Tell Me a Story

by Dallas Schulze

  "This looks fabulous." She could say the words with absolute sincerity. In fact, she couldn't remember the last time, a meal had looked quite so good.

  Unless it was the breakfast Flynn had prepared the morning before. "You're a wonderful cook, Flynn."

  "Thanks. My father thinks it's a wimpy occupation for a man but I enjoy it. 1 get tired of restaurant food. Becky helped tonight."

  "I made the biscuits."

  Ann looked at the lumpy, misshapen masses of dough and forced a smile as she took one. It seemed to weigh a great deal in proportion to its size and, when she tried to cut it open to put butter on it, it took quite a bit of hacking and sawing to get it apart. She stared at the grayed dough inside and swallowed hard.

  "They look wonderful, Becky." Her eyes met Flynn's, bright blue with amusement.

  "Becky believes in kneading all doughs thoroughly."

  "Oh." There didn't seem to be anything else to say. "Aren't you having a biscuit, Becky?"

  Becky shook her head, her mouth full of chicken. "I don't like biscuits. They always taste like old rocks when Mama makes them."

  "I see." She set the biscuits aside, hoping that Becky would forget about it. There was no way she was going to risk thousands of dollars in orthodontic work by attempting to bite into that ominous mass.

  "So what did you two do today?"

  "We went to the park. It was a great day for flying kites."

  "Mr. Flynn got a big kite and we flew it for a long time only then he got it caught in a tree."

  "I prefer to think of it as the tree got in my way."

  Ann answered his grin with a smile, surprised to realize how right it felt to be sitting across the table from him. She pushed the thought away. She didn't want to look too closely at where her relationship with Flynn was heading. For once in her life, she didn't want to look at the future. She just wanted to enjoy the present.

  After dinner, Ann loaded the dishwasher with only a few token protests from Flynn. She insisted that it was the least she could do, and he didn't argue long. She was afraid to run the biscuits down the disposal. They looked far more deadly than the chicken bones, so she threw them in the trash, burying them deep in the hope that Becky would never find them.

  She wandered out into the living room to find Flynn and Becky sitting on the sofa, their attention on a box on the table in front of them. Or at least Becky's attention was on the box. Flynn's attention was on nothing in particular unless Becky was talking to him. Ann crossed the soft carpet and sank onto the sofa on Becky's other side.

  "What have you got?"

  "Pictures." The succinct answer came from Becky. Flynn appeared to be half dozing.

  Ann reached for a handful of the photographs that were scattered across the table. She expected to find family pictures, and she admitted to a mild curiosity to see what Flynn had looked like as a child. But the photos she held weren't your typical family shots.

  The first was a picture of the park across the street. A light drizzle gave the background a gray look that could have been depressing. But the focus of the shot wasn't the weather. It was a little boy wearing a bright red raincoat and hat with incongruously bare feet. The camera had caught him in the act of jumping into a shallow puddle, his face ecstatic with anticipation.

  Leaning drunkenly against a bench nearby was a pair of red rain boots.

  The picture made her smile, but it brought back the feeling of being a child—the intensity with which children lived every minute of every day.

  The next photo was of an old woman. Ann assumed it was downtown Los Angeles, but it could have been any city. The woman's clothes were ragged but clean. Her face was weathered with decades of hard living, but there was pride in the set of her chin, in the clarity of her eyes. Pride that wasn't dimmed by the shopping cart of belongings that sat next to her. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun, and stuck in the thin strands was a bright red carnation, its jaunty color a defiant denial of the circumstances.

  Ann blinked back tears and moved to the next picture. Each photo touched the emotions, some happy, some sad, but all of them evocative. They spoke to the heart, more than the mind.

  She had no idea how long she'd been looking at them when she looked up. Becky had disappeared and Ann could hear her somewhere behind the sofa, talking to her dolls. Flynn was sitting just where he had been, his long body relaxed back into the deep cushions, only his watchful eyes telling her that he was still awake.

  "Did you take these?"

  "It's a hobby."

  "They're beautiful."

  "Thanks. I've got a small darkroom and I enjoy playing with it."

  "You've done a lot more than play with these. They're full of emotion. Have you had much published?"

  He laughed and leaned forward to gather up the photos scattered on the table, laying them back in the box. "I've never submitted them."

  "Never submitted?" Ann looked at him as if he'd just confessed to murder. "How could you not submit them?"

  He cocked an eyebrow at her appalled expression. "It's a hobby."

  "But they're so good."

  "It's still a hobby. Everything in life doesn't have to have a goal, you know."

  No, she didn't know. He could see that the very concept was foreign to her. She sat there staring at him as if he were an alien from Venus. There she was on his sofa, her hair pulled back in the inevitable chignon, her green eyes wide with confusion, her chin set with what he suspected was a determination to argue with him. All he wanted to do was pull her across the few feet that separated them and kiss her senseless.

  He sighed inaudibly. This was a hell of a time to discover a lust for his uptight neighbor. With Becky playing only a few feet away and Ann ready to chastise him for his worthless life-style, it was unlikely that she'd be receptive to what he really wanted to suggest. But it never hurt to dream.

  "These photographs are good, Flynn. Really good. I know you could get them published."

  He took the pictures she still held and put them in the box with the others. "I probably could. But I don't want to.''

  "Why not?"

  "Ann, if I sold some photos, it would cease to be a hobby and become a career. I couldn't play with it anymore. People would expect me to take wonderful photos according to their schedules. It wouldn't be fun anymore."

  "But you can't just take pictures like that and not do something with them."

  "Why not?"

  The simple question seemed to stymie her. She stared at him blankly for a moment. "You just can't."

  Flynn sought for another way to explain it to her. "How would you feel if one of your hobbies suddenly became a job?"

  "I don't know. I don't have a hobby."

  It was his turn to stare at her in stunned silence. "You don't have a hobby? Everybody has a hobby. Do you sew? Crochet? Knit? Paint? Grow African violets?" Ann shook her head in answer to every suggestion and his suggestions became more outrageous. Becky came to lean on the back of the sofa and threw in a few suggestions of her own.

  "I've got it. You're a closet taxidermist."

  Helpless with laughter, Ann shook her head.

  "What's a taxi.. .taxipermist?" Becky's question came out on a yawn, making Flynn realize how late it was.

  He stood up, abandoning the subject of Ann's hobbies for the moment. "It's someone who gives permanents to taxi drivers. Time for bed, urchin." He ignored the inevitable protests and herded her toward the bathroom with instructions to wash her hands.

  "I'll supervise." Ann followed Becky into the bathroom and he could hear the two of them talking. He turned down the sheets on Becky's bed and then looked around the room. It was funny how just a few nights with Becky sleeping here and already the room felt lived in again. Mark's presence was fading to pleasant memories.

  He turned as Becky and Ann entered the room. Becky was tucked into bed with Frankie the giraffe snuggled beside her.

  "Tell me a story, Mr. Flynn." Flynn told her a story about a frog who
became a prince and the princess who loved him even when he was a frog. Behind him, he could hear Ann moving around, quietly putting away the last of the day's purchases. It felt so right. It felt like... home.

  He finished the story and reached up to tuck the covers under Becky's chin. "Good night, Becky."

  "Mr. Flynn? Do you think I'll ever see my mama again?"

  Flynn was aware of Ann coming to stand behind him, but he knew the question was his to field. What was he supposed to say? Life didn't offer any guarantees. Not even to children.

  "We've got a man looking for her, honey. He's very good at finding people. All we can do is cross our fingers that he'll find her soon."

  "What's goin' to happen to me if he don't find her?"

  Flynn brushed the ragged bangs off her forehead, telling himself not to promise too much. Behind him, he could feel Ann's tension. He looked at Becky, seeing the uncertainty in her eyes, the hint of a quiver that shook her stubborn chin and the absolute trust she gave him. And suddenly the answer was very simple.

  "I'll take care of you, Becky. Whatever happens, I'll take care of you."

  The uncertainty faded from her eyes. If Flynn said he'd take care of her, she believed him. She yawned. "What are we gonna do tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow, you and I are going to find a hobby for Ann."

  "That'll be fun."

  "I think so. Now, go to sleep." He dropped a kiss on her forehead and then waited while Ann did the same. They left the room, leaving the door partially open behind them.

  "That's an awfully big promise." Ann's voice was carefully noncritical.

  Flynn ran his fingers through his hair. "I know, but what else could I say to her? Besides, I meant it."

  "I'm sure the detective will find Becky's mother."

  "I hope so. But whatever happens, I'm going to make sure Becky doesn't suffer for it."

  Ann reached out to touch the back of his hand. "I know you will."

  ❧

  Ann didn't give any more thought to Flynn's threat to find her a hobby. She knew he was just kidding. After all, nobody could choose a hobby for another person. She might have known that this was another rule that Flynn McCallister had never heard of.

  The next evening when she got home, she didn't even bother to pretend to herself that she wasn't going to go to Flynn's apartment. Like it or not, she was involved. As long as he had Becky, Ann was involved in his life.

  She changed clothes and fed Oscar, giving him some extra attention to make up for the fact that she was leaving him alone again. An hour after arriving home, she was knocking on Flynn's door. Becky answered the door.

  "Ann! Mr. Flynn is making tacos. He says there's lots if you want to eat with us." Becky took Ann's hand and pulled her into the apartment. Ann was surprised by how much it felt like coming home. "We got you a hobby."

  "You did what?"

  Flynn came to the kitchen doorway in time to hear her exclamation. He gave her his most devilish grin. "Ann! How nice to see you. Becky, why don't you go get Ann's hobby. I'm sure she must be wild with excitement. Are you going to be joining us for dinner?"

  "That depends." She checked to make sure that Becky was out of earshot and lowered her voice to be safe. "Did Becky cook any of it?"

  Flynn's grin widened. "She made the instant pudding for dessert."

  "Then maybe I'll join you for dinner."

  Becky ran back into the room, a gaily wrapped package in her hands. She was a far cry from the ragged little girl Ann had met less than a week ago. Her hot pink cotton play pants and matching T-shirt gave color to her rather pale face. Her hair still needed a good cut, but Flynn had pulled it back from her face and clipped it into two pink barrettes. She looked like a normal, healthy child.

  "Here." She thrust the package into Ann's hands, her face glowing with excitement. "Mr. Flynn and I picked it out together."

  "Bring it into the kitchen so I can keep an eye on the tacos." Ann and Becky followed Flynn into the kitchen, and Ann couldn't help but sniff appreciatively at the spicy aromas that filled the room.

  She set the package down on the table and tugged off the ribbon. Becky stood beside her, hopping back and forth with excitement. "Do you need help getting it open?"

  It was clear that Ann's usual methodical procedure was not going to do. She nodded and Becky's small fingers made short shrift of the wrapping paper. When the contents were revealed, Ann didn't know what to say. Lying in the tattered remnants of the wrapping was a paint-by-numbers kit. A picture of a bowl of flowers.

  She looked at Flynn who looked back at her with a totally bland expression. "Becky and I thought you'd enjoy it."

  "It's wonderful. Thank you." She hoped the comment sounded enthusiastic enough for Becky. She didn't worry about Flynn. After all, he had clearly bought it as a joke. He didn't really expect her to do anything with it. Paint-by-numbers. How silly could you get?

  She could never quite explain to herself how it happened. She took the kit home, planning to throw it away, but it seemed a shame to throw it out without at least opening it. And then those little pots of paint looked kind of interesting. It couldn't hurt to dab a few colors on the canvas. And before she knew it, it was midnight and she was still hunched over the table, dabbing little bits of paint into numbered segments on the picture.

  And damned if she wasn't having a thoroughly good time!

  Chapter 6

  "I'm sorry, Mr. McCallister. I wish I had more news for you. We'll keep looking but, frankly, we're beginning to run out of directions to go."

  Flynn nodded, his eyes on the rather bilious floral print that hung over Leon Devoe's desk. Leon Devoe fit neither his name nor his profession. Everyone knew that private investigators were either tall and stunningly handsome with a slightly world-weary attitude, or short and slimy and out to cheat every client who came within reach. Leon looked like an ad for Mr. Average. Average size, average looks, average honesty. But he came with high recommendations.

  "Perhaps if I could talk to the little girl. She might be able to tell me something that would help me to locate her mother."

  "No." Flynn shook his head. "I don't want to involve Becky any more than we have to. She's scared enough without having someone asking questions. I've told you everything she knows about her mother's disappearance."

  Leon shrugged and shuffled the papers on his desk. "I don't suppose it would do much good anyway. Frankly, there are a number of odd things about this woman. I can't find any record of her or the child past about three years ago. It's as if they fell out of the sky and into Los Angeles."

  "That might have been about the time that Becky's father took off. She's a little vague on the dates."

  "Well, if her mother wanted to hide the two of them from the child's father, she did a remarkably good job of it. I'm sure I'll be able to trace them but it could take quite some time."

  Flynn leaned forward in his chair. "I'm not all that interested in their past. I want to know where the woman is now. I want to know why she didn't show up when she was supposed to."

  "I understand, Mr. McCallister, but as I told you, we're running into walls. Beyond the fact that she left with a man, just as the little girl said, we haven't been able to find out much more. No one remembers the car, except that it was brown or possibly tan or maybe black. No one remembers the man except that he was tall or possibly short and he might have had brown hair, though one of the neighbors distinctly remembers that his hair was red."

  Flynn stood up, his movements tight with controlled impatience. "Didn't anyone pay any attention at all?"

  "Not really. Apparently, it wasn't at all unusual to see the woman leaving with a man. It was a normal occurrence. There was no reason for anyone to take special note of the child's mother going off for a weekend trip.''

  "Except that she didn't come back from this trip."

  "Exactly. But there was no way of knowing that ahead of time."

  "Have you managed to find out anything at all that might tel
l us where she went?"

  Leon shook his head slowly. "I wish I could say otherwise, but so far we've found very little of any use."

  "Let me know if anything changes. You've got my number."

  Leon stood up, coming around the desk to open the door for Flynn. "Rest assured, Mr. McCallister, that you will be the first to know if we find out anything helpful. But, frankly, I can't hold out much hope."

  The two men shook hands and Flynn stepped out into the hall, listening to the door shut behind him. He didn't move away immediately. He wasn't looking forward to going home and telling Ann that he hadn't found out anything at all. As time passed, it was beginning to look less and less likely that Becky's mother was coming back. How was he supposed to tell a little girl that her mother might never return?

  ❧

  Child and cat stared at each other with equal intensity. Each waiting for the other to make a move. Oscar's paw darted out, catching hold of the old sock and jerking it from Becky's hand. With a triumphant lunge, he was off and running, Becky hot on his trail. Ann looked up from the medical journal she was reading and smiled. She'd been concerned about introducing Becky and Oscar, uncertain of how the big tomcat would take to having his territory invaded by a small human. After some initial caution, Oscar had apparently decided that Becky had been imported solely for his pleasure. When he was tired of playing, Becky was content to sit beside him and pet him. Oscar was in cat heaven.

  Ann looked at the clock and frowned. It was only five minutes since the last time she'd looked at the clock. This was ridiculous. Flynn would return as soon as he could. He'd only been gone a little over an hour. As soon as he'd talked to the private detective and found out if there were any leads to Becky's mother, he'd come home. There was no sense in watching the clock.