Smitten - LOVESWEPT - 392

by Janet Evanovich

  "No."

  "He waved to you."

  "Mmmm. Well, that's because I waved first. I've been trying to find the flasher. Checking out ev­erybody's wave."

  "And?"

  "He waves like him . . . but I don't know." It was an innocent fib, she thought. If she told Matt the man was the flasher he'd punch him in the nose, or he'd break all his bones. Maybe he'd do both.

  Matt slid his arm around her waist, drawing her closer. "He's the right size. And he's the right age."

  "Mmmm." Lizabeth let herself relax into him. They were at a party and they were supposed to be married. And she wanted to indulge herself, even if It was just for a moment. She'd kept him at arm's length for the past few days, but her heart wasn't in it. The truth is, she wanted Matt Hallahan like she'd never wanted anything in her life, and she was feeling downright deprived.

  "Doesn't look like a flasher, though," Matt said. "He looks kind of wimpy."

  Lizabeth smiled. "What does a flasher look like?"

  "He looks like a crazed maniac. He's a man obsessed. He drools and his eyes get big as duck eggs and bulge out of his head."

  "I don't see anyone here who fits that description."

  Matt gave her a squeeze. "Another week of sleep­ing on your couch, and I'm going to be the most crazed maniac anyone has ever seen."

  "Just what this neighborhood needs—another maniac."

  He kissed the back of her neck. "So what about you? Are you feeling maniacal yet?"

  "Nope. Not me."

  "Liar."

  Elsie came over. "Who's the wimpy yuppie be­hind the brownies? He keeps staring at you two."

  "He's staring at Lizabeth," Matt said. "She waved to him."

  "Oh yeah? He wave back? He don't look like a pervert, but then you never know. Maybe I should go have a talk with him."

  A wave of new guests arrived, bringing more potato salad and brownies, and someone brought a ham. It was semi-boneless in an orange glaze, dotted with pineapple slices and maraschino cher­ries. It was placed on the potato salad table, and before the first piece could be sliced away, Fergu­son galloped in and snatched the entire ham.

  Elsie, Matt, and Lizabeth saw the whole thing. "Ferguson!" they shouted in unison.

  Ferguson dashed through the crowd with the ham firmly stuffed into his mouth. He dodged Matt and sprinted past John Gaspitch. He knew where he was going. He always took the same escape route. Down Gainsborough to the Wainstock house, then through the Wainstocks' backyard to the patch of woods between Gainsborough and High Street.

  "Get that dog!" Elsie shouted.

  A dozen children ran after Ferguson.

  Ferguson loped across the side yard, ran be­tween two cars parked at the curb, and bolted into the street. There was the sound of screeching tires, and a yelp, and then there was silence.

  "Oh God," Lizabeth whispered. She was run­ning, without thinking. Matt was ahead of her.

  She reached the road and Jason threw himself into her arms. "Mom! We were chasing Fergie, and he got hit." Tears were streaming down his face, leaving smeary tracks In little boy's grime. He buried his face in her chest and sobbed, and she looked past him to the inert form lying on the road.

  "Oh Fergie," she whispered. He was just a puppy. Big and foolish and homely. And she'd loved him.

  Children sought out parents. Everyone stood in hushed knots, waiting.

  Matt and Billy were bent over the dog. Billy's voice wobbled. "He isn't going to die, is he?" he asked.

  The dog was unconscious. Blood was clotted on his hind leg. Matt stroked the dog's shoulder. Damn stupid dog, he thought. More trouble than he was worth. Stealing food, ruining soccer balls. "Jeez, Ferguson," he said, "why did you have to run off with the ham?" He swallowed back the emotion clogging his throat and burning behind his eyes.

  Billy huddled closer to Matt and repeated his question. "He isn't going to die. Is he?"

  Matt took a deep breath and pushed the possi­bility of death away. "Are you kidding? Fergu­son's too ornery to die. Hell, this dog is strong. He can eat a whole pot roast. We're going to take him to the vet. You stay here and keep him quiet while I go get the truck." He found Lizabeth standing on the curb. "Get a blanket. We're taking Fergu­son to the vet."

  Fifteen minutes later, Matt, Lizabeth, Jason, and Billy stood in the waiting room of the Park­way Veterinary Clinic and watched the doors close behind Ferguson.

  "They'll take good care of him," Matt said, bol­stering himself as much as anyone else.

  Jason held tight to his hand. "He looks awful hurt."

  Matt took a seat and lifted Jason onto his lap. "We're going to wait right here until the vet's done fixing Fergie up. We're not going to leave until we're sure he's okay. Does that make you feel better?"

  Jason nodded and leaned back in Matt's arms. His face was swollen and blotchy from crying, and his breath was coming in hiccups. "Dumb dog," he said. "Nothing but trouble."

  Matt smiled, because it echoed his earlier thoughts. "Yup. Fergie's dumb all right. But we all love him, don't we?"

  Billy sat between Matt and Lizabeth. His eyes were large and solemn. His hands gripped the sides of his seat. "Do you love Fergie?" he asked Matt.

  "Yeah."

  "Did you have a dog when you were a kid?"

  "No. I always wanted one, but my father wouldn't allow it."

  Billy looked at Matt with increased interest. "Re­ally? My dad wouldn't allow us to have a dog either. What about your mom? Did she want a dog?"

  Matt didn't answer immediately. "I didn't have a mother for a large part of my childhood," he finally said. "She died when I was seven years old."

  "Didn't your dad get married again? Who took care of you?"

  "My sister Mary Ann took care of me. And then when I was old enough I took care of myself."

  Jason sat up straighter so he could look at Matt. His curiosity was aroused. "Did your dad take care of you too?"

  "No. I hardly ever saw my dad."

  "Just like us!" Jason said. "Was your dad rich like our dad?"

  "My dad was a coal miner. We lived in a small wooden house on the side of a hill, surrounded by other small houses." It was hot in the summer and cold in the winter, and in all the years he lived there he couldn't ever remember the house getting painted, inside or out. He didn't tell that part to Jason. And he didn't tell him about the days when they had to beg a neighbor for food because his father had spent the food money on liquor. "I had two sisters and four brothers," Matt said. "Everyone called us the Hallahan Herd." Matt smiled. He hadn't thought about the Hallahan Herd in a long time. Usually he avoided talking about his childhood, but it wasn't painful to tell Jason and Billy. They took it on an entirely differ­ent level. It was ancient history, anecdotal, fasci­nating. There was no pity, no Judgment passed, no scorn.

  "I've never seen a coal mine," Jason said. "Is it scary?"

  "Sometimes. It's a dangerous place to work." Two of his brothers were still working in the mine. Both had lung problems. One was an alcoholic, like his dad. His sisters had married miners. Lucy was already a widow. He set that part of his his­tory aside for another time. "I didn't want to work in the mines," Matt told the boys. "There wasn't enough money for me to go to college, so I joined the Navy as soon as I graduated from high school. When I got out of the Navy I wanted a job where I would always be outdoors, so I decided to build houses."

  He looked at Lizabeth and found she was as fascinated as her children.

  It wasn't the coal-miner stories that fascinated Lizabeth. It was Matt's willingness to dip into a painful past to take everyone's mind off Ferguson. She remembered the unopened envelope from his father and finally understood some of Matt's bit­terness. He'd been neglected as a child, and now he was only remembered for the money he sent home.

  Jason rubbed his eyes. "I'm thirsty. I got empty from crying."

  "There's a convenience store down the street," Matt said. "I could go get some sodas."

  Jason squirmed
off Matt's lap. "Can I go with you?"

  "You bet. I'll tell you about the time I was a boxer."

  "Wow!" Jason said. "You were a boxer? That's so radical."

  Matt shook his head. "I was the worst boxer ever. I didn't like hitting people, and I hated when people hit me. One time I had this match with Killer Gruzinsky from Jersey City ..."

  Billy slid off his seat. "Can I go too? I want to hear about Killer Gruzinsky."

  They all looked at Lizabeth. "You guys go ahead," she said. "Ill stay here and wait for news about Fergie." Well, will you look at that, she thought. There go the men in my life. It was a brand-new experience. She couldn't ever remember seeing Paul go off hand in hand with his sons. It was such a simple thing—an excursion to buy sodas. She watched them walk away and was struck by a mind-boggling idea. Matt was carving the pie up for her. He was taking over some of the responsi­bility of parenthood and leaving her with time for herself. He loves me, she thought. He loves my children. He even loves my dog. Maybe their edu­cational differences had evened out. She had a college degree, and he'd been a boxer. It was all life experience, she told herself. She slumped down in her seat and giggled, He'd been a boxer! "Liza­beth," she said, "your life is getting curiouser and curiouser."

  She was waiting in the parking lot when they came back with their sodas. "Ferguson is okay," Lizabeth said. "He has a broken leg, but the vet thinks he's going to be fine. He's going to stay here tonight. Unless there are complications we can come pick him up in the morning."

  "Is he gonna have a cast on his leg?" Billy wanted to know.

  "Yup. I went back to see him, and he has a big white cast on his hind leg. You guys can be the first to sign it tomorrow."

  The yard was clean and the house was quiet when they got home. Elsie met them at the door.

  "He's all right," Lizabeth said. "Broken leg. He's spending the night at the vet."

  Elsie wiped her eyes with a tissue. "Dang dog is a pain in the behind."

  Lizabeth slipped an arm around. Elsie's waist and hugged her. "I think when the cast comes off well take Ferguson to obedience school. Maybe when I can save up some money I'll have part of the yard fenced."

  Elsie led the way into the kitchen. "I imagine you folks could use some supper. I have some cold fried chicken and lots of leftover salad." She pulled dishes from the refrigerator. "The party broke up right after Ferguson got hit. Folks were real nice." She turned with a dish of pickles in her hand. "You know, I talked to that young man. The one you told Matt waved like the flasher."

  Lizabeth gave Elsie her full attention. "Yes?"

  "I didn't mention nothing about flashing to him. I was just talking to him about things, and turns out he knows Paul."

  Lizabeth felt herself go numb. "What else did he say?"

  "Nothing else. We didn't talk too long. He was telling me how he lives in them new town houses on Center Street."

  "You remember his name?"

  "Richard. I don't remember the last part."

  Lizabeth took a plate and piled fried chicken on it. She added a glob of potato salad, a glob of three-bean salad, and four brownies. She stuck a fork into it and handed it to Matt. "Here. You can eat your supper in the car."

  "Where are we going?"

  "I'm going to talk to this Richard person. You're going with me to make sure I don't kill him."

  Lizabeth went to the garage and unlocked the doors. A hundred years ago the garage had been a carriage house. No one had bothered to modern­ize it. It still had a dirt floor and hayloft and was more charming than functional. Lizabeth opened one of the big double doors while Matt stood to the side with his plate of food.

  "Son of a gun, there's a car in here! I've never seen you drive a car. I didn't think you owned one."

  "I don't drive it any more than I have to. Poor thing's seen better days."

  Matt walked into the cool, dusty interior of the carriage house and tried not to look too horrified at the little foreign import. It was orange, and to say it had seen better days was an understate­ment. It was missing both bumpers and a back fender. Rust was rampant, the antenna had been snapped off, and it had a yellow diagonal sign in the back window that said, "Fairy on Board." Matt added "renovate carriage house" and "buy Lizabeth new car" to the checklist he'd been carrying in his head. "Lizabeth, why don't you just drive my truck?"

  "It's too big." She yanked the rusted door open and slid behind the wheel. "Besides, my car needs some exercise." She patted the seat next to her. "Don't worry. It's safe. It's passed inspection and everything."

  Matt looked at the inspection sticker on the windshield. "Lizzy, this inspection sticker is from Virginia, and it expired three years ago."

  "Well, for goodness' sake, I hardly ever drive the car. What could happen to it in three years?" She backed out of the driveway, undaunted by the clatter of knocking valves. She slowed at the cor­ner and the car gave a death-throes shudder, but continued to run.

  Matt smiled and ate his chicken. Lizabeth was a Hawkins through and through. He imagined if the car had the audacity to die Lizabeth would go out and give it a kick and get it to start one more time.

  Lizabeth pulled into a pipe stem at the end of Center Street and parked in the small lot. It was a new subdivision of expensive brick town houses. Yards were professionally maintained, windows were clothed in custom drapes, doors were heavy oak with leaded windows and classy brass handles.

  "How are we going to find him?" Matt asked. "We don't know his house number or his last name. There must be twenty houses here."

  "Most of these houses have names written on the door knockers. If I can't find him that way I'll ask someone. If no one knows him I’ll go door-to-door until I find him."

  "You're really serious about this."

  Lizabeth's mouth was compressed into a thin line. "Darn right I'm serious. Paul had something to do with this. I can feel it in my bones."

  Matt left his plate in the car and followed after Lizabeth.

  She stopped at the fifth house. "Here's a possibility—R. Hastings." She rapped the brass door knocker and chewed on her lower lip while she waited.

  Richard Hastings opened the door and gave a surprised gasp when he saw Lizabeth. His eyes grew wide and frightened when he saw Matt. He tried to slam the door shut, but Matt had his foot rammed against it.

  Matt wrapped his hand around Hastings' arm and pulled him outdoors. "Maybe you should step out here before the wind blows the door shut again," Matt said.

  Hastings flinched. "You aren't going to hit me, are you?"

  "Hell no," Matt said. "I'm here to protect you." He jerked a thumb at Lizabeth. "She's here to hit you."

  Richard Hastings looked indignant. "Why would she want to hit me? I was the one who had to stand in her backyard, feeling like a damn fool with no clothes on."

  Lizabeth narrowed her eyes. "What are you talk­ing about?"

  Hastings gave Matt a sympathetic shake of the head. "Just between you and me, I think you've got a hard road ahead of you with all this exhibi­tionist stuff. I have to tell you, I wasn't all that unhappy when I heard she was married. Man, I was chased by cops and dogs, and then there was that crazy old lady in the Cadillac. And the mos­quito bites are the worst."

  "Maybe you should fill us in on this 'exhibitionist' stuff. Where'd you get the idea for the Yuppie Flasher?" Matt asked.

  "From Paul, of course. I met him at a law con­ference in Richmond. He told me all about Lizabeth, and how she was looking for a husband, but she had this kinky thing about exhibitionists. I tried to meet her through normal channels. I called and introduced myself, but she wasn't interested. I purposely ran into her in the supermarket a couple times, but she froze me out. So I de­cided to give it one last shot and try the Yuppie Flasher."

  "I'm going to kill him," Lizabeth said. "I'm going to hunt Paul down and break every bone in his body."

  "Tsk, tsk, tsk," Matt said. "That's so violent."

  "No hard feelings," Richard Hastings said t
o Matt. "I know she's due to inherit a ton of money, but hell, you're gonna need it to make bail."

  "Wait a minute," Matt said. "What about Angle Kuchta? Why did you flash her?"

  Hastings grimaced. "That's what happens when you try to do a good deed. I was walking through the yards to get to Lizabeth's house, and I looked up, and there was this woman getting undressed in front of her window. She wasn't doing it on purpose. She just hadn't thought to close her curtains. So I threw a stone up at her to tell her to close her curtains. That's a nice neighborhood, but you never know when some weirdo is skulk­ing around."

  Matt and Lizabeth exchanged glances.

  "Anyway, this woman takes one look at me and starts screaming!"

  "Come on, cowboy," Matt said to Lizabeth. "I think it's time to head the wagon train for home."

  Lizabeth got into the orange car. "I suppose this is as close as Paul gets to a sense of humor."

  It was a quiet ride home. Lizabeth pulled into the dusky interior of the carriage house, cut the engine, and sat studying the steering wheel, feel­ing swallowed up by the sudden silence. She was physically and mentally exhausted, but she felt at peace. It was as If she'd tossed a box of puzzle pieces into the air and when the pieces had fallen to the ground they'd all fit together.

  Matt had his knees pressed against the dash­board. "Lizabeth, I don't fit in this car."

  Lizabeth smiled. "I suppose that means you're going to buy me a new one."

  Matt laughed. "I suppose it does. I hope I get more use out of it than the bed."

  "I've been meaning to talk to you about the bed."

  Matt didn't want to hear it. She was going to tell him to take it back, or she was going to tell him she'd pay for it by taking in laundry or something equally ridiculous. Things weren't going well for him. First Elsie came home early and now they'd settled the problem of the flasher. Staying at Lizabeth's house to protect her from the flasher had been a pretty flimsy excuse, but now he was left with nothing. He was going to have to move out. His sweat socks would get gray again. He'd be lonely at night, and lonely in the morning, and feverish with frustration all day at work. Man, life was the pits. He'd trade with Ferguson any day of the week. So Ferguson had a broken leg. Big deal. Ferguson got to live with Lizabeth. "Okay, what about the bed?"