Home for a Spell

by Madelyn Alt

  I shook my head, just as puzzled as he was. “I don’t know. I only got a glimpse of her at the apartment—after she nearly knocked me over—before she ran off. Lou actually recognized her, though—she ran, but she didn’t run far. We saw her when we drove past the little community park just down the street. She’s on his track team. I don’t think she saw him, though. She was too involved with her boyfriend to pay attention to either of us.”

  Marcus was still absorbing all of this. “So, this afternoon, you left work with my uncle, went to see an apartment I didn’t even know you were interested in looking into, and were nearly knocked down by an intruder in said apartment who turns out to be a teenage girl that my uncle knows?”

  I grinned sheepishly. “Yes, I’d say that about sums it all up.”

  “You lead an interesting life, Maggie O’Neill.”

  A year ago, I would have agreed with him. But with the events of previous months laid out on the table, who could dispute it?

  “So, this girl,” he mused at length. “She broke into an empty apartment? Or is there a current tenant?”

  “No current tenant. The manager said he’d had to evict the previous tenant for breaking the terms and requirements of the lease . . . or something like that.”

  Marcus frowned. “That doesn’t sound all that great. Did he say what his reasons were? I would hate to see you give up your current apartment for a potentially unstable situation.”

  “He didn’t go into specifics,” I explained, “but at the time it didn’t sound like that big a deal. Just one of those things. A product of doing business in the modern age. Whoever it was, they were the only tenant since the remodel, and it didn’t sound to me as though they were there long. The place was clean. Well, all except for the big, huge mirror in the bedroom. It was broken. The manager said he’d put it on the list for replacement.”

  One eyebrow slid up, just a tad. “Big, huge mirror in the bedroom, huh? Um, how big?”

  In-corr-igible. “Broken, big guy.” And then I darted a sideways peek at him through my lashes. “But an intriguing sentiment, nevertheless.”

  “We could continue this conversation inside, you know,” he said, sliding his hand up to cup my knee.

  A knowing smile touched the outer corners of my lips. “Hmm. I suppose we could do that.” And then, just because I was so relieved, and equally because I should have known better: “I’m so glad you didn’t get the wrong idea about the apartment and my reasons behind it. You really are a good guy, you know that?”

  He leaned in to kiss me. Despite what I’d said, neither one of us seemed to care at the moment that the neighbors could see. If they were watching, they should probably have the decency to look elsewhere.

  My breath left me in a whoosh as his arms came up beneath me and he lunged to his feet with me held aloft. I threw my arms around his neck and held on tight, dizzy with the crazy, wondrous delight that often filled me when I was with him. Minnie yowled plaintively from the screen door. She could wait a minute.

  And then a phone started buzzing.

  Long ago, Jane Austen was fond of writing universally acknowledged truths about men and women and the relationships they found themselves engaged in. If Ms. Austen were writing my story, my universal truth might include something pithy about the untimely ringing of cell phones.

  It didn’t take me long to realize two things. One, the cell phone was most definitely mine. Naturally. And two, my purse was sitting on the floorboards beneath the porch swing.

  With a resigned sigh, Marcus set me down carefully and allowed me to find my footing before dashing over, grabbing my purse, and tossing it to me. Big mistake. Because even though it was zipped and snapped shut, and even though I caught it, what that meant was that the contents of said large, modern, bucket-style bag were irreversibly jumbled to hell and back.

  Without my crutches to lean on, I was forced to stand on one foot and try to maintain my balance while turning the deep handbag right-side up, unzipping it on the go, and then trying really hard to hold on to it and keep it open with one hand while scooping through the multitudinous contents with my other.

  Which brings me to my second universal truth. Which is that cell phones, unlike the children of old, must be heard but not seen. I felt around blindly. I sifted through by touch. I even peered into the dark depths of my bag, hoping to catch sight of the glow of the outer screen. But no luck. It might as well have disappeared through a black hole into another dimension.

  Or, it could have slipped into the small rip in the lining that I didn’t realize was there, ending up in the neverland between liner and outer shell. Which is where I found it about five seconds after the final buzzing ring tone.

  Which brings me to my third universal truth of the hour: a ringing phone waits for no man. Or woman, even.

  I pulled it out just as the little glow light blinked out. Within ten seconds, the phone buzzed in my hand once again, notifying me I had a new voice mail message. Marcus fetched my missing crutches while I played it:

  “Miss O’Neill, this is Rob Locke at New Heritage Property Management. I just wanted to let you know that we do actually have another party interested in renting the apartment you looked at this afternoon. I hate to appear pushy, but I am going to have to have an answer from you tonight. I would appreciate you calling me back when you receive this message.

  “You should still have my card and the rental agreement, but I’ll give you the number here: 555-7368. That’s 555-RENT. Thanks. Talk to you soon.”

  I frowned. He needed an answer now? Tonight?

  “What’s up, love?”

  I looked up to meet Marcus’s inquiring eyes. “He says he needs an answer tonight. ASAP. I was thinking I’d have a few days to think it over. Now what?” I asked him, hoping for insight.

  Marcus handed me my crutches and took my handbag. “Have you even read the lease?”

  “I did,” I told him, “but there are changes to it that will need to be made—the manager offered a few special incentives to get my attention and sweeten the deal, and they aren’t in the boilerplate lease contract he gave me to look over.”

  The more I thought about it, the more I scowled. I was not pleased with this rush mode I now found myself in. Something about this felt wrong. My BS detector was kicking in. I couldn’t help wondering if he was pushing me to make a decision just to seal the deal fast. I mean, just a little while ago, it had sounded as though he didn’t have a plan for the evening except playing around with his new-and-improved computer. I just couldn’t see him making an impromptu appointment with someone else on such short notice, someone who had now had a full two minutes to review the apartment and was willing to sign a lease on the spot. It just didn’t make sense. But, there was also a part of me that worried about missing out on a great deal, waiting too long and letting it slip away, and never finding another affordable apartment.

  The question was, which part of me would win out?

  At Marcus’s suggestion, I called Locke and got through right away. The apartment manager explained again in that same thick, droll voice that he had someone else who was now suddenly interested in the apartment, and he was going to need me to make a crash decision. Right then, if possible. Otherwise, if I wasn’t interested after all, he would just get in touch with this second party and tell them it was theirs. Obviously, he wished to give me first right of refusal.

  I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that he was lying, that he was gambling on my unwillingness to let a good deal slip through my fingers. And knowing that, feeling the certainty of it down to my very bones, was why I was so surprised to hear myself agreeing to take the apartment . . . just so long as he’d be willing to write in a clause that would allow me to terminate the lease at my discretion with a reasonable amount of advance notice in writing.

  “Fantastic!” I heard Locke enthuse on the other end of the airwaves. “And I think I can come up with a clause that will be mutually beneficial . . . but don’t go spr
eading our little arrangement around. There are others who might not take it too kindly that you have special conditions and terms in your lease. I think you’ll be the perfect fit for our tight-knit little community. As a matter of fact, I had a feeling about it the moment I first clapped eyes on you. Call it . . . a sixth sense. Call it fate. There was just something about you, Maggie—may I call you Maggie?—that said ‘I need this apartment.’ Warms the cockles of my heart to know that it worked out for you. I love my job.”

  Hm. I couldn’t help thinking that he was laying it on a little thick. You?

  I thanked him, telling him that I’d stop by first thing in the morning to sign a lease that included the details from his earlier offer to me.

  “Oh, of course,” he agreed, “the discounted offer still stands. I am a man of my word. I’ll have the paperwork ready for you. All you need to do is drop by the office. I’ll have the keys available to you then, and once that little detail is taken care of, you can move in at any time.”

  Wow. That was fast. “Don’t you have to do a credit check or anything of that nature?”

  He chuckled in my ear. “No need, no need. You’re a friend of a lodge brother. That’s good enough for me and for the owner of the complex. See you first thing tomorrow.”

  I clicked off. Marcus had been watching me the entire time. I met his gaze.

  “So,” he said. “Tomorrow?”

  I nodded as he slipped his arm around my shoulders, wondering why I felt so strangely unsettled about all of this. It had happened so fast. Maybe it just hadn’t completely sunk in yet. Maybe I just needed time to think. Maybe the reality of it would hit me later, because just at that moment it didn’t quite feel real. I knew I was going to have to reassert my independence in order to give Marcus back the ability to do his thing, so why couldn’t I just feel good about successfully finding a solution to yet another life challenge? “He said I could move in any time after signing the papers,” I mused, trying to spark up some enthusiasm. “Maybe I can get my dad and some of the guys to help out.”

  “Great. Sounds good.”

  He didn’t sound very enthusiastic, either. I tilted my head back to look at him. “You sure you’re okay with all this?”

  “Who me? Yeah. It’s fine. I told you that.”

  “Okay. You just sounded a funny for a minute there.”

  “Oh. I don’t know why. For some reason, I’m having a hard time seeing you there.” He laughed at himself, then, and shook it off. “Whatever. Let’s go inside, huh?”

  Chapter 6

  By the time evening came around, I had forgotten all about Marcus’s admission of having some difficulty seeing me in this new apartment, and I was too frazzled to address my own strangely conflicted feelings toward what was proving to be a rush job of the highest order. Why did it seem that every time something changed in any part of my life, the world had to instantly switch into spin cycle? And there I was, preparing to put my signature on a document that would cement the change, no turning back.

  I slept little over the course of the night, and awakened often. Dreams were part of my problem. Every time I awoke, I was caught up in the snare of yet another dream, struggling to come out of it like a drugged patient trying to come out of anesthesia. I didn’t remember much in the way of details, just an overpowering sense of dread, the feeling of hiding but being watched nevertheless. By the time morning came, I was more than ready to be up and out of bed, despite the lovely warm feeling of sharing said bed with the lovely warm body of Marcus. Any other morning I might have lingered as long as alarm clocks and my work schedule would allow, but today I found myself folding back the covers so as not to wake him, ruthlessly dislodging a previously comatose Minnie from the hammock she had made of the coverlet between our bodies, and easing from the bed.

  It didn’t work, of course. I could swear that Marcus sleeps with one eye open. Or was that his third eye that remains on guard? Whatever it was, he awoke the moment I pushed myself to my feet. Er, make that “foot.” With little more than a kiss to persuade him, he made breakfast while I hopped in the tub for a “quick” bath . . . although, if you’ve ever had a broken leg yourself, you are painfully aware that there is nothing quick about it.

  Breakfast was bittersweet as I realized that, even on the nights I slept over, or that he would sleep over at my new place, it wouldn’t be quite the same as the last few weeks had been.

  It’s for the better, I told myself. Marcus needs this. When he has his degree in hand, he’ll thank me for not letting him postpone going back. This is the perfect solution. I kept repeating those things to myself as we silently drove the five blocks separating Marcus’s bungalow from the apartment complex, each of us caught up in our own preoccupied thoughts. Or maybe we were just tired.

  September mornings can be a beautiful thing in Indiana. The long, hot, dog days of summer were for the most part behind us, and the occasional rainstorms were returning our grass to a lovely green hue. A welcome respite from the desiccated desert of August, even though we all knew it would be brief. Just a matter of time before the nights, and even the days, turned cool, nipping at the trees and dressing them in glorious fall color. But today, the sun was filtering through green, green leaves with that special soft quality only seen in the early morning hours, and the world around us was preparing for the coming day with the usual sounds of television, garage-door openers, lawn mowers, barking dogs, and aging school buses rattling down the streets. Since we would be stopping before going to the store, I had decided that Minnie would be better off staying at Marcus’s for the day—alone, but with her steady supply of friends, the birds, fluttering outside of her favorite window for company, she would be fine.

  Marcus pulled his truck into the parking lot I indicated, the same that Lou had parked in just the day before. He looked over at me and smiled. It was encouraging, but I wasn’t feeling it. “Ready?”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Instead I got down out of the truck, hopping in place on one foot to keep my balance as I reached for my wayward crutches.

  “Here, I got ’em.” Marcus to the rescue. I was going to miss that.

  The sign in the window of the apartment complex office still said “Closed,” but the door was standing ajar and appeared to have been propped open. Obviously Locke was waiting for me to arrive and just wanted me to know it was okay to come on in. Girding my loins, I made my way up the sidewalk, my purse bumping clumsily between my side and one crutch with each step. Marcus had offered to carry it for me, but I had refused his offer gently. I needed to know I could do this. I needed to know I could take care of myself. And I needed for Marcus to know it, too, so he wouldn’t worry about me overmuch.

  Marcus got to the door before me and quickly sidestepped around me to hold it wide so that I could pass through freely. There had been nothing propping the door open, just the stopper on the hydraulic door hinges that could be set to hold the door for you if you needed to go through with your hands full. The lights in the office were off.

  I poked my head in the door. “Mr. Locke?” I called out. “Hello?”

  The office, or at least the part of it that I could see, was empty.

  Of people.

  The mess that met my surprised gaze completely made up for that. My mouth fell open, taking it all in.

  “Hooooollllllyyyyy coooowww,” I whispered, drawing out the words.

  Marcus came up behind me and stopped short, too. He let out a long, low whistle.

  Someone had done a number on the office. Files had been emptied and scattered over the floor, along with shards of ceramic from broken coffee mugs, and glass, too; drawers had been rifled, and chairs had been overturned and flung about. Worse were the pieces of what appeared to be electronic components, circuit boards, and wires, crunched and battered underfoot.

  Marcus swore softly under his breath. “The computer rebuild.”

  He was right. The computer Uncle Lou had just delivered yesterday was the unfortunate s
ource of the electronic doodads and thingamabobs littering the area around the desk. Not to mention the metal casing, which had been beaten into a crunched and dented shadow of its former self.

  “Wow,” I murmured. “Wow, wow, wow. Who could have done this? Burglars?”

  “Why would they destroy one of the only things of value here to be taken, if that were true?”

  Good point, that. Offices for inexpensive apartment complexes weren’t known for having a lot of high-end stuff around. Lots of low-budget furniture, maybe a computer or two. Not even a lot of cash hanging around. Which meant if the damage was caused by would-be burglars, they were either too stupid to choose a viable target or too inexperienced to know better.

  Which meant . . .

  I looked around, suddenly nervous, hoping we had not caught said someone in the act. Could they still be there, lurking in the shadows? Hm. Nowhere to hide. Not in this room, at least. There were two rooms leading off, though, and the doors were closed. One lead to a bathroom, I knew. The other perhaps to some kind of storage or utility closet? That was my guess, but I couldn’t know for sure.

  “Should we—?” I asked Marcus, but he cut off the question with a sharp shake of his head. He held up a finger to his lips and took my arm, guiding me gently back out the door.

  “Don’t touch anything,” he muttered, the words understandably terse. “You go back to the truck. Lock the doors. I’m going to have a look around.”

  Tom had tried that with me once. It had worked. For a little while. This time, though, I really didn’t see the need. “It’s broad daylight, Marcus. Whoever it was that did this, I’m sure they’re long gone. They wouldn’t stick around for the manager to arrive and catch them in the act.” I paused then as the office hours caught my eye. “As a matter of fact, he should be here already. Maybe he’s just running late.”

  “Maybe.”