“The kid tried to go legit in her early twenties. It didn’t stick,” Fatman said. “Her type doesn’t get it together. Not after she’s been raised on the kind of mother’s milk a broad like Wish Kaminsky doles out.”
“Probably not.” The thought of Birdie destined for life as a criminal was a goddamn tragedy. “Is there anything else?”
The PI withdrew a sheaf of documents from his briefcase—school transcripts. “Your little Birdie attended college.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Stayed two whole years before dropping out.”
Hugh’s pity turned to sorrow. Birdie was a bright woman. She could be anything. He was still imagining the possibilities when Fatman elbowed him in the ribs.
“You’ll love this.” The PI’s grin grew sickeningly wide. “Want to guess what our girl studied before heading back down the low road? I’ll give you a hint. She took a lot of English classes before declaring her major.”
The sorrow in Hugh’s chest became an oppressive weight. “And her major was what?”
Fatman looked inordinately pleased. “Journalism.” He slapped Hugh on the knee. “The kid aced news writing. The little pigeon wanted to grow up and become a newspaper reporter. Just like you.”
* * *
Thanksgiving morning arrived in a swirl of snowfall.
Liberty Square lay in shadow with a flinty thread of orange light rising above the courthouse. Hugh parked in front of The Second Chance Grill. The restaurant was dark; the faint chords of Christmas music, rising from the surrounding streets, echoed through the lonely Square.
Climbing the stairwell to the apartment, he wondered if he should’ve called to explain he’d be gone all night. A call would’ve seemed intimate, and Birdie wasn’t his lover. He wasn’t even sure they were friends.
Inside the apartment, he spotted her sleeping form curled beneath blankets on the couch. He paused, startled by the nest of Wal-Mart bags on the floor. A rustling of plastic, and he withdrew a woman’s nightgown from the nearest bag. The fabric was covered with flowers and had a ruffled collar. It looked like something straight out of his grandmother’s closet.
The gown was painfully similar to the one Birdie was sleeping in.
He recalled their conversation about her lack of modesty, how she mixed her skimpy lingerie with his clothes. Had she gone shopping to make herself less of a lure? She shouldn’t have. She wasn’t responsible for his lousy self-control or his carnal thoughts.
Shame wrestled his heart. He tamped it down. Careful not to wake her, he pulled the blanket to her chin. Fingers of daylight caressed the sweet curve of her cheek. Her lips were rosy with sleep, her warm breath whispering across his knuckles. Gently, he tucked the blanket around her shoulders.
Satisfied, he tiptoed into the kitchen. Brew coffee? He’d hardly slept at the lodge. The drive back to Liberty had been long. He was still deciding when he noticed Birdie’s army coat flung over a chair.
Searching the pockets was an invasion of privacy. Doing so broke a basic code of decency. Lifting the coat, Hugh stood transfixed. Given Birdie’s unlucky past, there was no telling what she carried around. Switchblades, fake credit cards—he was sharing an apartment with a criminal. She was a petty criminal, to be sure. Birdie wasn’t a hardened case. She was young and fresh and funny, really, when she let down her defenses. But he had a right to know who he was dealing with.
Fatman had revealed enough facts to make the future excruciatingly clear. She’d leave, and Hugh would spend months wondering where she was. Years, maybe. Fate had only thrown them together for a few short weeks.
Wavering with indecision, he let his thoughts tumble back to a childhood unlike the world where Birdie had grown up. His pop, an insurance adjuster. Mom, a homemaker and part-time secretary. Both were emotionally distant, sure. Still, he’d never doubted their love.
Not every kid grew up in a world that was predictable and safe. Had anyone cheered Birdie’s small successes, her good grades or her athleticism?
An odd pull of emotion made him spread the army coat out on the table. It looked like a scarecrow missing its straw. With the breath locked in his lungs, he searched the front pocket. There was a pack of gum inside, and a tube of lip gloss.
Other pockets held surprises. Wads of bills neatly banded. An ivory bracelet exquisitely carved with a design of lilies. He withdrew a musty volume, Miss Patti’s Etiquette for Ladies, with the awful knowledge that he didn’t know Birdie at all. The book’s copyright was 1912. Not the sort of thing he’d expect a petty thief to cherish. The other book, a paperback, sent a stinging warmth into his eyes—The Portrait of a Lady.
Hugh fingered the dog-eared pages. Birdie read Henry James?
What had he found? Whimsy and dreams… and the evidence of hope. Did Birdie dream of becoming a lady? She’d mentioned visiting Ethel Lynn’s house. Did she forget the harrows of her past while sipping tea? Did she find safety in Ethel Lynn’s dining room, a moment of peace as she gazed appreciatively at the vintage tablecloth and the balloon lamps?
God, he hoped so.
A sickly remorse brushed across his lips. Soon she’d be gone. He should’ve cherished her company. He should’ve enjoyed what little she was able to give. She was a singular woman. Calculating, sure. But she was warm and witty too.
With regret, he draped the coat back over the chair. A pack of cards fell out with a thunk.
Not playing cards—a child’s deck of Go Fish. A cherished memory from a horrific childhood? His throat tight, Hugh picked up the deck. Some instinct made him turn the box over. On the back, in blue crayon, was a child’s clumsy scrawl.
I lov Paw Paw
Reverently, he slipped the cards back into her coat.
* * *
“What smells so good?” Struggling onto her elbows, Birdie lifted her nose.
A feast of scents lingered in the air. The savory aroma of poultry mixed delectably with the bite of cloves and the sweet of cinnamon. Her stomach rumbled.
From the kitchen, Hugh called, “The turkey’s already in the oven. There’s a grocery store on Fifth open twenty-four-seven. Lucky for us, they had a fourteen-pound bird left.”
“You’re cooking a turkey?”
She threw off the blanket then hesitated. His domestic skills might be a peace offering. Even so, he had tried to kick her out of the apartment. Was he softening her up before trying another stab at eviction? A pity. She’d gladly chow down on his grub but she wasn’t leaving. Now that she’d discovered what she was looking for—rubies!—she wasn’t going anywhere until she’d snagged them.
Getting to her feet, she decided to play nice. “Need help?”
“You know how to cook?”
She made a beeline for the coffee pot wafting out its own enticing scents. “I once shared an apartment with another woman in Phoenix, a chef. She taught me a lot.” She neglected to add that Felicia Perez had learned her culinary skills in several of Arizona’s finest correctional facilities. “I’d never had much experience with home cooking. I was happy to learn.”
“No one taught you Cooking 101 while you were growing up?”
Hugh was cutting up carrots for a salad and she grabbed one. “Not really.” During childhood she’d been dragged through seedy motel rooms that were never equipped with kitchens. If it weren’t for grocery store salad bars, she’d have been stuck with her mother’s disgusting faves—burgers and fries. “Dinnertime wasn’t a high priority in my family.”
“What was a high priority?”
She caught the strain in his voice. “What’s with the twenty questions?” In response he bent his head to the task of slicing carrots in an efficient row. “And why do I get the feeling you’re trying not to look at me?”
The question put color in his cheeks. Then he caught her gaze and held it. “Birdie, what happens after Liberty?”
“What do you mean?”
“Where will you go?”
“I haven’t decided.” West, prob
ably. Once she found the rubies she’d put lots of miles between herself and Ohio.
“When are you leaving?”
“I don’t know. Soon, I suppose.”
He pushed the cutting board away and nearing, cupped the side of her face. She froze. Was this a new ploy? The angry routine hadn’t forced her from the apartment. But she couldn’t detect artifice on his face. The unabashed sincerity softening his features was confusing and distressing. She tried to back away but couldn’t.
His eyes held a fierce agony. “You move around a lot, don’t you? Footloose and fancy free.” He frowned, considering. “I don’t want you to leave the apartment.”
“But you said—”
“I’ve reconsidered.”
“What do you want?”
He drew her close enough to melt the reservations warring in her soul for one perfect moment. She was still sleepy, not fully in control of her senses, and he tugged her close easily. She allowed herself to savor his embrace.
“Birdie, I want to enjoy you while you’re here. Is that all right?” This time he grinned, and the fire banking in his gaze was irresistible.
She felt breathless. “I’m not sure.” He’d been treating her like a pariah for days.
“You’re a complication I don’t need, but I want to make love to you. Every day and often. Until you leave.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not?” He trailed his palm down her spine and she trembled. “Maybe we’ll get along better if we drop the celibacy routine and admit the facts. We’ve both got it bad.”
They did. She did. Floundering, she tried voicing the long list of reasons why they shouldn’t become intimate. She couldn’t think, not with his languid caresses feathering heat across her hips. Her hunger grew stronger by the day, and the physical pleasure Hugh would supply was as potent a lure as the rubies she was desperate to find. What if their passion became uncontrollable?
He cradled the base of her skull to keep her attention planted on him. “Try letting me in. Trust me, as much as you’re able.”
His entreaty sent a dull ache into her chest. Trusting anyone was emotional suicide. People used each other. Sooner or later, the best intentions were forgotten. Hugh appeared sincere and maybe he was for this one moment. But eventually he’d walk right over her heart. Men always did.
Everyone did.
“I’m not good at trust,” she said, dreading his reaction.
“Give it a try. You might surprise yourself.”
Letting her go, he resumed cutting up the salad. He was giving her space. Allowing her to think.
He wasn’t asking for much. A relationship until they both left town. Not much at all.
They were sharing a certain level of intimacy, which emboldened her. “Where were you last night? You left me hunkered down in the Perini kitchen with Blossom and two dogs that were definitely not made for each other. I thought Fido would eat Fifi the moment you left.”
“Blossom’s dog is Sweetcakes. The poodle… didn’t Blossom say the poodle belonged to the babysitter?”
“You’re avoiding the question.” She took the knife from his hand and placed it on the counter. “And since we’re on the subject, tell me what’s going on with Blossom. I saw you making doodles on your notepad.”
His gaze scuttled and she knew she was on to something. “Sometimes I doodle when conducting an interview.”
“You sure don’t lie well.”
“Stay out of it, Birdie.”
The resignation in his voice piqued her curiosity. Maybe he’d changed his mind about writing another feature on the kid. Sad for Blossom, but she’d survive. How many teens got front-page coverage even once?
“Blossom’s a good kid,” she said reasonably. “Why not play straight with her?”
He was spared replying. Her cell phone gave out a series of rings. Wandering from the kitchen, she checked the display. It was Delia.
She liked Delia, and hoped they were becoming friends. The young woman looked up to her, like a big sister, and it was silly and uncalled for and thrilling.
The ache returned. I’ll leave soon. We won’t become friends.
She went into the bathroom and closed the door. “What’s up?” She grabbed the hairbrush by the sink and dragged it through her hair.
“I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Sure, whatever you need.”
“Can you meet me in the restaurant in half an hour? I forgot to get out the Christmas decorations for the dining room. I promised Finney I’d get them organized. She’s coming in early tomorrow morning to start putting them up.”
Birdie had never owned holiday decorations. No doubt there was heavy lifting involved. “Are you bringing the boxes over in your car?”
“The stuff is in the storeroom, about twenty boxes of ornaments and lights.”
The wheels in her mind spun. “Don’t drive in,” she replied breathlessly. With Delia out of the way, she could check every inch of the room. “I can get the boxes without your help.”
“You’d do that for me?” Delia’s voice was thick with pleasure. “Gosh, that’d be great.”
“Just tell me where Finney keeps the key.”
Chapter 11
Landon’s daughter swept the door open.
Entering the grand foyer, Theodora plunked down her satchel. Her galoshes were slippery black eels in her weathered hands and she pulled them off with a struggle. Perversity being one of her finer traits, she’d worn the galoshes over her high heels for the shock value. Old age didn’t offer many gifts, but throwing Landon’s daughter for a loop was always a thrill.
Meade toyed with her strand of pearls. “Why are you wearing those… things? They’re far too large.”
“My galoshes? They’re just a little roomy.” Big enough for a man twice her size, but she’d stuffed the heels with balled up pantyhose. “I’ll ask you to keep your comments to yourself.”
“I’m merely saying—oh! What’s under your dress?”
Handing over her coat, Theodora hauled up the pleated hem of the crepe de chine number. “These are ballet pants. Nice, stretchy ones. I bought them online.”
“How convenient.”
Bending, she snapped the skin-hugging fabric. “Why, if elasticized fabrics hadn’t been invented, the lower half of my body would rearrange itself.”
Meade gasped with horror.
Satisfaction spread through Theodora like oil, and she switched topics. “How’s your father this morning?”
“Just fine. I asked him what this was about. He won’t explain, not without you present. What’s going on?”
“Patience, missy.” Landon had asked Theodora to come, mostly for moral support. He’d never make his daughter understand about the woman he’d seen in town without an ally by his side. “Come along and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”
They entered the library. Theodora was greeted by the pleasing sight of cherry wood shelves stuffed full of books. Landon stood with his back to the fireplace. His attention tracked his daughter as she gracefully seated herself on the couch.
How different they were. Landon never put on airs, yet Meade believed window-dressing was the end-all to life. Outwardly, she resembled him. But on the inside? She was the spitting image of Cat. If Meade’s house ever caught fire she’d walk past the family heirlooms and rescue her chinchilla coat.
Landon approached. “Theodora! Thank you for coming.”
“It was no bother. I’m not due at my daughter’s house for Thanksgiving dinner until this afternoon.”
“Should I have tea brought?” He steered her to a deeply cushioned chair.
“Let’s not dilly-dally.” Pausing, she waited as he sat on the couch. “The top of your daughter’s pretty head might blast clean off if we do.”
Meade stared haughtily at Theodora, then her father. “I don’t know what secrets you’ve both kept from me, but I’m not a child. Dad, are you listening? Stop coddling me.”
The girl looked a
t her father with exasperation. The urge to protect him rose quickly within Theodora. She smiled at her foolishness. It was darn ridiculous when an old black woman viewed a white, middle-aged banker as something of a son, but there it was in a nutshell.
She pulled from her musings as Meade said, “I believe my father is tongue-tied.”
Landon wavered. “I’m not sure how to begin.”
“Dad, tell me!”
“I’m trying, darling.”
Theodora jumped in. “This is about fornication and the foolishness of men. It’s about sex.”
Landon blanched and she pitied him—they were about to discuss his imprudent behavior. It was an old topic. Only this time they’d embark on a sordid discussion with his daughter passing judgment like Solomon on high. Hell and damnation. Throwing a harsh light on a man’s predilections first thing Thanksgiving morning was not the proper way to spend the holiday.
She nailed her sights on Meade. “Let me speak plainly. Your father led you astray when you spoke with him a few days ago in the boathouse.”
“He did? How?”
“He didn’t see your mother’s ghost. He knows Cat is dead.”
“Of all the… Dad, why didn’t you explain?”
Landon bowed his silvered head. “I was too ashamed to explain. It was easier to let you think I was talking about your mother.”
Meade brought her hand to her throat. Theodora frowned. Hearing about Landon’s infidelities wouldn’t sit well with the girl.
“Oh, Dad. Why were you ashamed?” She clasped his wrist. “I thought you were hallucinating. I nearly called your psychiatrist.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“I’m sure I don’t want to hear this. Who did you think you saw?”
The question hung in the air. Carefully, Landon smoothed his palms down the creases of his pants. If the foolish sod were searching for the right words, he’d never find them. What language existed to allow a man to discuss such matters with his child? Even with an adult child?
Theodora wondered why she’d declined his offer of tea. She was suddenly parched and more nervous than she dared to reveal. “Meade, how much do you know about your father’s relationship with the Greyhart woman?” she asked, pushing forward.
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