Same Place, Same Time

by C. J. Carmichael

  But she still wasn’t ready to do that. Her conversation with Suni hadn’t been as conclusive as she’d hoped. Suni hadn’t seemed at all upset by the mention of the stationery. Surely that meant she was innocent. What if Morgan didn’t see things that way?

  Worse, Trista had begun to have her own doubts during their lunch. She thought about Suni’s bitter tone as she talked about men and their inability to accept a woman who was more ambitious, more powerful, more influential than they were. They’d discussed this topic before, but she’d never imagined Suni was really serious. In her mind, Suni remained single because she was too busy for a relationship.

  Could Suni’s disillusionment have led her to have affairs with married men? If she had, why would she send those notes? A public figure like Suni ought to know better than to put anything private down on paper. No, it didn’t make sense. Moral issues aside, Suni was too politically astute to risk ruining her career by taking such unnecessary risks.

  “Have some more,” Morgan offered, getting up from the table to refill her plate, despite her protests. She picked away at the second helping, her mind scurrying to find safe topics of conversation. But no matter what subject she chose, the best she could get from Morgan were monosyllabic responses. She could see anger building in his eyes and knew that he was waiting for her to confide in him.

  She reached the end of the meal with a sense of relief, insisting on doing the dishes since Morgan had cooked.

  “You should be resting,” he argued.

  “I’ve been resting all day,” she countered, taking a plate out of his hands.

  “How about your visit to Sylvia’s?” he came back at her, his voice not at all pleasant.

  Trista avoided his eyes as she shrugged. “Except for that, of course.”

  “And I should believe you, shouldn’t I, Trista? After all, you would never lie to me. Would you?”

  Biting her lip, Trista stacked dishes next to the sink. She could feel his anger, his disapproval. And it hurt. What did he expect from her? She was doing what she thought was right. Couldn’t he trust her instincts, just this once?

  He came to stand beside her, sighing heavily. With a gentle finger he wiped a tear out from the corner of her eye.

  “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”

  “That’s okay.” She turned to the sink, inserting her hands into the sudsy water. It was the only way she could fight the sudden impulse she’d had to throw herself into his arms. He was being more patient than she had a right to expect.

  She was scrubbing the final pot when she felt Morgan place his hand on her neck. He was standing behind her. Not close enough that his body was touching hers, but close enough that she could feel his warmth. Slowly he worked his thumb against the muscles at the base of her neck. The steel wool she’d been scrubbing with slipped out of her fingers.

  It felt wonderful to have his hands next to her skin, to feel his presence behind her. The longing she’d felt for him the other day returned suddenly, even stronger than before. She closed her eyes and gripped the counter in front of her.

  He stepped a little closer. Now she could feel the firmness of his chest and his thighs against her. The warmth of his breath against her hair. Still his hand stayed at her neck. She tilted her head, inviting his touch, and his hand slid up to caress her cheek, then down, sliding to her shoulder, underneath her sweater.

  They stood like that for a long time. The only sound she could hear was the beating of a heart, fast and loud. She didn’t know if it was his or hers. Or both of theirs. His hand caressed the soft skin of her neck and shoulders, and she longed for it to move lower, to where her breast was now aching to be touched. But he kept it where it was, massaging her gently, but never moving beyond the boundary of the crew-neck sweater. She gritted her teeth. Pleasure became frustration.

  With a low moan she turned to face him and his lips crushed against hers so fast she knew that this was what he’d been waiting for. Her wet, soapy fingers dug into his shoulders as he engulfed her in his arms. She gave herself totally to his kisses, a part of her recognizing the familiar smells and textures of his skin, while another part of her felt as if she was experiencing this for the first time. This hard, strong man—needing her, wanting her, holding her.

  “Trista. Oh, Trista,” he whispered in her ear, his hands caressing her shoulders and then trailing down her back.

  Had it always been this wonderful? Had he always known exactly where to touch her? She moved, letting his hands guide her. Now they stood only inches apart and his hands were down at her waist, slipping under the sweater. Inching upward. She caught her breath. Waiting. Finally they were there. His strong hands cupped her breasts within the lacy confines of her bra, and she let out a sigh of pleasure.

  He kissed her again, pulling her body tightly into his. She knotted her fingers in his hair, holding him as if she’d never let go. Then he lowered his mouth, kissing her neck, her shoulders. He stopped when he reached the sweater.

  “Come.” He was half dragging her, half carrying her, toward the bedroom.

  She felt too impatient to wait that long. Her fingers dealt quickly with the buttons of his shirt and her hands caressed the hard muscles of his chest, making their progress even slower. Finally Morgan gave up, lifting her and carrying her the last few feet until they reached the comfortable softness of her bed. Quickly they stripped off each other’s clothes before falling to the bed wrapped in a tight embrace.

  Passion had always been a strong link between them, but Trista had never before experienced such a surge of urgency. His hands couldn’t touch her fast enough, his body couldn’t come to hers soon enough. At the last moment, when it was much too late to stop, she heard her voice ask, “Is this a mistake?”

  She didn’t know why she choose that moment to speak—she wanted him so desperately nothing on earth could have stopped her from giving herself to him.

  “If it is, I don’t care,” was Morgan’s muffled response, his lips nuzzled against her breast.

  If it is. Trista’s body arched underneath his and she threw her head back with pleasure. She hadn’t felt this good in years.

  A MISTAKE. Curled next to Morgan, her head resting on his chest, the words echoed in her brain once it was over. It had been wonderful, but would the pain to come be worth the fleeting moments of pleasure? Sleeping together now was only going to make it more difficult for both of them when the time came to go their separate ways again.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His voice was soft and low in her ear, and she fought the urge to nuzzle her face into his neck and tell him, nothing. Instead, she eased herself out of his arms and got out of bed, quickly wrapping her naked body in her pink robe.

  “What’s wrong?” she repeated, sitting down on the edge of the bed, across from him. Her eyes were adjusting to the low light. She could see the creases in his forehead, the straight line of his lips. “I don’t even know how to begin to answer that question. I think we’re both mature enough to know that what just happened between us doesn’t solve any of our problems.”

  He lowered his eyes from her, and in that small gesture she saw his disappointment and frustration. “Nobody said making love was going to solve our problems,” he said after a brief silence. “That’s up to us, isn’t it?”

  “Are you talking about what happened at Sylvia’s today?”

  “That’s part of it. I don’t suppose you want to try and tell me you haven’t been holding something back?”

  Now she was averting her eyes.

  “I thought so.” He sat up, planting his feet on the carpeted floor, as if preparing to eject himself from the bed. “You don’t trust me, do you?”

  Trista sighed. That wasn’t why she couldn’t tell him about the stationery. It wasn’t a question of trust, it was simple loyalty to an old friend. Or was it? Now she felt confused about her own motives. “Just give me a day or two,” she pleaded.

  He looked at her disbelievingly.
“You don’t ask for much, do you? Remember how we swore we’d never keep secrets?”

  “That was when we were married.” She knew it was cruel to bring up their divorce at that moment. But didn’t they both need to face reality?

  “Thanks for the reminder.”

  “Don’t look at me like that. I’m trying to be realistic.” She wrapped her arms around her pink robe, around herself. “This has been a terrible mistake.” She realized now that it was true. “We’re supposed to be starting our lives over. Sleeping together only confuses the issue.”

  “That’s exactly where you’re wrong, Trista,” he said quietly, but firmly. “We never worked to make our marriage last after the accident. You just walked away from it. Don’t you think what’s between us is worth a little more effort than that?”

  With the tip of her index finger, she traced the outline of the quilting stitches on the bedcover. “It’s not that I don’t think it’s worth it. It’s just—” Her voice broke and she had to wait a few seconds to compose herself. “I don’t know if it would be fair to either of us. Some mistakes can’t be reversed, and I’m afraid we’ve made too many of those kind. Or at least, I have.”

  “Maybe you just need time.”

  “I’ve had four years,” she reminded him.

  Her comment hung in the air for a few minutes. Finally, with a tired sigh, Morgan stood up and she turned away from the sight of his naked body. She listened to the sounds of him dressing, unable to stop herself from imagining things happening differently. Morgan pulling her back into bed with him. A night spent in the safe cocoon of his arms. But as tempting as the thought was, she knew that to indulge in it would be irresponsible.

  He dressed without speaking. She heard the zip of his pants, the slap of his belt as he cinched it tight. Listening with her eyes shut, it wasn’t until she felt his hand on her shoulder that she opened them and saw him standing in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, Morgan—” He put his hand over her mouth to stop the words.

  “I’ve heard you say that more than enough times for one week. Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

  She bowed her head and listened to him walk down the hall to the door. There was a pause while he put on his shoes, then she heard the dead bolt click and the door swing open. “Lock up behind me,” were his parting words, punctuated by the slamming of the door.

  She sat on the bed for a long time after he’d gone, her mind blank of all thought. There had been too many confrontations between them, and she was tired of trying to deal with them. Not to mention the memories. Sighing, she locked the door, then slipped her housecoat to the floor and went to take a shower.

  With the water pouring over her, Trista soaped her body, thinking about what Morgan had said. He was right. She’d apologized too often. It was time she started solving her problems instead of feeling sorry about them.

  Starting with Suni. If that was her stationery, if she had written those notes, then she had to tell Morgan. And if she couldn’t ask Suni directly, she had to find out for herself.

  That meant getting a piece of the stationery from Suni’s desk and a sample of typing from her portable typewriter. As she toweled off, Trista realized how easy it would be. She still had the key to the campaign headquarters—she’d forgotten to return it the day Suni had rushed off with her migraine. It would be easy for her to slip into the office and get the sample herself.

  The best time to do it would be after business was closed for the night.

  Like now.

  It was almost eleven. No one, not even the diehards, would be working this late. Trista pulled on a pair of black stretch pants and a cotton T-shirt. Her conscience pricked at the thought of sneaking behind her friend’s back. But she was doing this for Suni’s own good. If she could prove the stationery was different, if the type didn’t match, then Suni would be cleared before any journalists got wind of a potential connection between the popular government member and the Motel Murders, as they were now being called in the local press.

  Trista grabbed her purse and keys and called a cab to take her to the campaign office. She often took the subway late at night, never feeling nervous or afraid, but tonight she wasn’t willing to take any chances. The cab would drop her off right at the headquarters’ door, and what could be safer than that?

  Trista’s sneakers squeaked as she stepped out of the cab onto the cool concrete sidewalk. There were still a few people strolling in the neighborhood. Mostly couples, frequenting the assorted restaurants in the area.

  Yet, her fingers trembled as she inserted the key. The door opened easily, and she hurriedly turned on the light for the back of the room where Suni’s desk was.

  It was weird being there alone. The absence of any noise was spooky, and Trista rushed to complete her mission. The sooner she got this done, the sooner she could leave. There was Suni’s desk, immaculate and orderly as usual. Trista sat down in the chair, and tried to pretend she had a right to be there. She started with the top middle drawer. Pens, papers, a checkbook, paper clips…her fingers quickly searched through the mild clutter. Nothing.

  There were two drawers to the left. The first contained files. Trista flipped through them rapidly. Notes about people Suni had met, a collection of humorous anecdotes and copies of all the speeches Suni had given in the past year or so.

  The last drawer contained the stationery. Trista’s heart sank as she stared at the shaded pink blossoms. It was the same, exactly the same, as the paper Sylvia had found. She eased a sheet from the top of the pile then shut the drawer. Turning to the typewriter on a table to the left of the desk, she inserted the single sheet of stationery. Pulling back the lever to position the machine to the top left-hand corner, she adjusted the spacing. And then she typed, from memory, I need to see you this week. Same place, same time. xoxo.

  Trista stared at the distinct black letters against the creamy white background. To her horror it looked exactly like the note that Sylvia Hawthorne had found in Daniel’s papers.

  Exactly.

  Trista was rolling out the paper, when she heard the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the front door.

  Heart pounding, she yanked the paper out of the typewriter. This couldn’t be happening. Who could be coming to the office at this late hour? She reached for the phone, Morgan’s number in her mind, then pulled back as the door opened.

  And Suni walked into the room.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  TRISTA WAS FOLDING the paper into her purse, when Suni saw her.

  “Trista.” The voice was sharp, disapproving. “I was just stopping by to pick up my speech for tomorrow’s breakfast meeting. What are you doing here?”

  “Suni. Thank God it’s you. I thought…”

  “Yes?”

  “I thought you were an intruder.” Trista twisted the clasp of her purse, trying not to look frightened. This was Suni, after all. Her friend.

  But she’d written those notes.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I was using your typewriter. I needed to type a few short notes.”

  “Really?” Suni began walking toward her. “Why didn’t you use the computer?”

  “The letters were simple. I didn’t want to bother turning it on, and waiting for the printer to warm up.” Trista swallowed, unable to look Suni in the eyes as she lied to her. What could she tell her? I know you sent those notes.

  That wouldn’t be very smart. Not while they were alone, late at night. Trista had never thought it was possible that she could fear Suni, but now she did. Morgan was convinced that whoever had sent those notes to Jerry and Daniel had killed them, too.

  If Suni would kill her lovers, why would she hesitate over a friend?

  “I should be going…”

  Suni was beside her now. She opened the bottom drawer of her desk, her gaze still on Trista, then pulled out a sheaf of papers. “My speech for tomorrow’s breakfast meeting. I forgot it when I left today.”

  Trista nodded, and slow
ly rose out of the chair. She had to stay calm, and act naturally, but it was hard when her instinct was to bolt for the door.

  Then Suni opened her purse and Trista froze. Would she bring out a gun? The same gun that had killed Jerry Walker and Daniel Hawthorne? The police still hadn’t recovered the weapon.

  But no. It was nothing but a tissue. Trista swallowed, but there was no moisture in her dry throat. She watched Suni’s long, elegant hands dab the corners of her eyes.

  “It’s so cold out tonight, my eyes are watering. I’m sure the temperature has dipped below zero.”

  Trista felt a momentary sensation of relief. Perhaps she’d imagined the suspicious look on Suni’s face. But then she remembered the note in her purse. The note that might very well link Suni to the scene of both murders.

  “The worst is yet to come according to the weather report. I heard it might snow tonight. Can you imagine? Snow in May?” As she spoke, Trista walked toward the door, her alarm returning when she realized Suni was following close behind.

  “Stranger things have happened,” was Suni’s reply, and Trista reflected that this was definitely so.

  By the time she reached the door, Suni was beside her. She stepped forward, effectively blocking Trista’s exit. Trista tried to raise her chin, knowing that, if nothing else, her difficulty in looking her friend straight in the eyes must be giving her away.

  “Trista?” Suni gripped her shoulder as she spoke.

  “Yes?” Trista swallowed.

  “Maybe you should leave the office key behind.”

  Trista sucked in a lungful of air. “Of course.” She pulled the key out from her purse, but not before Suni caught a glimpse inside. The pale rose border on her personal stationery was clearly visible.

  MORGAN PULLED HIS CAR into the parking lot behind Trista’s office building the next morning, then stepped out into several inches of freshly fallen snow. He buttoned his overcoat against the chill in the air and silently cursed the fates that had delivered this freak snowstorm in the usually warm and sunny month of May. Was it a sign? he wondered. If so, how should he interpret it? Was he about to get some fresh clues? Or be snowed under?