by Laura Kenner
A voice buzzed in the receiver. “Is Marty glaring at you?”
Sara nodded, trying to sort out the three-way conversation. “Yes, Marty’s glaring,” she said into the phone. “Yes, Ray apologized,” she informed Martin. She glanced at Lucy who leaned against the wall, evidently enjoying the spectacle. “Mary Margaret Lucille, do you have anything to add?” Mary Margaret Lucille twisted the imaginary key which locked her lips shut, then raised both hands in mock surrender. She turned her attention back to her lemons.
Raymond’s voice settled into a silken hum in her ear. “Listen honey, I really want to make this up to you. How about we take a long drive in the country? You know…somewhere quiet, where we can admire the fall colors. I bet I could pull a few strings, call in a few markers and get reservations at that little bed-and-breakfast you like out toward Manassas.”
Her heart quickened. “The Lakeside Inn?”
Lucy nodded her furious agreement while Martin shook his head. Husband and wife caught sight of each other’s opposing reactions and began a hissing conversation in low tones. Sara imagined a scale balancing each side’s arguments against the other’s. The pans teetered one way and then the other.
Blind justice strikes again….
The receiver purred, “Well, how does it sound, angel?”
She shivered in spite of herself. “It sounds…lovely—”
Lucy punched her fist into the air in silent triumph. “Yes!” she mouthed in celebration.
“But I’m afraid I have to work.”
As Lucy’s spirits sagged, Martin straightened, crossed his arms and gave Sara a satisfied nod.
Closing her eyes to block out their silent expressions, Sara continued. “Raymond, you have to understand…I had to move heaven and earth to get last night off. And part of the agreement was for me to take both the lunch and dinner crowds today.” She forged ahead, hoping to forestall his next argument. “And you know how busy we are on Saturdays.”
The Blackwater Barracuda, a recognized master of debate, launched his rebuttal. “Ah…but if Lucy and Martin are already there, then I bet you could talk them into—”
“Lucy and Martin have a special anniversary to celebrate tonight and there’s no way I’m going to mess up their plans.” Raymond tried to interrupt her again, but Sara continued. “Look, I’m really sorry, but I’m going to be busy all today and tonight. We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? Bye.” The receiver hit the hook a bit harder than Sara had intended and the echo filled the kitchen.
Martin’s smug expression faded as he split his attention between Sara and his glowering wife. “An-anniversary? Did I forget…?”
“It’s just like a man to forget something important like an anniversary.” Lucy snapped a towel in Martin’s direction. Her expression faded to a half smile. “Jeez, don’t have a heart attack, Martin. You didn’t forget anything. It’s not our anniversary. It’s just Sara’s way of making excuses. Right?”
Sara reached over and retrieved a slice of lemon from Lucy’s cutting board. Tearing off the rind, she used it to form a yellow ring on the steel countertop. “I didn’t know what else to do. If I tell him I’m upset that his meetings always seem to get in the way of our plans, then I get accused of not understanding the demands of his career.”
“But you do understand,” Martin supplied. “But…” His voice trailed off, inviting her to finish the unspoken sentiment.
“But…he needs to remember I have responsibilities, too.”
Lucy rushed to Raymond’s defense, something she’d been having to do more often than usual. “I’m sure he understands how demanding it is to run a restaurant. But you know how single-minded he is. Most good lawyers are.”
Martin cocked his head toward his wife. “To hear Lucy talk, you’d think he was her cousin rather than mine. But listen, I’m the one who knows all about Raymond. I grew up with him. We didn’t call him single-minded when he was a grubby five-year-old who hogged all the crayons. We called him selfish.”
Lucy stood her ground. “But Raymond did apologize, right?”
Martin harrumphed with gusto. “Bet it wasn’t much of an apology, was it?”
After suffering a bellyful of their bickering, Sara threw her arms up. “Stop it, you two! It’s my life. Okay?”
Her tactics didn’t dissuade Martin one bit, proving that the cousins had at least one “stubborn” gene in common. He crossed his arms and shot her a look that was haunt-ingly familiar. “You didn’t answer the question. Was it a real apology or did he give you some half-assed ‘I’m sorry, but…’ answer?”
Sara thought back on Raymond’s quick dismissal of her complaints. A romantic weekend might make a nice bandage to cover the wound, but things could fester under a bandage if left untreated. She allowed herself a resigned shrug. “You’re right. It wasn’t much of an apology.”
A boiling pot demanded Martin’s attention for a brief moment. When he turned back around, he wore a new expression; he was almost smiling. “Exactly how mad are you?”
Mad? Being mad didn’t hurt quite like this. “I’m more disappointed than mad.”
A new twinkle entered Martin’s eyes, a visible sign of a mind and wit that both worked at lightning-fast speed. “So…are you disappointed enough to want to avoid him tomorrow, too?”
She shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Well, then…” Martin reached over and grabbed his wife’s hand, lifting it to his lips for a quick kiss.
Lucy shot him a dubious look and took a step backward. “You have one weird sense of timing, Martin Hil-liard.”
“Nonsense.” He reached forward and pulled her into his arms. “It’s our duty to keep our dear friend, Sara, from making a liar out of herself.” His smile dripped with condescension. “Right?”
Sara knew Lucy was no match for Martin’s hundred-watt grin.
Lucy blushed. “Well…”
“We mentioned something about seeing a movie tonight, but why don’t we do something else, instead.” He gave Lucy such a look of undisguised adoration that Sara felt like a spectator—an unwelcome spectator at that.
Martin lifted Lucy’s hair from her ear and whispered loudly enough for his audience to hear, “Why don’t I call and see if there are any vacancies at the Lakeside Inn?” He turned and winked at Sara. “I understand they might have had a sudden cancellation.”
Sunday, late afternoon
THIRTY HOURS AND four hundred and twenty-three meals later, Sara discovered her cohabiting hostess and bartender weren’t speaking and one of the new busboys was stealing tips. Her biggest worry was how to keep the thief from becoming a victim once the aggravated waitress realized why she’d had a miserable day, monetarily, and how to keep the bar from becoming a battle zone.
After three stern lectures, one threat and a dozen roses, things were back to normal at closing time. Sara watched the hostess, Melissa, pitch in and help her boyfriend, Charlie, tally his bar register. Once the misunderstanding between them had been assuaged by flowers—from the only florist in the area who was open at three on a Sunday afternoon—and a sincere apology, they fluttered around each other like lovebirds, cooing and eyeing the bar as a possible roost
Kids, Sara told herself with a sigh. Then she stopped short. Since when did romance become a matter of age? And when did age become a factor here, anyway? Charlie and Melissa were graduate students, not sixteen-year-olds enthralled with the idea of being in love.
Sara caught sight of herself in the mirror behind the bar. Thirty-two wasn’t old. Thirty-two didn’t mean that romance had to take a back seat to the other aspects of love—like compatibility, strength of devotion….
Her analogies of love fizzled as she watched the two lovers join in a steamy kiss.
Passion…
Maybe I made a big mistake not accepting Raymond’s offer. Sure, it was a bribe, but it might have been just what we needed, to—she allowed herself a quick glance at Charlie and Melissa and wondered why the mirror behind them hadn’t fogged up
—to get back on track.
Sara turned and watched the waitress and busboy shake hands. Their dispute turned out to be a misunderstanding rather than a case of out-and-out thievery. The busboy had cheerfully presented her tips to her, having labored under the misbelief that he was supposed to collect them for her when he cleared the tables. Although his apology was hard to understand since English was his fourth or fifth language, the sincerity was unmistakable.
With all of the restaurant’s problems having been easily reconciled, it was time for Sara to go home and see if she couldn’t work the same kind of magic in her own life.
But Raymond’s only response was, “Hello, you’ve reached 555-9476. I can’t take your call right now, but leave your name and number….”
And she continued to get that same message all seven times she called him the rest of that day, evening, and night.
After she undressed for bed, she picked up her latest book from the bedside table. It seemed almost unconscionable that she could get lost in someone else’s love story when hers was stuck somewhere in the middle chapters.
She put the book aside and tried to lose herself in a cooking magazine, but to no avail. Switching off the light, she sighed and stared into the darkness cloaking her ceiling.
Wherever you are, Raymond, I hope you feel as miserable as I do.
Sunday night
“YOU WHAT?” He rubbed his right temple with the palm of his hand.
“What can I say? I panicked.”
“Panicked? You didn’t panic. You went absolutely friggin’ crazy.” His head started to throb. “Only a lunatic would try to run someone down in broad daylight.”
“It wasn’t daylight. It was nighttime. Friday night”
“I don’t care if it was during a total eclipse of the sun. Someone could have seen you, identified the car. Then where would you be?” The pain pulsated through his head, down his fingers and headed toward his heart. Or was it the other way around? Up from the heart and into his fingers, then his head?
He dropped onto the barstool, squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his attention back to the problem at hand. “Promise me you won’t try something stupid like this again. Okay?”
A faint answer pierced the darkness. “I promise, honey.”
Chapter Three
Monday, the wee hours of the morning
Will looked up at the ceiling above his bed. Another well-placed crack and he’d have a perfect Big Dipper staring down at him in all his misery.
He flipped over and punched his pillow for the fourth time. Small pinfeathers spewed from a minuscule rip in the seam, fluttered in the air for a few seconds, then floated down to land on his nose.
He sneezed, destroying his last fleeting hope of sleep.
“Damn it!” Will sat up, grabbed the pillow and hurled it across the room. It landed against the door with an unsatisfactorily dull thud, leaving a trail of feathers to mark its trajectory. “Why can’t I go to sleep!”
The sudden rush of adrenaline coursed through his veins, flooding his sluggish body and making it respond with the same sense of alertness as his mind. He groaned. I’ll never get any sleep now!
No sleep. No sleep. The words matched the heavy thrum of his heart. No sleep…
Until I call him tomorrow and make my report.
And? his conscience prompted.
“And make him happy and me, miserable.”
And what about her?
The words echoed in his mind.
What about her…?
Sara Marie Hardaway, brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, no police record, excellent credit rating, restaurant owner, all-around nice person…would wear white when she married Raymond S. Bergeron, Esquire, in the requisite large church wedding.
And William Brian Riggs would continue to wear black as he skulked around the shadows, trying to get the goods on the guilty.
He sighed.
Why did life have to be so monochromatic?
Monday, almost sunrise
“ALREADY?” SARA SQUINTED, then fumbled with the clock at her bedside. Then she realized the insistent sound came from her telephone. She jammed the receiver somewhere in the vicinity of her ear. “H’lo?”
“Good morning, glory!” Raymond’s voice boomed with unearthly enthusiasm.
She groaned. “What time is it?”
“Five forty-five. I wanted to talk to you before I went out for my racquetball game.”
She pulled the pillow over her head and released a string of oaths she’d learned from the garbageman one slippery day in January.
“What? What?” he shouted. “I can’t understand you.”
“You could have called me after your game. I don’t go into work until after lunch on Monday.”
“Oh, jeez…”
Illumination dawns, she grumbled to herself, one ringing phone call too late.
“I didn’t remember your schedule,” he continued. “I’m sorry, hon. I really am. Why don’t I call back later and—”
“I’m awake now, Raymond.” She ground her fist into the flowered pillowcase. “Why don’t you simply tell me what you want, then let me go back to sleep, okay?”
“Sure, sweetheart. All I wanted to do was apologize again for Friday night. It really was inexcusable, but this Howard-Barnes divorce is becoming a real bitch of a case. It’s gotten to the point where I think she’s trying to get the towels monogrammed “His” just for the sheer pleasure of screwing him over. But…I didn’t mean to spend all Friday night arguing with them. You know I’d rather have been with you.”
She opened her eyes. He apologized. Astonishment evaporated her ability to speak.
Raymond misinterpreted her lack of response, evidently thinking it was his cue to grovel some more. “You had every right to be mad at me. I should have called you. Hell, I should have simply walked out and let Blazer face both of them by himself. Then maybe he’d appreciate how much I shield him from the harsher realities of life.”
“Blazer? Your client’s name is Blazer?”
Raymond emitted a snort of laughter. “Sounds like a character from some soap opera, doesn’t it? But it’s his real name.”
Sara allowed herself a first morning giggle. “What? Did his father own a Chevrolet dealership or is he some sort of no-neck football jock?”
Raymond’s laughter increased. “Both.”
It was good to hear him laugh, to share a joke with him. Laughter seemed an endangered commodity in their relationship, so when it occurred spontaneously, she remembered all the reasons why she was attracted to him.
And in the time it took to wipe a tear of laughter from her eyes, all was forgiven.
“I feel better now,” he confessed. “I hated feeling guilty all weekend and not being able to clear the air like this.”
“Me, too.”
“What now?”
Sara thought for a moment. “Got plans for lunch?”
“Do I?” His voice dropped to a throaty growl. “You tell me. By lunchtime, I ought to have a hell of an appetite.”
“Raymond,” she warned. “I’m talking about bringing you lunch, sharing a meal. I’ll bring something…interesting.”
“You’re interesting.”
She ignored his obvious meaning. If they played their cards right, there would be time enough for fun and games as well as food. “Noon?”
“I’ll clear my calendar and my desk. Or the conference room if we need a little more maneuvering space.”
“Raymond Bergeron, you’re incorrigible.”
“More like insatiable.”
A little over six hours later, Sara stood in the lobby of his building, balancing a basket of food on her hip. She wore a very prim-and-proper flowered dress that buttoned up the front. It was a calculated choice, selected because it was one of Raymond’s favorites. She figured it had something to do with the less-than-prim-and-proper undergarments she always wore beneath.
As she punched the elevator call button, she thought ab
out her last trip here. It was just her luck. Now that she was presentable enough to use the lobby elevator like a paying customer, Friday’s lawyer and her milquetoast client were nowhere to be seen. When the elevator car arrived, Sara had it to herself for a speedy trip to the eleventh floor.
Joanie saw her coming and held open the glass door. “I don’t know what happened this weekend, but if you’re the reason why he’s in a good mood for a Monday morning, you’ll be my best friend forever.”
Sara followed her into his office, surprised not to see him working studiously at his immense desk. “How good a mood?”
Joanie nodded toward his empty chair. “Instead of ordering flowers to be delivered or sending me to get some, he went down to get them, himself. He said something about picking up a suitable bouquet of orchids.”
“Orchids?” Sara placed the basket on his spotless cre-denza. “Orchids sound…serious.”
Joanie alternately rubbed her hands and wrung them. The secretary knew something and it was eating away at her. She swallowed hard and glanced toward the door. “Sara, we’ve been friends ever since you guys started dating, right?”
“Sure.”
“And I don’t want to spoil any surprises, but I also don’t want you to get caught off guard, either.”
“Now, Joanie—” Sara began.
“Please…hear me out. Something’s up. I can’t tell what But Raymond’s gone to get orchids and he’s been running around here, humming and acting strange. Sara—” The woman leaned forward in conspiracy. “I think he’s going to ask—”
The telephone rang, making both of them jump.
Joanie made a face and reached over to grab the instrument on Raymond’s desk. “Raymond S. Bergeron, attorney-at-law, may I help you? Oh…hi. Yeah? Right now? But Sara’s here and…Well, yeah, I’m sure she would, but…Emergency? It better be an emergency. Be there in a minute.” Joanie hung up and turned to Sara. “I’m sorry. There’s a new secretary on nine and she’s the most mechanically-challenged person I’ve ever met. The Xerox machine has eaten her report and it’s the only copy. She’s got ten minutes to deliver thirty collated sets of notes to a board meeting and she’s starting to panic. I’ve got to give her a hand.”