said, ignoring the first part of his question. “Or something like that.”
“Your sister is marrying a prince?”
“Um…well, in Grace’s opinion, he’s practically regal.”
He couldn’t help but smile. “I see.”
“Actually, Nikolai’s birth father, Jurek, is a distant relation. Mom calls him a cousin, but according to Jurek, it’s more like second cousin twice removed, or something. Anyway, Mom says we share a family legend that says we’re descended—on the wrong side of the sheets, of course—from royalty. I have no idea what kind of principality we’re talking about, but I’m pretty sure it’s not one you’ve ever heard of. Probably the fairy-tale kind.”
He started to pick up the second box but noticed that one corner of the cardboard was ripped, so he stopped to find the masking tape he usually kept nearby. “So, how did your sister save this so-called prince?”
“She stepped between him and a bullet.”
“Ouch. Is she okay?”
She nodded fervently. “She’s fine. But be forewarned, if you’re ever around her, don’t ask to see her scar. Her husband-to-be is both jealous and a cop. Plus, she tends to embellish things a bit. There was only one shot, okay?”
He chuckled. He couldn’t help it. He’d always envied people with large families and with colorful relatives. He’d wound up with a grandmother who had managed to piss off most of their relations, so they never got invited to group functions.
“I’ll remember that. Now, what about your two-parter?”
She looked toward the ceiling. “Like fortune cookies, prophesies are often ambiguous and open to interpretation.”
He finished taping the corner then looked at her until she made a face and recited in a singsong voice, “A man of shadows, a child of light. You will only be able to save one.”
A shiver passed down his spine.
She gave an exaggerated shrug and added, “My dad was the sun in the center of our universe—until his stroke. Then a shadow fell over our family. I worked with him every day. Strengthening exercises in the pool. Therapeutic massage. I’m a physical therapist. This is what I do. I save people who are close to giving up and help them find the will to live. I tried my best with Dad, but…I failed.”
He stopped what he was doing and took a step closer to her, compelled by the stark look of grief that changed her face. “He’s the man of shadows?”
“I think so. He kept a lot of secrets that didn’t come out until just recently.”
“And the child of light?”
She didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice changed. It sounded softer, happier. “Her name is Prisha. She’s not yet two. She lives in an orphanage in India. I’m going to adopt her. Well, I’m going to try.”
You can only save one. Adoptions take money. The bank. All the little clues she’d dropped were making sense.
“Are you going to let me help you carry that?” she asked.
He rearranged a couple of the smaller pots to keep them from tipping over. “I’ve got it. I’m fine.”
He bent his knees and put his arms around the box, being careful not to squeeze too hard. His last-minute adjustments meant the weight wasn’t quite as evenly distributed, but he tried not to let on. He didn’t want Liz getting dirty before her important meeting with the bank.
“Um, I know this is going to sound kinda crazy, but my sister—the one with the crossroads prophecy—well, she’s getting married on Saturday, and I was wondering if you might be free to go with me? It’s more like a party than a wedding. Nothing big. Lots of food. Music. If I don’t have a date, my great-aunts will give me all kinds of grief.”
Step. Step. Bend. Drop. Twinge. “Sorry. Can’t.”
“Oh. Previous engagement? I meant to ask you last week, but then that whole incident with the kids came up. Confrontations aren’t my thing. I read somewhere that second-born children are the peacemakers. I don’t know why, but that’s me. I used to hate to be around when Alexa and Dad butted heads. And Mom and Kate are always arguing. Nothing hostile, just…family stuff.”
He’d never known that kind of family stuff. He went back to the counter for the next box.
“Do you have siblings?”
“No.”
“Are your parents alive?”
“No.”
She gave a little snicker. “You’ve really got that word down. Kinda like my four-year-old niece.”
David blocked a grin by taking a deep breath and picking up the next box. Too heavy, dammit. But he was committed. He walked slowly over the uneven ground and carefully eased it down.
Everything was fine until he let go and stood up. A muscle in his mid-back suddenly went into spasm. David grunted in pain.
“Whoa. What was that?” Liz pushed off from the post she’d been leaning against. “Are you okay?”
Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He couldn’t answer because that meant letting go of the breath he was holding. Movement of any kind produced pain. Excruciating pain.
“Oh-oh. Let me guess. Midback?”
He nodded a fraction of an inch. Lightning rods shot sideways around his gut.
“Okay. Not good, but not unfixable. Can you turn around? Slowly. Very slowly.”
She moved in close enough to act as a crutch as she helped him toward a four-foot-high stack of fertilizer bags. “I want you to lower yourself down across these, but let’s take off your apron first.”
His welder’s apron. He found it really helped protect against cactus barbs that worked their way into his clothes.
“Good thing you’re wearing a regular shirt today instead of those coveralls, isn’t it?” she asked as she rose up on tiptoes to pull the loop over his neck.
He’d chosen jeans and a button-up shirt since he was going into town after his delivery. And yes, he thought, it was a good thing he was in street clothes since he usually wore nothing but Jockeys under the one-piece suit.
With her help, he managed to shed the heavy leather gloves. He’d already tossed his goggles onto the tailgate. “Let me unbutton that for you. You focus on breathing. I don’t suppose you have any ice out here, do you?”
He started to shake his head but stopped. She got the message.
A part of his mind registered the fact that a beautiful woman was undressing him. Her scent was very pleasant. Intriguing. It helped take his mind off the pain…until she eased him forward.
“No. Stop. That hurts. Why don’t I just take a couple of aspirin and wait for the pain to go away?”
“Because the muscles that you tweaked need help now, and covering up the problem won’t fix it. Here. Let me put your shirt and apron over the bags first. Now move incrementally. Nice and slow.”
He appreciated the fact that she hadn’t said, I told you so. He should have let her help him move the flats in the first place.
“Let it go,” she said, softly, her lips close to his ear. “Tell me if this hurts.”
She put some pressure on the exact place that burned. Then her fingers shifted. He felt a tingle all the way down the inside of his leg to his arch. It didn’t hurt exactly, but he felt it. “What are you doing?”
“Pressure-point therapy. Just try to breathe naturally, but concentrate on letting the pain leave your body with each exhale.”
He focused on his breath and slowly he felt the pain subside. The pulsing beat in his eardrums lessened. He shifted his hips slightly. Not bad. He lifted up just a bit, being careful to use his stomach muscles. No knifelike slice in his lumbar.
“Wow. You’re amazing.”
“Right place. Right time. Most people try to ignore the pain and it only gets worse. Swelling and inflammation create more problems. You really should get an ice pack on that ASAP. And no more lifting.” She looked at the remaining pots of cacti.
“I—” he started.
“Can’t lift,” she repeated. “Nothing heavy, anyway. So, instead of going the macho weight-lifter route, we’ll break up the boxes. Fewer pots per trip mean more trips, but think of all pain you’re saving yourself. Do you have an extra pair of gloves?”
“Over there.”
“Good.”
It took them twice as long as it should have to complete the transfer, but David’s back, though sore, didn’t experience any more spasms. Liz closed the tailgate while he hooked the chain through the V to keep it secure. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done that without your help.”
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