by Lori Power
“The rental agency messed up my car reservation, and I end up with this enormous truck, so when I hit the hearse in the passenger door, well,” she paused, switching eye contact between both. “You can only imagine the dent.”
“I’ll bet you hardly felt a thing in the truck.”
“No. Hardly a jolt,” she agreed, taking a sip of her water, her tongue slipping out to retrieve a bubble of moisture left on her lip.
“So what happened?” Tim’s fingers lifted to hold his chin on his hands.
“Well, Mitch gets out…”
“Mitch?” June and Tim question together.
“Oh, yes. It turns out I actually knew the fellow. A long time ago. We went to university together,” she paused, picturing Mitch’s deep-blue eyes. “I never would have figured him for working for a funeral home. Go figure. Anyway, I didn’t recognize him straight off until he tossed me his license, telling me he had to fly to some emergency, which I presumed must be a funeral—and that was that.”
Tim stared at her a moment, a slight flush working it’s way up his neck. “Quite the adventure then,” he said, sitting back on his chair, tapping his fingers on his pant legs. “So, how about we get down to signing those contracts so we can get this project moving forward.”
***
Why is the music on the radio never able to match your mood? Lorna switched between one station and another. She craved exhilaration music. Some hard pump-up-the-volume, pinch-your-lips-together, jut-your-chin-out-and-say-yeah, music.
“Finally!” She pumped her fist in the air and put the Lincoln in gear, pulling out of the parking garage.
Song finished, Lorna scanned the stations, and paused, hearing a public service announcement sponsored by one of her clients—at her insistence—about how much money is returned to the communities through conscientious petroleum development. She had used this very ad as an example for Tim and June in her proposal.
“And it worked!” She gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “Ahhh.”
Ohmigod, I have to call Tia to tell her the good news. Lorna rooted in her bag for her phone, and plugged it into the adapter.
Stress she didn’t realize had been weighing her down fled from her shoulders with the prospect of a solid client on the books. She’d completed many projects for a host of great clients, but none were signed for any long-term contracts until today. A constant financial stream at long last would allow them to do some planning for the future. Some marketing and advertising for themselves.
A lightness of soul she hadn’t felt in a while cleared her mind. She plugged in her iPod, turning her music stream to solid rock and cranked the volume too loud. Just one song first before calling the office.
Out of the blue, a siren sounded behind her. “Shit,” she said, checking her speedometer. “I’m only doing sixty.” Don’t tell me I blew through a pedestrian zone again.
Lorna pulled over onto the wide shoulder of the road, slipped the Lincoln Navigator into park, and peered at the reflection from her rearview mirror. A black and white patrol car, blue and red lights flashing, pulled up directly behind her.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Huffing, she bent sideways across the passenger seat to retrieve the registration from the glove compartment.
“Do they have to leave the lights flashing like that?” she muttered, pulling her license from her wallet, adding it to the registration paperwork gripped in her hand. “Makes a person feel like a criminal for heaven’s sake.”
Eyes trained on her rearview mirror, she watched the door to the patrol car open, and one of two officers step out. “Oh, it’s a tag team event today, is it?”
Moving her hand to the arm of the door, she locked the door, always wary. A tall man in uniform drew near. She inched her fingers forward to lower her window halfway. The zip of wind from the rooftops of zooming vehicles, combined with the rubber tread of tires on asphalt, filled her ears. The hot and muggy air made her ache to turn the car back on just for the air conditioning.
A trickle of sweat laced its way down her spine as she watched the tall officer approach in her side mirror. Though his cap shadowed his face, he gave every indication of a man on a mission. He approached with the gait of a confident boxer sizing up an opponent. Stereotypical mirrored glasses shielded his eyes.
She couldn’t see him unless she turned completely in her seat as he stood just in her blind spot. His hand, palm raised, came forward. “License and registration.”
Lorna turned in her seat, trying to get a good view of the officer before she lifted her hand towards the window, but didn’t comply with offering up the information. Hand just below the ledge of the pane, she hesitated, arm raised. “What’s the offense, officer?”
“Hit and run, miss.”
Lorna dropped her hand to her lap. “Wh-what?”
“Hit and run,” he said in an eerily familiar voice.
“I reported the offense, officer. There must be some confusion. I was not the one who ran,” she said indignantly. Inflamed at being pulled over for an offense already settled, she twisted in her seat, unlatched her seat belt, unlocked the door, and pulled open the latch, forgetting her foreboding.
In a voice which stammered with emotion, she said, “You have your story mistaken, Officer. A man by the name of Mitchell Morgan fled the scene, not me. I hit him, but he’s the one who ran the stop sign.”
“Hell of a place to run into a…ah…what would you call us? Former acquaintances?”
The tall man removed his glasses and a shiver coursed through the back of Lorna’s knees as she held onto the open driver’s door for support. Then that memorable wide devil-be-damned grin filled her with such familiar longing she almost ran to him, hoping he’d wrap her in his arms.
“You once called me Mitch.”
Like a blow to the sternum, her breath fled her body, and she couldn’t seem to stop the tight pull erupting low in her belly. Gone was the scruffy-faced hearse driver. Here stood a man more gorgeous than she remembered. Powerful in his confidence. His wide shoulders filled the uniform as though it had been custom tailored. Damn, he’s aged well. Her hand lifted automatically to smooth her hair as her eyes quickly travelled his lean form. A neat goatee, clean-shaven cheeks, and the skiff of hair she could see under his hat, trimmed as was becoming of a policeman.
“You-you’re—” Her words stumbled idiotically.
His grin broadened at her discomposure, revealing that one tooth on his lower jaw which never been fixed. Its crookedness, offering a slight imperfection in his perfectly masculine face, was endearing. Merriment reflected in his blue-black eyes. How like him to revel in her agitation. Of course she had always been agitated his presence.
Standing tall, letting go of the support from the door, Lorna started again. “You’re a…where’d you…how come?”
Worry crossed his features as he stepped closer. “It’s okay, Lorna,” he said, his concern making her ashamed of her reaction. “I didn’t mean to startle you so badly.”
“I’m not,” she began with a squeak to her voice obvious to her own ears. She drew a palm up to her mouth, coughed, and clamped her lips together.
“It’s been such a long time.” He stepped closer still, and she wanted to narrow the gap further by leaning into him.
“It has,” she agreed, lost in his eyes. Does he know what kind of effect he has on me?
He leaned away slightly, rolling back on his heels but kept a close proximity, surveying her from head to toe. “You look lovely.” The grin lifted his full lips again, creasing his eyes. Leave it to him to rock even with crow’s feet.
“Thank you.” She struggled to regain some composure. Conspicuous on the side of the road, Lorna peered towards the police cruiser. “Did you really stop me because of the accident?”
“Yes and no.” He followed her gaze, giving his partner a quick nod before fixing his gaze back on hers. “I conned one of the patrol officers to let me borrow his uniform.”
Lorna stepped
back to within the safety of her open car door. “You mean you’re not a policeman?” What kind of racket is he involved in that he can impersonate a policeman. “First in a hearse and now in a cop car? What have you gotten yourself into, Mitchell?”
He held a hand up, palm towards her. “Easy there. Yes, I am a police officer. I’m just not a uniformed officer.” When she didn’t say anything, he continued. “I work un—I’m a plainclothes officer. I, ah, well, it’s not important. After what happened, I wanted to find you to first make sure you were in fact okay.”
His brows rose and crimped his face with question, and she felt obliged to answer. “Yes, I’m fine. Put a bit of a crimp in my day. But I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”
He leaned marginally towards her, and she could smell the fresh scent of Irish Spring soap. “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. He stood too close now. She felt wedged between his large body and her car, torn between apprehension over his seeking her out in this manner and longing for him to hold her just one more time. “I also wanted to know how you made me? You didn’t recognize me at the scene. You would have said. What gave me away?”
“You didn’t recognize me either,” she countered.
“I was a little preoccupied. It’s been a long while.”
“Have I changed so much?” The words were out before she could stop them. Have I grown so old in such a short period of time?
He seemed to take forever weighing out his answer and his arms crossed over his chest. At last and with purpose, he unfolded his arms and reached up to pull the sunglasses down her nose, holding her eyes in the embrace of his gaze. “No.” His voice dropped in timber, and in that moment she was transported to a place where they were no longer surrounded by city noise with the sun at their backs. They were alone, and it was a dark evening with just the two of them. “But you were wearing these glasses. If I hadn’t been so distracted, believe me, I would know you.”
His words caressed all her sweet spots. He did know her and he made her feel like she was the only woman he’d ever known.
“But this is new,” he said, drawing her deeper under his spell with a smile. The tip of his finger moved from her sunglasses to touch the side of her nose, where a small diamond stud nestled in her nostril, barely visible. His touch was the same as it always had been for her. It turned her skin tingly and her blood to lava. Try as she might—and there were many times before Kris when she did try—she could never replace this feeling with any other.
Her hand reached up to her nose as though to make sure it was still attached. “Oh, yeah. I suppose. I can’t believe you would notice.”
“I notice everything.”
Cold, hard reality returned with the ear-stinging sound of a car horn. That was the problem between them, she wasn’t the ‘only woman.’ Panting, she tried to regain control of her senses. She blinked to focus on her surroundings.
“So do I,” she said with as much force of will as she could muster.
Why am I so affected by this man? She coughed to clear her throat, lowering her hand. Tearing her focus from him to the black-and-white sitting with the lights still flashing, Lorna tried to still her heart. Harden her heart to a man who already broke it once. She forced herself to remember how she waited for him to return to the tent that long-ago night, only to leave and find him with another girl.
With the image alive in her mind, she regained control of her treacherous body. “Ah, I have to get home, Mitchell,” she said in her crispest voice. “If there’s nothing else.”
His face fell and for a moment she regretted the business-like tone, but she couldn’t trust herself with this man again. The situation had changed where it wasn’t just her anymore. There was Kris and Mariam. She regarded him through the shield of her lashes, pushing her sunglasses back into place, watching as he shuttered his face from her. He wore a policeman’s mask now where nothing showed.
“Ah, yes, I see. You’re right. The same Lorna as always. All business, and I’m holding you up,” he said, retreating a pace. He placed a hand on the door as she sat back in her car.
After she buckled her seat belt, seemingly of its own volition, her hand snaked out and instead of grabbing the door handle, she covered his hand with her own. “So nice to see you again, Mitchell.” She smiled before letting go of his hand and closing the car door.
His face opened again, if only marginally, when he put his hands on the half-opened window. “And you, Lorna.” He straightened, turned, and walked back to the squad car.
Chapter Seven
Kris’s first “real” birthday party was coming up soon, and Lorna wanted to make his backyard party memorable one. Kids from the neighborhood and the preschool class he attended all confirmed they were coming.
With a giggle, Kris slapped the paintbrush against the fence. “Mama, like this?” He danced around on the spot, splattering the paint here, there, and everywhere, except on the fence.
Squatting over her work, a few pickets down from the youngster, pushing the brush between the posts, she paused to glance over. “Just like that.” Lorna beamed.
There had been a time when it would have driven her crazy to see the paint splattered all over. She would have felt compelled to fix it immediately. But like mother, like son. Kris taught her, in a way Natasha never could, that it wasn’t a big a deal. She understood her son very well, and he just wanted to help, but he would grow bored soon and toddle off to do something else. When he did, Lorna would simply paint over the small spot, and voila, all would be well. For now, fun was the name of the game. They listened to preschool radio off the computer, enjoying each other’s company.
“Hey, it’s the hotdog song!” Lorna called as they both started to flap their arms up and down doing the requisite dance, paintbrushes moving wildly through the air.
“I be Mickey,” said Kris.
“I’ll be Daisy.” Lorna sang and danced around the yard as they marched and jumped, singing along.
When the song finished, Lorna couldn’t resist grabbing him up in a big hug, not minding the saturated paintbrush slathering her back. “Maybe we have hotdogs for supper?” Kris said as she twirled him around, her ears filled with the melody of his giggles, before setting him down in front of the fence again.
“I think Nana made your favorite—lasagna,” she replied, retrieving her fallen brush.
Easily distracted from hotdogs as the next song came on, Kris said. “Oh, yes, noodles. I love noodles.”
“Noodles,” agreed Lorna. “You’re a big noodle.”
“No, you a noodle,” he parroted. And they both laughed.
***
Kiddie music and laughter streamed down the driveway as Mitch alighted from his truck. Before committing to walking up the drive, he reached in his pocket for his phone, checking the address again. Two-forty-six Dunfield. It’s the right house. He adjusted his ball cap, not for the first time, and wondered why he was there, unannounced, uninvited, and likely unwelcome.
Was it the look she gave me when she laid her hand on mine? That familiar warmth—a hidden smolder in her amber eyes? Do I need closure? Damned if I know!
Fresh laughter floated down the drive on the wings of an undistinguishable tune. Perhaps she had company over. Giggling was simply not a sound he associated with Lorna. His step faltered as he lost his nerve. Pangs of regret filled him—he again put her in an unfair disadvantage just dropping in on her like this, but curiosity won out. He didn’t know what he was thinking when he pulled her over like some juvenile prank, but he had wanted to see her, thinking that would put paid to it. But of course, it didn’t. Seeing her again only opened his own Pandora’s box, and he couldn’t seem to stop pondering the mystery of Lorna. Had I ever stopped?
He knocked on the front door. Red. Interesting. Goes with the nose stud.
When no one answered, he pondered the doorbell, but hearing the activity coming from the backyard, he decided to take a peek. Before leaving the wide front porch, which housed a cozy three-per
son swing off to the side, the cop in him made him check the front door to see if it was locked.
“Good girl,” he said, before walking along the neat cobbled path to the side of the house, leading to the backyard.
Not wanting to intrude on a backyard full of company, Mitch peered over the tall fence to see a woman with her back to him, playing with a little boy. The well-rounded ass clad in cut-off shorts that reached to just above her knees, grabbed—and held his attention. However, it wasn’t the cutoffs or the roundness of her backside causing his lower body to tense. Nor the fact she was covered provocatively in paint splatters. Instead, what caused a slight harness to his member were the very titillating rips up the sides of the shorts to mid-thigh revealing sumptuous legs, a lovely golden color. He couldn’t help but imagine them wrapped around him as they once had. Taking a breath and forcing his eyes upward, he admired instead the toned shoulders covered in a loose tank top.
My God, is that really Lorna? Mitch was slack-jawed. No way. He could never have imagined someone as straight laced as Lorna cutting back in such a relaxed fashion. Wearing a red bandana topped with a once black, well-battered ball cap, singing at the top of her voice some song vaguely familiar from his sister’s house when the kids were watching television. Sweat-curled tendrils of hair clung to her cheeks, giving her the appearance of a young girl. His hand ached to tuck the tendrils back behind her ear.
Before he could reach over to unlatch the gate, a small body clad only in a speedo ran into view shouting, “you can’t get me, nanna-nanna-boo-boo,” while he shook his small hiney in her direction.
“I can too.” She dropped her brush and ran after him. The young boy’s knees buckled in the face of his pursuer as high squeals peeled forth when she grabbed the boy, tipping him upside down to run her fingertips over his stomach. “I’m gonna get that belly button!” Cradling his head in one hand, she held his legs firm as she zooberted his stomach, unleashing fresh squeals. Her hat fell to the ground behind her. Head thrown back, laughing, she moved towards the small pool Mitch could just see at the edge of his vision when she seemed to sense his presence at the gate.