An Indian Affair

by Doreen Owens Malek

  Her features were the same: straight nose, full mouth, large blue eyes, complemented by pale skin and burnished hair. But she felt different.

  “You have a date with a bounty hunter,” she said to the girl in the glass, and then she shook her head.

  She must be losing her mind.

  * * * *

  When Paula unlocked the apartment door at three-forty in the morning, Cindy was sitting on the sofa, an unread book open in her lap.

  “You still up?” Paula asked wearily. “Those aboriginal legends must be more riveting than I thought.”

  “That’s not it,” Cindy answered, as Paula slung her purse into a chair and slipped off her shoes.

  Paula looked at her.

  “Drew Fox was here. He asked me to dinner on Saturday night,” Cindy said.

  Paula whistled. “Boy. I must say he’s living up to his reputation as a fast worker. What did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  Paula shook her head. “I can’t understand you. In school you always thought I was too wild; you had to be coaxed along to do anything. And now here you are dating the local heartbreaker, totally unfazed by all the stories I told you about him.”

  “I’m not unfazed by them, or by him. As a matter of fact, I find him completely unnerving. But I like him.”

  “Of course you do. Everybody likes him; he’s a charmer.” Paula unbuttoned her collar and ran her fingers through her hair. “Listen, kiddo, you’re talking to a veteran of that particular war. I had a monster crush on him the whole time I was in high school, when he was friends with Johnny. But his track was too fast even for me, and he runs it alone.” She peered at Cindy’s face, which was closed. “Okay, that’s all I’m going to say. You’re a big girl, you have to make up your own mind.”

  “I have. And I will.”

  Paula turned her hands out, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. “Did he say where you were going?”

  “Some place in St. Petersburg Beach—Neptune’s Locker.”

  “You mean Neptune’s Table?”

  “That’s it.”

  Paula nodded. “What clothes did you bring? That’s a pretty fancy restaurant.”

  Cindy looked stricken. “All I have are jeans and a few skirts. I wasn’t expecting an active social life. What will I wear?”

  “Something of mine, I guess. In college that was your usual solution to such a problem.”

  Cindy made a face at her. “You forced those clothes on me because you said I was never dressed right.”

  “You never were. On the rare occasions that you went out at all you always looked like you were ready for a hot date in the reference stacks.”

  “But the sharing was always your idea, right?” Cindy said slyly.

  “Right,” Paula agreed wearily, aware of what was coming.

  “Then you can hardly blame me for your generous impulses, dear,” Cindy replied. She brightened. “Got any silk dresses?”

  “Let’s take a look,” Paula said resignedly, and they went together to her bedroom to ransack the closet.

  * * * *

  Cindy tried to keep her mind occupied until Saturday came, but found it a difficult task. Her thoughts kept wandering from her work to Andrew Fox and their brief but telling interlude in Paula’s apartment.

  She and Paula had found a suitable dress among Paula’s things, a peach silk jersey shift that flattered Cindy’s coloring. It was sleeveless, with a low neckline and a shirred hem that just covered her knees. With her high heeled sandals and appropriate jewelry, Cindy was confident that she would look right for the occasion.

  Paula was off Saturday night and had a date also, with a pharmacist who worked in the hospital dispensary. They were going to a rodeo, a prospect that Paula deemed questionable at best, but she liked the guy and was determined to tough it out.

  “What do you think?” Paula asked, pausing in the doorway to Cindy’s room. Cindy looked up from the task of examining her panty hose for snags. Paula was dressed in cowboy boots, a tailored shirt with black piping, and western cut jeans; she had a red bandanna tied around her neck. “Too Dale Evans?”

  “More like Annie Oakley,” Cindy replied, getting up to look for her bottle of hand lotion.

  The telephone rang as she was coming out of the bathroom.

  “Will you get that?” Paula called from her bedroom. “It’s probably Mr. Axelrod about his bathtub again. His apartment should be floating like the Ark by now. Tell him the plumber is on the way.”

  Cindy answered on the third ring.

  “Hi,” a masculine voice said, and she knew who it was. “Are we still set for tonight? This is Drew,” he concluded, unnecessarily.

  “Yes, unless you’re calling to say something has come up and you can’t make it,” Cindy responded.

  “Oh, no. I just wanted to tell you that the restaurant is on the marina, and it can get chilly there after the sun goes down, so you’d better bring a sweater.”

  “It was thoughtful of you to let me know.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll see you at seven-thirty, then, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  There was a pause. Then, “Cindy, the sweater was an excuse. I really wanted to hear your voice, that’s all. Look for me when the sun goes down. ‘Bye.”

  “Goodbye.” Cindy hung up reluctantly, wondering about his sudden admission.

  “Who was that?” Paula asked, walking into the living room with her hairbrush in hand.

  “Drew Fox. He wanted to tell me to bring a sweater because it gets cold near the water at night.”

  Paula raised her brows. “That was nice of him.”

  “You sound surprised.”

  Paula drew her mouth down at the corners. “Don’t bait me. I merely made an observation.” She headed back to her room, brushing her hair.

  “Anyway, he said that wasn’t the real reason he called. It was just a pretext.”

  Paula paused in mid-stroke. “What?”

  “He said he just wanted to talk to me, hear my voice. Do you know I recognized his right away? All he said was ‘Hi’, and I knew. And he didn’t mistake me for you, either.”

  “‘My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words of thy tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound,‘“ Paula recited, batting her eyelashes.

  “Something like that,” Cindy said, refusing to be cowed.

  Paula shook her head, but wisely refrained from further comment. Cindy retreated to her bedroom to finish dressing, and their doors closed simultaneously, as if by mutual agreement.

  Cindy was ready long before Fox was due, which was a mistake. She paced up and down the living room, wishing that Paula had not left earlier so that she would have someone to talk to in order to pass the time. When the doorbell finally rang she jumped, as if she hadn’t been expecting it all along.

  Fox was standing in the hall, wearing tan chinos with a light brown linen jacket and a pale green shirt. His silk tie blended perfectly with his clothes, but it looked as if it were choking him, and Cindy wondered how long it had been since he’d last worn one.

  “Hello,” he said. “You look nice. These are for you.” He handed her a bouquet of flaming hibiscus, the color of an August sunset, which he’d been concealing behind his back.

  “Thank you,” Cindy said, accepting the flowers and going back inside to put them in water. He followed slowly, watching her.

  “I wasn’t expecting this,” she said, rooting through the cupboards for a vase.

  “I wasn’t expecting it, either. But I passed a florist’s and I was thinking about you, so I just stopped and got them. But then, I’ve been thinking about you a lot these past few days. If I’d been passing a furniture store you probably would have wound up with a desk.”

  Cindy glanced at him quickly, and he grinned. She smiled back at him.

  “How’s your head?” she asked.

  “Fine. How’s your arm?”

  “Fine.”

  “Then I guess we’re both fine,” he said, and she l
aughed.

  Cindy left the flowers standing in an old milk bottle filled with water. She picked up her jacket and purse. “Shall we dance?” he said, extending his arm. She took it, and they walked out together.

  Chapter 3

  The Gulf Coast night was warm and fragrant, refreshed by a salt laden breeze. Fox led Cindy to a late model sports car standing next to the curb.

  ‘‘This is your car?” she asked.

  “Yes. You were expecting to go in the pickup?”

  Cindy shrugged. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it,” she answered truthfully.

  “Would you have minded that?” he asked as he opened the door for her, alert to her response.

  “Why should I? It’s transportation.”

  Fox thought that over while he walked around to get in on his side.

  “You know,” he said quietly, as he pulled onto the road, “when I called earlier I half expected you to say that you had changed your mind.”

  “Why?” Cindy asked, turning to look at him.

  He lifted one shoulder slightly. “Ladies like you don’t usually...”

  “Keep their word?” Cindy inquired, an edge to her tone.

  He shook his head. “I just don’t go out with ladies like you a lot.” He smiled, but his eyes didn’t change. “Not much opportunity to meet refined young professors in my line of work.”

  “I’m not a professor yet,” Cindy replied. Then she grinned at him. “Maybe I’m not even that refined.”

  “I’d have to argue that point with you,” he said mildly. He turned to look directly at her. “Did Paula tell you that I’m a half-breed?” he asked suddenly.

  Disturbed by the bluntness of his question, Cindy nevertheless answered him with the same candor.

  “She didn’t have to tell me. I knew it when we first met, from your eyes.”

  He examined her face briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “My parents were never married,” he went on evenly. “My mother left me with my father right after I was born. She went back to Boston.”

  “That must have been very hard for you when you were growing up,” Cindy murmured. It sounded inane to her own ears, but she didn’t know what he wanted to hear.

  “Those who knew her say that I look like her, not in coloring so much, but in my features.”

  “Then she must have been beautiful,” Cindy said, meaning it, but also trying to make him feel better concerning a subject about which he was obviously very sensitive.

  “And you have the nerve to suggest that you’re not refined,” he said, tossing her a teasing glance, and she smiled. She could almost feel the tension leave them like the passing of a dark cloud.

  As Fox turned the wheel to negotiate an intersection, Cindy noticed a leather sheath strapped to his midsection.

  “What’s that?” she asked curiously, before she considered that the question might be rude.

  “What?” he responded, watching the stream of cars moving in the opposite direction.

  “That thing around your middle—looks like an eyeglass case or something.”

  “Oh. That’s a bowie knife,” he said casually.

  “A bowie knife,” she repeated in disbelief.

  “Yeah. I don’t like to carry a gun when I go out socially. My father taught me how to throw it.”

  He noticed her transfixed stare. “Relax, princess. I’m not going to throw it at you.”

  “Why do you have to carry anything at all?” she inquired, still trying to adjust to the idea.

  “The people I take back to prison usually aren’t too happy about it, or fond of me for getting them there. On occasion they’ve taken their revenge when I least expected it. Most convicts don’t stay in prison forever, you know.” He glanced over at her. “I’ll leave it in the car if it upsets you.”

  “Oh, no, no. I was just surprised, that’s all.” Cindy waited a moment and then said, “How did you get started with what you’re doing, Drew? If you don’t mind telling me.”

  “I don’t mind,” he answered evenly. “I was always good at tracking. I learned to hunt animals when I was a kid. I never killed them—my family didn’t believe in it, except for food—and we didn’t need that. But I got a lot of experience following scents and clues, things an animal leaves behind that tell you where it has gone. And people are animals too, they leave spoor just like wildlife in the woods. At first I just tracked down anybody who bolted and then I collected the money. But as I became better and better at it, the cops called me in to find people they couldn’t catch.”

  “Paula says you go after big time criminals now,” Cindy observed.

  “Oh, yes, I’m a member of the elite these days,” he answered, with a hint of self mockery. “As far as my job goes, anyway. They’ve got computers and radar devices and everything else to assist me.”

  “Who does?”

  “Whoever I’m working for. I have some stuff of my own too, but the most sophisticated equipment is reserved for the police: state, feds, Interpol.”

  “What’s Interpol?”

  “International Police.”

  “Paula said you went to Mexico not long ago on a case.”

  “Paula says quite a bit, apparently,” he commented dryly. “I hope she hasn’t been scaring you off me.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Cindy replied defensively, and he smiled slightly.

  “Yes, you are,” he said quietly, and left it at that.

  They approached Tampa Bay, and Fox pulled onto the causeway, which spanned the gleaming water like a thin ribbon. The bay fanned out from it on both sides, sparkling like an aquamarine in the fading light.

  “This is gorgeous,” Cindy breathed, craning her neck to look around her. “But the road is so low, doesn’t it flood?”

  “Wait until you see it on the way back, when it’s dark, with a hundred lights reflecting in the water. And yes, it does flood, all the time during hurricane season. That’s the reason the Sunshine Skyway was built so high, fifteen stories above the bay at its highest point. It connects St. Petersburg and Bradenton. There are signal lights on the ramparts to warn off planes.”

  Cindy shuddered. “I don’t think I’d like to go on that,” she said.

  Fox glanced at her. “Afraid of heights?”

  She nodded.

  “Trust me, princess, I won’t let you fall,” he said softly, and Cindy felt a plummeting sensation in her stomach, as if she were tumbling from a cliff already.

  Maybe she was.

  Fox drove through St. Petersburg down to the water, parking in the lot of a restaurant that flanked a marina. Small boats bobbed at anchor all around them as he led her up an entrance ramp designed to look like a gangway. Inside, the walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, affording an unobstructed view of the inlet.

  “This is lovely, Drew,” Cindy said, as the hostess led them to their table. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

  He eyed her speculatively for a few seconds, and then replied, “Thank you for coming with me.”

  They sat next to one of the windows and Cindy studied the view as Fox consulted the menu.

  “What body of water is this?” she asked, as a soft breeze drifted in through the screen and caressed her face.

  “Boca Ciega Bay,” he answered. He watched her rapt examination of the scenery, smiling to himself, and then suggested gently, “Would you like to look at this?” He handed her the tasseled menu.

  She glanced at it perfunctorily, reading through the elaborate descriptions of seafood dishes in growing confusion. When she looked up at him he was grinning.

  “Want me to chose for both of us?” he asked. When she agreed eagerly, he laughed.

  The steward came by and Fox ordered white wine. He poured for her when it arrived, watching her reaction as she took the first sip.

  “Okay?” he asked, and she nodded. Fox signaled to the steward that he could go.

  When the waitress arrived, Fox ordered a platter of blue point oysters on the h
alf shell as an appetizer and lobster tails for two. Cindy felt a little queasy about the oysters, but gamely decided to say nothing and give them a try.

  “I’ve been telling you all about me,” Fox said as the waitress left. “What about you? What does a graduate assistant do? Assist graduates?”

  His teasing grin told her he was kidding. She described the way her research program worked, and added that her supervisor, Richard Caldwell, had to approve her paper before she could get her degree.

  “Yeah?” Fox said, taking a sip of wine. “So where is he?” He looked around the room as if he expected to find Richard propped against the wall like a garden rake.

  “He’s still up at the university. I’ll be sending him copies of my work so he can keep track of what I’m doing.”

  Fox toyed with the silver sugar bowl on the table. “So what’s the subject of your thesis?” he asked.

  “Seminole legends,” Cindy answered, watching his face to see the impact of this information.

  His unusual eyes widened. “No kidding! Hey, I’ll be your research project.”

  “You’re only half Seminole,” Cindy said, her lips twitching.

  “I’ll be half your research project,” he shot back, laughing.

  The oysters arrived and Cindy eyed them warily.

  “Seriously,” Fox said. “My grandfather knows an awful lot about the old stories; I’m sure he could help you. Would you like to meet him?”

  Cindy stared at him. “Do you mean it?” she asked breathlessly. This was a golden opportunity, the chance of a lifetime to get the inside track. Sometimes it was hard for her to get her subjects to talk.

  “Of course I mean it,” Fox replied, chuckling. He reached for the oysters and speared one with a tiny fork. “I have to go away this week, but I can take you out there next Saturday, if that would be okay.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Cindy replied, trying to contain her excitement. This became easier instantly as Fox lifted an oyster to her lips.

  “Try one,” he said.

  Cindy stared at the slimy, gray-blue object. “These are raw?”

  “Completely.”