Bump in the Night

by J. D. Robb

  “Victoria’s Secret? Again?”

  “They might have something new.”

  “You’re not even listening to me.” She stopped short, and one of two teenage girls rammed her from behind. “Oh! I’m sorry. Excuse me. I . . . should invest in a set of tail lights, I guess.” The girl wasn’t amused. “Sorry.”

  “Whatever.” Glaring, she walked around Charlotte like she was something not to step in.

  Mel watched her. “Do you think that attitude is nature or nurtured?”

  “Looked pretty natural to me,” she muttered, then turned to him. “Do I have a withering look like that?”

  She tried a scowl and a snarl on him before he looked up and around, took her hand and started them walking again. “No, you don’t. You do anger and disbelief very well . . . and boredom . . . and frustration, too. Your face is very expressive, but there’s nothing that would make anyone feel subhuman like that.” He paused, then sighed and rolled his eyes. “Did I mention stubborn? It seems to be your most frequent expression lately.” He glanced over at her and wasn’t disappointed. “I do listen to you, Charlotte. All the time. Every second of every day. It’s what I do. But I can’t be expected to react to every thought in your head—most aren’t even whole thoughts; they’re wisps and snippets mostly. And when you’re thinking out loud, as you were just then, it might help to remember that I’m getting it in stereo—what you’re saying and what you’re thinking.” He released her hand to point at both ears, then tipped his head. “Or in this case, what you’re saying and what you’re trying not to think.”

  “Ho! So now you know what I’m not thinking. That’s great—and incredibly presumptuous of you.” She increased the length of her stride.

  He chuckled. “Not what you’re not thinking, what you’re trying not to think—that you did all this to attract men.”

  “Which I didn’t.”

  “Of course you did.” Once again she dug in her heels. “Well, what’s wrong with that? If you were going to sell your car wouldn’t you wash it and vacuum out the trunk, make it look nice, show off its best features, hoping to make someone else want it?”

  “I’m selling myself?”

  Mel recognized the edge in her voice and took a bracing stance. “Yes, in a way. Everyone does it, every day. You sell yourself to your clients. You’re polite and professional; you work hard and you finish their financials on time—and they pay you and keep you on for another year. Are you going to tell me you wouldn’t put as much effort into finding someone to love? Why, making yourself appealing to the opposite sex is as natural as . . . well, it is nature, isn’t it? Birds do it. Animals do it. Maybe not as deliberately or as consciously as humans do it, but even then there’s a great deal of basic human instinct involved. So why not admit it? Yes, you’re reclaiming your life, and yes, you should have done so years ago, but you’re also hoping to make someone else want you. You hate being alone.” He stooped to meet her at eye level. “And there’s nothing wrong with that. You can say it out loud.”

  Charlotte sighed, wandered over to a convenient bench and sat down. “I do hate being alone. And I do want somebody to want me.”

  “Amen to that, honey.” The woman on the bench behind her turned her head and smiled. “You and me both.”

  “Why does it have to be so complicated?”

  The woman shrugged a shoulder and took a guess. “If it was easy it wouldn’t be special. It wouldn’t mean anything to us. We’d take love for granted, like clean air—and look what’s happening to that.”

  They exchanged a thoughtful smile.

  “And so,” Mel said, using his arms to draw a large circle in the space in front of him, as the woman turned away with a nod. “There you have it. Now let’s shop.” There was nothing Mel liked better but. . .he watched as she scrunched her face at the Victoria’s Secret window display one shop down and let loose a sigh that could have been Job’s. “You can have all the nice new clothes in the world but if you don’t feel pretty and sexy and desirable in them, what’s the point? And there’s nothing that will make you feel pretty and sexy and desirable faster than pretty, sexy, desirable underwear.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Laurel’s Lingerie on the Home Shopping Network. They say it repeatedly. Are you coming or not?”

  “We practically bought Vicki out of business the last time we were here.” She watched him fill his head with the subtle, feminine scent before entering the shop. “How many frilly underpants and bras do I have to have?”

  “The question is, can you have too many?”

  Apparently not.

  But it wasn’t her ravaged budget that bothered her that afternoon. It was the conversation she had with Mel that kept poking at her like a mean kid with a stick. She went over and over it in her mind. It made perfect sense on the surface—she didn’t want to be alone and she wanted someone to want her—but there was something missing, a nail or a screw or some glue that would hold the two statements together.

  Mel was nowhere in sight when she emerged from her long steamy bath that evening, bundled in a new blue terry robe that was softer than her old one, which had been washed so many times most of the pile had rubbed off. She brewed a mug of hot tea, added honey and curled up on one end of her new couch to study the fall television lineup in the TV Guide—but it didn’t hold her attention for long. She read the first page of the new Elinor Lipman novel six times before she realized she wasn’t in a very good mood. She felt restless and testy and . . . where the hell was Mel?

  She wondered where he went when he wasn’t with her—to play nine holes of golf? To get his teeth cleaned? Maybe he floated on clouds above the ozone, napping. Maybe something simpler . . . maybe he was off taking a shower, too?

  A warm steamy fog broke and shifted before her eyes like a dream, and the damp musky scent of man and soap filled the air. She could almost see him in the mist, drops of water like diamonds in his thick dark hair, one lock hanging over his forehead, not quite touching his brow; his eyelashes spiked around deep blue eyes, his lips moist. His bare chest glistened; the skin across his broad shoulders was smooth and sun-kissed, and a fascinating river of course dark hair traveled the shallow valley between the rippled muscles of his abdomen, lower and lower until it—

  “Charlotte!” A cloud billowed into the hall from the bathroom and Mel emerged, wrapping a large white towel around his middle—he was clearly steamed. “Have you lost our mind?”

  “Oh God,” she said, watching Mel turn to face the-wetter-than-he-was vision of himself as the image slowly faded away. Once it was gone he looked back at her.

  “You can’t keep doing this. I think I’ve been extremely tolerant of your feelings toward me—I am after all you’re perfect man—but now you’ve gone too far. I can ignore only so much. We both know where this fantasy would have landed us and you know we can’t go there.”

  “I know. I know.” She drew her legs up close to her chest and buried her face between her terry covered knees. She was mortified . . . and completely shaken. The neurons in her brain began to fizzle and spit, signaling a mental meltdown as the schism between her mind and her emotions became so wide she couldn’t bridge them any longer. “In my head I know, but not in my heart. I can’t help it. I’m in love. With you. And it’s hopeless. I’m hopeless.” She stood abruptly, her face wet with tears, and marched toward the kitchen for a tissue, arms waving. “How pathetic and desperate does a person have to be to dream up someone like you? I watch Discovery Channel. They’ve never done a documentary on imaginary adult companions. I’ve hit bottom, haven’t I? I’m insane. Pretty soon Joe and Martha will sneak across the hall and figure out that I’m sitting in here talking to myself and have me committed. You and I, we can chase imaginary bugs up the walls together.”

  “Stop it.”

  “What’s the matter with me? Why did I ever think that listening to you would change anything? Merry Mel, come to fix poor Charlotte. What was I thinking? It’
s never going to matter if I change the way I dress or the way I look or the color of my apartment or . . . or if I date or don’t date or . . . or have sexy underwear.” She blew her nose and sniffed loudly, realizing then what had been missing from their earlier conversation: She didn’t want to be alone and she wanted someone to want her, but she was alone and she’d stay that way as long as she had Mel. “Underneath it all, I’ll still be me. I’ll be plain and weak and awkward and I won’t fit in anywhere. I’ll be the same old Charlotte who screws up every relationship she has with a man, who sits at home and watches her friends get married and make new lives and . . . and babies and are happy and . . . plant gerbera daisies in their strip gardens. If I’m ever going to be the woman I’ve always wanted to be, if I’m ever to be truly happy with myself, then I’m going to have to change things . . . inside. Alone. Without you.”

  She turned to him expectantly, certain he wouldn’t be able to come up with one of his unfailingly optimistic responses to this particular truth.

  His expression was oddly unreadable, not a reflection of her anger, not sympathetic, not cheerful. After a short moment he said mildly, “You’re being dramatic.”

  “Am I?” She nodded and thought about it. “Maybe I am. I don’t know why I let you in . . . or out . . . or however this ridiculous thing works, but I can see now it was a mistake. You made everything so easy for me, but you’re really just another excuse for me to keep avoiding the rest of the world. The changes we made together are amazing, but none of them are the kind that count. None of them really changed me. I know who I am. And I know who you are.” Suddenly, the wind died and her sails went flat. “And I know what you’re not. I do love you, Mel, but you have to go.”

  He looked like a small child who’d just had someone walk up and prick his balloon with a pin, confused and hurt.

  “And please don’t think I’m not grateful for all you’ve done for me, but don’t you see, Mel? I need to make a real life with real people.”

  His shoulders began to droop in defeat—in a defeat he seemed to be expecting. As he sighed, a thick, velvety green robe grew clearer and more solid over his body. He gathered the front together in a fist at his chest as if he were cold and weakly sat in the chair a few feet away. In another flash of reality she realized how careful he must have been to so rarely let her see his magic—perhaps because the strangeness of it might have startled her awake sooner to the fact that he was all magic.

  “This is the way of it, I suppose. Good enough when you’re unhappy and lonely, but always a poor substitute for real life. It was the same when you were a little girl. If there were other children to play with, you didn’t give me a thought.” He looked and sounded heartbroken and dejected.

  “I’m sorry, Mel.”

  He shrugged. “You know, I didn’t expect you to see me that day at the viewing. And I sure never expected to get a second chance with you. It happens so rarely. All children have imaginations strong enough to create a playmate but only a brave few will admit it to adults, and fewer still take it the one step further to anthropomorphize it. Most make-believe buddies are lost in youth, trapped in childhood memories. If they’re quick, a few can relocate to siblings or neighbor kids . . . the family pet. But only a lucky few get the chance to grow up and come out again. Didn’t I say you were a rare and wonderful exception? A True Believer.”

  Her smile was sad. “Yes, you did.”

  “Charlotte.” When she looked at him, he rearranged himself in the chair and patted the cushion, inviting her to sit with him. The chair was new and big, not nearly wide enough to be a loveseat but wider than most, perfect for curling up . . . or sharing. She snuggled close and he put his arm around her. “I’ve had a great time.”

  “Me, too. I’ve never had a friend like you before.”

  “Yes, you have. When you were four and five and for a while when you were six.” She gave a soft laugh and turned her ear to his chest. The steady rhythm of his heart was soothing; she felt safe and warm and completely attracted in the circle of his arms. She closed her eyes to concentrate on safe and warm. “The trick is to remember that the very best parts of me are actually you. And you were wrong before—some of the changes we made are the kinds that count, or you wouldn’t have had the strength to send me away. I’m very proud of you, Charlotte. It takes a big heart to forgive yourself for past mistakes, real courage to stand up for yourself and a keen mind to know what you want from life. All you ever needed was a little confidence . . . and a friend you couldn’t ignore.”

  Her limbs grew heavy; her respirations slower and deeper as his holiday scent filled her head. “I’m afraid,” she murmured from that half-awake, half-asleep state that was like flood water from the basement, heading for the attic. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Everyone’s afraid. Remember that. And you’ll only be alone if you want to be,” she heard him say clearly, but the next words came like those in a dream. “Forget me, Charlotte.”

  Nine

  “Forget me? That’s it? That’s the best you can do? I can’t say something and hop three times on my left foot to make you disappear?” She stomped around in the kitchen getting her coffee, having not ten minutes ago come blissfully awake in his arms.

  “As far as I know, that’s how it works. If you’re thinking about me, I’m here.”

  “I’m thinking about you because you’re standing right in front of me. I thought you’d disappear last night while I was sleeping?”

  “Without saying good-bye?”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re doing this on purpose. You changed your mind. You’re not going to leave.”

  “It’s not up to me,” he said, looking entirely too pleased. “You know that.”

  “Can’t you just, you know, go where you go when you’re not here and stay there?”

  “Not if you’re thinking about me.”

  “Not if I’m. . . .”

  She thought about the times when he wasn’t with her, when she felt he was being discrete and giving her time alone to think and meditate . . . and to work and read and do crossword puzzles . . . until she got stuck on a word. Then all she had to do was call out and he would answer from another room or join her if her concentration was not just momentarily broken but shattered completely by the riddle.

  He loved going out and went everywhere with her except. . .that first morning when she wasn’t sure she wanted him around, when she’d snuck out of her office hoping he’d still be asleep, hoping she could leave the apartment without him.

  No, it was more than hope. It was will; she willed him to stay asleep because she didn’t want to have another losing conversation with him that morning, because she wanted to leave without him, to be alone to mull things over.

  The day before that she’d thrown up a mental and physical wall between them by commanding him to stay out of the apartment . . . so he stayed in the hall.

  “I am all you, babe.”

  Her gaze rose slowly from the floor and their eyes met, one pair doubtful, the other pleased.

  “All I have to do is fill my head with other things. That’s the trick, isn’t it? That’s how it works. This is my life and I control it.”

  “Some of it.”

  “Well, yes but . . . you, for sure. I can control you.”

  He puffed his cheeks and blew out a deep breath as he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the kitchen counter with great forbearing. “Ah-ha.”

  “I woke up a little shaky this morning, a little nervous about being on my own and that’s why you’re still here. I’m over it.”

  “Ah-ha.”

  There was nothing to do but show him. She turned on her heel and headed for the shower, thinking how good the hot water would feel on her skin, deciding to use a soft-scented soap instead of her usual body wash, gloating over the great deal she found on her new towels. She thought about the little collagen particles soaking into her skin from her moisturizer, the softness of her
sweater and the perfect length of her slacks—tried to remember all the words to Joyce Kilmer’s poem Trees. Listening to the heels of her shoes ticking on her gorgeous new hardwood, she remembered exactly where she left her keys and let herself out of the apartment . . . and looking across at the Whites’ door, she elected to knock on it.

  Joe, of course, had gone off to work already, but Marty was happy to see her when she opened the door.

  “It’s so good to see you, Charlotte. I’ve been meaning to get over and see you but Ruth has been so busy this summer that, well, I don’t know where the time goes.”

  “That’s alright, that’s one of the reasons I came over. I . . . I’ve been meaning to tell you that if you’d ever like an afternoon off or you’d like to go out to lunch or if anything happens to your regular sitter, I’d be glad to watch her . . . Ruth . . . for you, I mean. I didn’t feel like I could offer before—my dad liked his peace and he wasn’t used to children—but now . . . well, I’m available if you need me. I like children. I just don’t know many.”

  “That’s so sweet of you.” The amazed look on her face made Charlotte self-conscious. What? She couldn’t be sweet? “But I’d much rather get a sitter and take you to lunch, if you’re interested, that is. I’ve always wanted to get to know you better. I’m not that much older than you, I don’t think. But you looked so busy all the time with your business and your father. . . we barely had time for a ‘howdy’ and a ‘how’s things’ here in the hallway. I’m glad to see you have more time for yourself now.”

  Being available was three-quarters of the cure for loneliness. Who knew it was so easy? The first time the front-desk attendant at the gym said, “Good morning, Charlotte,” before she’d even had a chance to sign in, it was . . . a nice surprise. She was quick and enthusiastic when Sidney and Sue invited her shopping—she was a much better shopper now than the last time they’d ventured out together.