Seeking Refuge

by Alana Terry

  The moment she disconnected, she tried finding her brother. She called Lorie and Darrin. She called Joe about the pickup. She did the laundry, picked up the house, and washed more dishes than she’d ever washed at one time in that house—and still didn’t finish. Retirement never sounded sweeter.

  By three o’clock that morning, her fatigue hit hard enough that she could no longer function. She wrote a note for Joe, grabbed a blanket and pillow, and curled on the couch, falling asleep almost immediately. Joe found her there an hour later—the night wasted in a fruitless search for a dark green pickup.

  Joe,

  If I don’t wake up when you come in, feel free to take my car home, or if you still don’t want me alone, just use my bed. The sheets are clean.

  Lorie is safe. Darrin left for your parents’ house around three, and Wes and Heather are stuck in Rockland. His car died. Oh, and if he can’t get it fixed tomorrow, I have to go get them.

  Sorry for something. I can’t remember what.

  Alexa

  Joe watched her sleep as he untied his shoes and removed his coat. She looked extra vulnerable in sleep. Vulnerable seemed incongruous with the name Alexa Hartfield. Alexa was strong, independent, eccentric, eclectic, vibrant! As he remembered the bits of her past that she’d shared, he sighed. Strong or not, everyone has some area of vulnerability.

  A stack of folded laundry caught his eye. Burgundy sweatpants with a California logo on the leg lay on top. He grabbed and smiled at his correct guess—Wes’ pants. He flipped through the rest of the stack until he found a t-shirt. He pulled it from the pile. It might be rude, but he refused to climb into Alexa’s bed with dirty clothes.

  After a quick change, he raided her fridge, finding milk and a piece of pie. As exhausted as he was, he also knew he’d never sleep on an empty stomach. He considered washing a load of dishes, but at the clank of a glass on her cupboard shelf, he changed his mind. There was no reason to wake her up just for clean dishes.

  ALEXA FOUGHT CONSCIOUSNESS. A niggling thought insisted that she needed to get up, but her mind and body wanted nothing to do with it. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable but felt trapped as though wearing a shoe several sizes too small.

  When she couldn’t stretch or roll over, Alexa chanced opening one eye. The sight of her laptop on the coffee table caused her to sit up straight. She stared at the blankets with a confused expression before the previous night’s events tumbled over themselves in her mind.

  She stretched aching muscles, mentally groaning at the number of pops she heard from all her joints. Alexa fought to get the blood pumping through her veins. She yawned as she half-stumbled into the kitchen to start coffee. The wall clock read eight-thirty. With the coffee maker gurgling, she went to see if Joe had stayed or if he’d gone home. Keys by the note on the coffee table answered the question. It also filled her with dread. Joe stayed—the danger remained.

  She ached to finish cleaning the house, but the noise might wake Joe. She opened her door. She refused to tiptoe around the house for several hours and then discover he had gone home after all. A lumpy bed answered the question. She backed out quickly and resigned herself to working with extra quietness.

  For the next hour or so, she baked, made breakfast, and got the fire going, remembering how much Joe loved a good blaze. A glance at the clock sent her to her room, knocking gently as she entered. “Joe?”

  He rolled over.

  Alexa watched his breathing grow rhythmic once more. The alarm clock beside her bed strengthened her resolve as she moved to the other side of the bed and shook him gently. “Joe? Come on, I think you should get up. Don’t you have to work this morning?”

  His answer was a stretch and a roll back over to his other side again. He looked like a chicken on a rotisserie. As she tried to decide if she should let him sleep or not, she realized that the appropriate stereotypical word picture would be a “pig on a spit.” A chuckle escaped before she could prevent it.

  At that moment, she realized how foolish she was to try to be quiet when she was trying to wake him up. Alexa quit tiptoeing and walked back to the other side of the bed, facing him once more. Shaking him gently, she spoke with more volume and force. “Come on. Wake up. You can do it. Come on.”

  Joe rolled over once more. She tried sounding cajoling, shaking his back. “Come on. It won’t hurt. I have food waiting—hot coffee... muffins... grapefruit... omelets ready to go in the skillet...”

  Utterly ineffectual. Joe squirmed and rolled back to face her. Alexa stood, hands on hips, and decided to “serenade” him into consciousness. “Good morning to you, good morning to you, good morning, dear Jooooeeeeyyyy....”

  A wince on Joe’s face at the mutilated tune stopped her cold. “You little faker! Oh, you are so dead.”

  Joe’s smirk was too much. She whacked at his head with her apron and stalked to the kitchen. Thankful for Lorie’s excellent example in the proper handling of Friedan men, she knew exactly what to do. Yes, yes, she did.

  Joe howled and squirmed as the ice cubes slithered down his back. Alexa leaned against her dressing table, crossed her arms, and delightedly watched as Joe sat up, trying to wriggle the dripping frozen missives of her annoyance from his t-shirt. “Serves you right.”

  She started to return to the kitchen when she caught movement in the mirror. Eyes widening, she bolted, but not before Joe jumped from the bed and grabbed her robe. She felt ridiculously like Joseph as she slipped out of the robe and dashed into the kitchen, wrapping her apron back around herself protectively. Joe wasn’t far behind. Alexa whipped around with the coffee pot in hand.

  “Don’t even try it. If you want coffee, you’ll put those in the sink where they belong.”

  His expression unreadable, Joe stood leaning against the peninsula and eyed her enigmatically, tossing one of the ice cubes up in the air like a baseball. “It might be worth it. You have to admit; it’s your fault.”

  ‘I thought you were sleeping through your shift! I tried to help you and you pretended to be asleep!”

  “Yeah, but I spent three times that long wrestling a semi-comatose Alexa Hartfield the other night. Turnabout is fair play or something like that.” Joe smiled and wiggled his fingers. “You, on the other hand, took an even score and gave yourself an edge. I can’t just let that go.”

  “Is breakfast an evener of lopsided scores?”

  “That’s a tough one...”

  Confident that she’d convinced him of her superior plan, Alexa turned to grab the butter crock, but a shiver of wet coldness slid down her back. She jumped, almost dropping the butter. “Hey!”

  Joe jumped around the peninsula and took the crock. “Now we’re even. And did you know that your nose wrinkles like a pug dog when you squeal?”

  She glared at him, noticing something she’d missed. “Did you know that curly hair becomes you?”

  Joe groaned, clapping his hands over his head. “You win.”

  Alexa poured the whipped eggs into her skillet and grinned. “I don’t know why you hide them. They’re adorable.”

  “That’s why I hide them.”

  “Onions, ham, tomatoes, cheese?”

  Joe tugged her hair as he passed her. “Sounds great. Do you want me to take these?”

  Alexa nodded at the bowl of hot muffins in his hand and nodded. “Thanks.”

  She watched as he set them on the table, buttering two as he sat down, and then made room on his grapefruit plate for them. Something about it touched her, but the omelet demanded her attention. When finished, she slid it onto a hot plate and placed it in front of him. “Eat while it’s hot. Cold omelets are nearly as nasty as Benedicts.”

  As her omelet cooked, she continued watching Joe. The scene before her touched something in her—something she couldn’t define. Realization kicked her in the gut. What she liked was something she’d likely never have. It all felt like the companionable interaction of two people long married. Their comfort and ease with each other... Joe’s tea
sing was just flirtatious enough to be intimate without crossing those invisible lines that turn friendships into something even more special—and infinitely more complicated.

  Chapter 26

  ALEXA WAITED UNTIL Wes cut a second slice of quiche before asking, “Are you going to tell me about Heather?”

  Wes sipped his coffee, visibly avoiding her question. “Good coffee.”

  “I used half-and-half. You’re used to that two percent junk. Now stop ignoring me and answer the question. You’ve given me half the story already.”

  He wrinkled his forehead, sighing. “How do you figure?”

  “Avoiding the question is a great way to tell me that you spent a lot of time with her and that you enjoyed yourself.”

  “She felt really bad, Alexa. That was such a bad night for her.”

  Now Alexa understood. He felt bad for enjoying Heather’s company after her awkward scene at Heather’s house. “Wes, I didn’t think it was anything serious. I just thought she was disappointed over her spoiled date.”

  Wes described Heather’s vision, the following discussion with Joe, and the days that she’d been in Chicago. Alexa, with careful encouragement and experience in extracting the most from her detail-phobic brother, managed to get an incredibly accurate picture of Heather’s personality, character, interests, weaknesses, and strengths. “You like her.”

  “Yeah.” Wes didn’t move his eyes from his plate. He sawed through another section of grapefruit, heaped another small pyramid of sugar on the slice, and shoveled it out of the pink and yellow skin.

  “What do you like most about her?”

  Wes continued to cut the fruit free of its rind and pile sugar on top before eating it. After the better part of a minute, he glanced up at Alexa and shoved his plate aside. “She can admit she was wrong.”

  “You’re kidding me. That’s what attracts you the most?”

  “Women don’t get it,” he sighed. “They think they have to be perfect, or strong, or gorgeous, or all three. A woman who can admit she blew it isn’t going to play head games while trying to make herself out to be something she isn’t.”

  “Well, I bet it doesn’t exactly hurt that she’s gorgeous.”

  Grinning, Wes rose and carried his plate to the sink. As he strolled past her again, he squeezed her shoulders, leaned close, and said, “No, it sure doesn’t.”

  FOR THE REST OF THE week, Alexa hardly saw her brother. When he wasn’t out with Heather or her children, he spent his time photographing the town. He had described his idea of an article on Fairbury and filled several memory cards with different aspects of small-town life. Amazing shots of the ever-evolving snow family in front of the courthouse, ice-skating on the town square, and the beauty of snowcapped trees along the shoreline of Lake Danube impressed her every time he brought home a new card.

  Saturday found her talking to Suzy, preparing her clothes for Sunday, and watching for Zach and Sarah. To her surprise, Wes burst through the door the second she hung up with her friend. “Oh, man, Alexa. I found it.”

  Beeping from Alexa’s range signaled that the oven was preheated. She hurried to put in a pizza and called for him to follow. “You found what?”

  “Your next house.”

  Alexa turned but Wes wasn’t there. She followed his invisible trail to the living room and found him downloading pictures onto his laptop. “Look at this house.”

  “Wes, I already have a house. You’re in it. The last I heard, you liked it.”

  Wes nodded absently as he scrolled past dozens of pictures, searching for a specific grouping. “I do. It’s a great little bungalow, but you’ve always wanted more room for books and clothes—this place has it. It’s amazing.”

  “So, you think I should buy a new house so I can have more books?”

  Wes continued closing pictures and glancing at the clock on the screen. “Can you call Heather and tell her I’ll be ten minutes late? You have got to see this place.”

  “Why? If you like it so much, you buy it. You can house my non-existent book collection.”

  “I don’t like the neighborhood, but you would, and I know you’ll never have enough room for clothing. This place has all the room you could ever hope for.”

  “Where is it?” Alexa found the conversation both bewildering and amusing. Wes never cared where anyone lived as long as it held a refrigerator, bathtub, and a place to stretch out to watch a movie.

  “Those houses along the lake—you know, the ones with street names like Vienna Terrace and Budapest Boulevard? You are going to love this place. I’m almost there...”

  “What’s with this new desire to move me out of my house?”

  Wes ignored her. He passed her the laptop and leaned back in the chair, smug. “Look.”

  Inwardly, Alexa groaned. He was right. She loved it with just the first picture. She’d always avoided the houses on the lake, not even allowing herself to drive past. The architecture, the location, and the large yards appealed to her. The area looked and felt much like pictures she’d seen of European estates. “You’re cruel.”

  “You need it, Annie. It says, ‘Hartfield’ over that door. I’m sure of it.”

  “Wes, it says Williamson.”

  “You know what I mean.” Wes smiled up at her.

  “Why did you do this? You knew I’d love it.” Hard as she tried, Alexa couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

  Wes’ expression told her he truly didn’t know. “I don’t get it. What’s wrong?”

  “Wes, it’s not for sale. You can’t do that to people. You can’t take someone completely contented with their life, dangle temptation in front of them, and then say, ‘too bad.’ It’s cruel.”

  He jumped at the knock on the door and then raced for his room. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Heather stood at the door smiling, Zach and Sarah on each side of her. “Hi.”

  Alexa opened the door wider, ushering them in. “Wes is dressing. He’s got a new project going and that always messes him up.”

  “Thanks for offering to watch them. After last time—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m glad to have them. Pizza is in the oven, I have a new game, and that new animated movie about Aesop and the so-called true story behind the fables is in the DVD player.”

  Heather glanced around her, avoiding Alexa’s eyes before asking, “Is it safe?”

  “Joe says they are. I’m really sorry you even have to ask. He and the other officers said they’d be driving by every hour or so—just to be on the safe side.”

  “I didn’t think you’d offer if it wasn’t, but I had to ask.”

  Before Heather could continue, Wes hurried out of his room, apologizing. Alexa smiled to herself, enjoying the sight of her big brother ready for his date. Such a handsome, intelligent man—a decade of travel had given him a heart for humanity, and it showed in his concern for Heather. He’d be a catch for any woman.

  As Wes interacted with the children, and then escorted Heather from the house, Alexa noticed something—something delightful. He was falling in love with Heather. Did he realize it yet?

  The oven beeped. “Ok, you guys, wash up. The pizza is ready.”

  JOE KNOCKED TWICE BEFORE opening Alexa’s door. Her muffled voice carried from the kitchen—or so he thought. As he stepped into the dining room, Joe saw an elaborate blanket tent that covered most of the lower half of the room. If it weren’t for the tent, he would have thought Alexa read aloud to herself. Her voice turned sassy and squeaky, and Joe smiled to himself as he recognized Reepicheep from The Voyage of the Dawn Treader.

  In a silly falsetto, Joe squeaked, “Am I to understand that this singularly discourteous person has entered Miss Lexie’s house unbidden?” He grinned at Sarah’s giggle and Zach’s start of surprise. He flung the flaps of the “tent” aside and peeked inside.

  Alexa winked at him as she cried, “Oh, Sarah! Zach! Did you hear something? Do you think he will become visible if we run a s
word through him?”

  Joe laughed, grabbing a discarded pillow. Settling himself at their feet, he stretched until he was comfortable and then grinned. “Go on, Reepicheep is my favorite.”

  Wes and Heather found them all under the tent, listening and munching on cookies as Alexa read the story. The children reluctantly donned their coats, disappointed they couldn’t stay to hear the rest of the story. She watched as her brother gathered the children’s things and led Heather’s little family out the door. She glanced at Joe, grinned, and raced after them in her stocking feet.

  Wes took the book she thrust into his hands and gave her a questioning look. Alexa allowed her eyes to follow Heather as the woman continued home with her children before she said, “You read it to me, remember? You did the best Reepicheep I’ve ever heard. Go read them to sleep.”

  Joe crawled from beneath her elaborate tent when she burst in the door. Her feet ached from their minute and a half on the frozen sidewalk. She dropped to the couch and grabbed her foot, hoping to prevent the chill she knew would come and feeling very foolish. “Joe, would you grab my slippers from beside my bed?”

  “You went out without shoes? Are you nuts? It’s got to be freezing out there.”

  She glared at him. “Way to state the obvious. I’m trying to get them warm again, so will you help me and get the stupid slippers?”

  For the next five minutes, she rubbed, hung them over the edge of the couch to bake by the fire, and did everything she could think of, but it was no use. “Drat. I’ll have to take a bath.”

  “What? For cold feet. Seriously?”

  “They have their own laws of nature. I call it temperature-induced inertia. ‘Feet made cold like to stay cold’ or something like that.”

  “A bath is kind of extreme, don’t you think? Just get a bucket of hot water if you need it.”

  “That requires carrying heavy buckets and getting water all over my rug—forget it. I’m taking a bath.”