by Irene Hannon
“Sí. I am sure you will.” Maria didn’t try to hide her resigned sigh.
“If anything comes up before then, call me and—”
The ring of the doorbell startled Emily, and she fumbled the phone.
“What was that?” Maria demanded.
Struggling to quiet the sudden pounding of her heart, Emily took a slow breath and tightened her hold on the phone. “The doorbell.”
“Do not answer it!”
“I have an FBI agent watching my front door, Maria. It’s probably him.”
“You check. I will wait.”
“Fine. I’m walking to the door now.” When she reached it, she peered through the peephole. Evelyn stood on the other side, balancing a plate covered with aluminum foil. “It’s Evelyn, Maria. Bearing food.”
“Ah. Good. You will call later?”
“Yes. I promise.”
Severing the connection, Emily flipped the lock and pulled the door open.
“Good morning, Emily. I hoped you’d stay home today. I made pot roast last night and, as usual, I cooked far too much. I was hoping you’d take some off my hands.” The older woman held out the plate.
With a smile, Emily took the foil-covered offering and motioned her inside. “You’re a treasure, Evelyn.”
A flush rose on the woman’s cheeks, deepening their natural pink color. With her white hair coiffed into a soft French twist and her twinkling blue eyes, she looked like an ad for a greeting card commercial about grandmothers.
“Thank you, my dear. But I won’t come in today. I expect the last thing you need is company. Though I must say, you’ve had your share of handsome young men trooping through here in the past twenty-four hours.”
“They were FBI agents.”
“I know. I met one of them. And there’s another one across the parking lot now in a black SUB.”
Emily struggled to stifle the smile that tugged at her lips.
Evelyn never got abbreviations right. SUVs were SUBs. DVDs were DVTs. ATMs were AMTs. But aside from being acro-nymically challenged, she didn’t miss a trick. If any suspicious characters were lurking in the area, Emily was convinced Evelyn would spot them before the FBI did.
“They’ll be around for a few days, I think.”
“I should hope so, after what that crazy man did to you. How are you feeling today, dear?”
“Better.” That wasn’t a lie. She hadn’t needed any pain medication yet, and her sleep hadn’t been interrupted by nightmares, as she’d feared.
“Good. You enjoy that pot roast and call me if you need anything.” “I will. Thank you, Evelyn.”
She waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Just following the Good Book. Do unto others and all that. Why are we here if we can’t help each other? See you later.”
As Evelyn trotted off, Emily closed the door, secured the lock, and tucked the phone under her arm. It rang again en route to the kitchen, and she shook her head. Good thing she hadn’t tried to sleep in, she reflected as she greeted the caller.
“Emily, it’s Mark. Did I wake you?”
The sound of his voice, warm and a bit husky, set off a flutter in the pit of her stomach. “No. How did the briefing go?”
“Nothing much to report.” Frustration nipped at his words.
“But we’re still checking out leads, and the lab results aren’t back yet. How are you doing?”
“Better than yesterday. I spoke with my secretary, and she’ll be faxing the contact information for my Hope House clients in the next half hour.”
“Good. Coop and I will check them out this afternoon. Feel like some company for dinner tonight?”
Emily looked at the plate in her hand and decided it would keep until tomorrow. “Sure. Business or pleasure?”
“A little of both.”
At least he was honest.
“I’d like that.”
“Great. What should I bring? Pizza, Chinese, Mexican, Italian . . . you name it.”
“You pick. But if it’s pizza, could you ask them to leave off—”
“The mushrooms. And add extra green peppers.”
His response caught her off guard. “How in the world did you remember that?”
“It must have been stuck somewhere in my subconscious.”
“That’s a scary thought. What else is stuck there?”
She could hear the smile in his voice when he responded. “I have no idea. I guess we’ll find out.”
His flirty inflection sent a tingle zipping along her nerve endings—and prompted her to wander over to the thermostat and turn up her air-conditioning. She tried for a light, teasing tone when she replied. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“As I recall, you don’t harbor any deep, dark secrets or questionable vices that you need to worry about.”
“If I did, I have a feeling you guys would know about them by now. I must admit, having your life scrutinized is kind of weird.
And a little scary.”
“It shouldn’t be, unless you have something to hide.”
“Nothing the feds would be interested in.”
“Hmm. That’s an intriguing comeback. Maybe I’ll have to brush up on my interviewing skills before tonight. What happened to that uncomplicated girl I used to know?”
“Life.”
“I hear you. I suppose most people our age have their share of baggage. We’ll have to continue this discussion in person.”
“Or not.” It would be safer to keep the conversation light and simple, Emily decided.
He chuckled. “How does seven sound?”
“Fine. I’ll see you then.”
As the connection went dead, Emily returned the phone to its stand and slid Evelyn’s offering into the fridge. It would be way too easy to let Mark Sanders ease back into her life, she realized. During that long-ago summer, they’d clicked on some elemental level. And despite the passage of years, despite the baggage he’d referenced, despite their different lifestyles, they’d clicked again.
But she was older now. And wiser. Love wasn’t about whispered promises and stolen kisses or the magic of Wren Lake.
It was about risk and courage and loss. It offered incredible highs—and crushing lows. And every moment of togetherness and sharing and intimacy served only to throw the devastating loneliness of loss into stark relief, like the deepening shadows cast by a setting winter sun.
Emily had no regrets about her time with Grant, except that it had been too short. But neither did she have any desire to repeat it. She’d survived loss once. She didn’t think she could do it again. It was safer to build a world she could control, one that didn’t require her to expose her heart to risk.
As she moved back toward the bedroom, already in need of a nap, she paused to peek through the blinds in her office.
Her gaze fell on the black SUV across the parking lot, its tinted windows hiding the occupant from passersby.
And all at once, a startling insight jolted her.
The safe, predictable world she’d created for herself, the one she guarded so fiercely, the one in which she controlled the variables, hadn’t simply vanished in a heartbeat, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
It had always been an illusion.
8
That evening, at seven o’clock on the dot, Mark pressed Emily’s doorbell. He’d traded his suit and tie for khakis and a cotton shirt, but the heat was still oppressive.
Or maybe he was hot for other reasons, he reflected as Emily opened the door and his pulse took a leap. Despite the raw patch of skin on her cheek where a scab was now forming, and despite the purple bruise on her temple that refused to be disguised by cover-up, she looked fabulous. White capri slacks hugged her slim hips, and her pink and white striped knit top hinted at her supple curves. When he found himself focusing a second too long on the appealing softness of her lips, he forced himself to speak.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself.” A becoming blush tinted her cheeks—which did noth
ing to cool him off.
He lifted a large shopping bag bearing the logo of a local gourmet takeout shop. “I come bearing dinner. Will that earn me an invitation into the air-conditioning?”
“Sorry.” She stepped aside to usher him through the door.
“What happened to the pizza?”
“I thought we deserved better after the past couple of days.”
He waited until she locked the door before heading toward the kitchen. “This will only take a few minutes to throw together—or so the clerk assured me.”
Setting the bag on the table, he unpacked Caesar salad, beef tenderloin, au gratin potatoes, asparagus, rolls, and two pieces of chocolate torte.
“Wow!” Emily surveyed the feast. “You don’t do things halfway, do you?”
“I considered going for sentiment and grabbing some poor boy sandwiches, like we used to take to Wren Lake. But I had a feeling you’d prefer slightly more upscale fare after being forced to ingest hospital food for twenty-four hours.”
“You have my undying gratitude. What can I do to help?”
“Plates, utensils, water glasses, napkins . . . unless you want to use the paper and plastic they provided.”
She wrinkled her nose. “A meal like this deserves my good china and silver. And we’ll eat in the dining room.”
“Light some candles too,” he called after her as she headed toward the door.
She turned on the threshold. “Pretty soon you’ll be wanting music.”
With a grin, he withdrew a CD of easy-listening jazz from the bag and handed it to her.
Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her head and considered him. “You are one smooth operator, Mark Sanders.
How many hearts have you broken?” She plucked the CD from his fingers.
“I take the fifth.”
“That’s what I figured.”
Five minutes later, as they sat down to enjoy their salads amid candlelight and soft music, Emily shook her head. “This is almost as surreal as the shooting. You and me together after twenty years.”
“But surreal in a good way.”
“Absolutely.” She unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap, then bowed her head in silent prayer.
She’d done that even as a teen, Mark recalled. While a good number of their friends had tossed out their faith as too old-fashioned and too restrictive, Emily had held on to her beliefs.
He found it somehow comforting that she still did.
He waited quietly until she finished. “That’s a nice habit. And it’s good to know some things never change.”
“Including God. He’s the one constant in a world where very little can be counted on. And it’s more than a habit. It’s a way of life.”
Unsure how to respond without offending her, Mark picked up his fork and changed the subject. “I like your hair tonight.”
“Thanks. Getting ready for dinner was a challenge. Since I can’t get this bandage wet”—she moved her arm, where the thick white dressing peeked below the sleeve of her top—“I had to resort to a bath instead of a shower. And trying to wash my hair one handed in the kitchen sink was no picnic, let me tell you.”
He reached over and fingered the silky strands. “I would have been glad to help you.”
She groped for her glass and took a long swallow of ice water.
“I’ll let that pass.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me uncomfortable. Just like my mention of faith makes you uncomfortable.”
Dropping his hand, he focused on his salad. She’d always been too good at reading him. “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable, Em. I just don’t relate to it much anymore.”
“Have you really seen that much bad stuff?”
Her question was quiet and gentle. But the memories it stirred up were brutal. Terrorist raids, prison riots, hyperviolent street gangs that thrived on carjacking, drug dealing, and murder.
And Jason Wheeler, who had died because of a crack addict’s desperate need for a fix.
“Yeah. I have.”
The sudden warmth of her fingers seeped through the sleeve of his shirt, her touch a surprise—and a comfort. “I’m sorry, Mark.”
He tried to smile. “Hey, I signed on for this gig. I like my job.
Remember that line from Camelot? ‘Might for right.’ It fits. I don’t like using force, but sometimes it’s the only way to bring justice. And I believe in justice, Em.”
“You always did. And it’s a noble principle. God would approve.” His smile faded. “I’d like to believe that. But to be honest, I’m not convinced he pays that much attention. I can’t reconcile a loving, caring God with all the brutality and callousness and disregard for humanity I’ve seen.”
“He cares. But he also gave us free will. Meaning people can make mistakes or bad choices.”
“And innocent people suffer as a result.” He touched her injured arm. “Like you.”
“What would you have had God do? Send down a bolt of lightning to strike the shooter? Turn me invisible? Take away that man’s free will?”
Her calm response ruffled him. “How can you be philosophical about almost getting killed?”
“It’s not about philosophy. It’s about trust. If I think too much about what could have happened Saturday, I wouldn’t be able to function. There was nothing I could do to control that situation— and there’s very little I can do to control a similar situation in the future. As much as I like to think I’m in charge of my life, Saturday reminded me I can’t manage every variable. All I can do is take appropriate precautions and then put it in God’s hands.
And the hands of the FBI, of course.”
The last was tacked on in a teasing tone, an obvious attempt to lighten the somber mood that had descended. She might be trying to sound philosophical, but the discussion had shaken her, Mark realized, noting the sudden tremble in her hand, the hollow look in her eyes. He’d hoped to give her a pleasant dinner, as far removed from the terror of Saturday as possible. Instead, he’d brought it all back.
He took her hand, entwining her cold fingers in his. “Well, between God and the FBI, you’re in very good hands. Now tell me about Evelyn Martelli. I met her on the way in, and considering the charming but determined way she grilled me, I’m wondering if she might be one of our undercover people.”
His change of subject and humorous observation eased some of the tension in her features.
“That’s an interesting mental image. Evelyn with a gun.”
Emily smiled. “She’d probably be more lethal with her knitting needles.”
“So what’s the scoop on her?” Mark reached for their salad plates and stood to put the main course in the microwave.
Trailing along behind him, Emily leaned against the doorway. “You mean you guys haven’t run a background check on her?”
Mark flashed her a grin as he worked. “She isn’t high on our suspect list.”
“Good. You’d be wasting your time. Evelyn is like the perfect grandmother. Supportive, caring, available—but never overbearing. When I moved here a year after Grant died, I thought I was handling things okay. After all, I’m a psychologist. I, of all people, should have known how to deal with grief. I’d counseled plenty of people in situations similar to mine.
“But to be honest, I was a mess. And Evelyn picked up on that in a flash. She found ways to convince me to go places with her by saying she was tired of being alone. When she discovered my dinner often consisted of canned tuna and crackers, she began dropping off ‘leftovers.’ I’d find jokes she’d printed off the Internet under my door. And I never spent a holiday alone.
Somehow she always finagled me into driving her to her son’s in Chicago for Christmas, saying she didn’t want to travel by herself, or got me to help her serve meals at a homeless shelter on Thanksgiving. She was a godsend.”
The microwave pinged, and Mark withdrew their entrees.
Once they carried their plates back to the tab
le, he resumed the conversation.
“You seem to have your act together now.”
“In general, I’d say that’s true. And I have a very full life.”
“You do keep yourself very busy.”
“It’s good work, though.” Her tone grew slightly defensive. “The women I’ve counseled at Hope House are in desperate need of sympathy and encouragement. And the radio program is important too. Did your background check give you much detail on that?”
“No. Tell me about it.”
“It’s a weekly call-in program called Teen Talk. My pastor’s on the board of a local Christian radio station, and he convinced me to take on the project two years ago. The audience has been growing, and we’ve gotten some great accolades.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “But the opportunity to provide kids with a forum in which to air their concerns is the real payoff for me. The show is a safe, anonymous way for them to get a third-party take on their perceptions, which can be distorted by hormones and peer pressure. I like to think I’ve made a difference in the lives of kids who otherwise might not have had a resource to turn to.”
“And who do you turn to, Emily? Besides Evelyn?”
At his soft question, she shrugged and tucked her hair behind her ear. “Maria, my secretary, is a great sounding board.”
He waited, but when she offered nothing else, he gave her a quizzical look. “That’s it?”
“I can always talk to my pastor if I need some guidance. And prayer has been a mainstay.” She took a sip of her water and turned the tables on him. “Let’s talk about you for a while. You know almost everything about me, but you’ve managed to tell me very little about yourself. All I know is you’re on the Hostage Rescue Team.”
“I can’t offer much more than that. My missions are often classified.”
“What about when you aren’t on missions?”
“I train. Work out. Hang around with the guys on the team.
Eat dinner with Coop and his wife, Monica.”
She chewed the last bite of the savory tenderloin. “How come I didn’t hear any mention of dating?”
“I’m trying to be discreet.”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t think a man like you would lack for female companionship.”