Wordless (Pink Sofa Secrets Book 1)

by Mel Sterling

  "They're busy listening to each other. If someone wants a book, it'll wait."

  "Why do you want me to—" she stopped, biting her lip. The tail of that sentence was "to stay here with you?" but that was too much of a giveaway. She took a deep breath. Working with corporate numbers and accounting software didn't leave her much time for socializing, though it paid well. Lexie was well out of the habit of flirting, much less doing whatever this was.

  Jack finished the thought for her, lowering his voice even more. "Maybe I want to get to know you better, Alexia Worth."

  Jack Tucker was a customer. Customers should stay on their side of the cash register counter. Or they should follow her to a shelf and look where she pointed, not let their gazes roam softly over her face, lingering at her lips before lifting back to her eyes. Customers shouldn't know her full name, or if they did, they shouldn't mention it. There should be a formality to the relationship between buyer and seller.

  Shouldn't there?

  Especially between two people whose acquaintance had started wrong-footed, with Lexie disrupting whatever bookstore routine Jack had developed with Horace. She felt a little bad about that still, though she knew her reasoning was sound. She simply hated disappointing people. That's why numbers were safe and words were so dangerous. Numbers did what they were supposed to do. They stayed on their assigned sides of the line. Words squirmed away, no matter how Lexie tried to pin them down.

  "Lexie. I go by Lexie," she heard herself saying.

  "You know that Alexia means 'without words,' don't you?"

  His comment trod too close to her current thoughts, and she realized she was still gripping his arm. She released it just as Q slouched past the aisle where she and Jack were standing too close together. She stepped back, returning Q's vague smile with a carefully schooled face, and watching as Q headed for the bathroom for what was probably his third visit since the open mic began.

  Lexie hadn't answered Jack then, and now that the open mic was over, she hoped he'd forgotten their odd, off-balance little encounter. She counted the dimes and added the total to her running tally.

  Gilly approached the counter, a fat tome tucked under one arm, and the empty cookie platter under the other. Ben hurried to meet her, dumping a short stack of paper cups into the store's trashcan on his way. "That's a great book," he said. "Is that the one you want to borrow?"

  "If that's OK with Lexie…" the pink-haired girl said tentatively. "You might not know, maybe—Horace lets us—let us, I mean—borrow the second-hand books in return for supplying the coffee and cookies. We don't touch the new stock, or the really old valuable stuff."

  "He mentioned it," Lexie replied. "It's fine with me, seems more than fair. Ben, please make sure it comes off the store inventory, so we don't go searching for something that's not on the shelf."

  "Already on it." Ben scanned the book's inventory tag at the computer. His glance up at Gilly was goofy and smitten, and Lexie busily counted paper bills to give him what privacy she could. "If you, um, want to talk about it when you're finished reading it, I'd…um."

  "Yeah, sure—it's a big book though, might take me a while."

  "You seem like a fast reader, with the other stuff you borrowed."

  Gilly looked momentarily blank, then said quickly, "Oh. Yeah. Right! Well, thanks Ben, thanks Lexie—got to get this stuff back to The Cup, then I'm headed home."

  "I'll walk you—" Ben began, but Gilly was already halfway to the connecting door. "No need, I'm meeting a friend as soon as I lock up again."

  Ben's face fell, and he went to help Jack and Cyril with the chairs. Lexie saw his shoulders move in an irritated little shrug.

  It was a good half hour after she'd shooed the men out of the store and locked the doors behind them before Lexie was ready to head home for the night. It was nearly ten-thirty when she gathered her briefcase, set the store alarm system and turned off the lights. Melville knew the routine, meeting her at the front door and slipping outside like a shadow. Lexie followed him quickly, not wanting the tabby to get out of sight as they walked the four blocks around the corner to Horace's house.

  What was taking her so long? Jack felt itchy, restless and exposed, sitting on the bench under a streetlight in the town square. He was directly across the street from Horace's Books where he could watch the front door. Night was his friend, usually, the time he could walk and think without interruption, but tonight felt different. There was a new edge to the darkness here in the little college town. Maybe it was the night, the chill and scudding wind, or maybe it was himself.

  He wanted, quite simply, to walk Lexie home in this sweet, small-town autumn night. Wanted to escort her along the streets from one pool of lamplight to another, smell the autumn leaves their feet crushed, see her safely to Horace's door, and then go home himself. Nothing more.

  Nothing.

  More.

  This evening she'd touched him, and he'd liked the way her hand felt on his arm. It'd been five years since Olivia, the last woman he'd had any real interest in, but Olivia couldn't take the long absences without any contact except emails and blog posts and the rare video call from Iraq. When he signed on for a second embedded stint, she'd kissed him goodbye at her door. When the kiss was over, she whispered, "If you go, I'm done."

  It had been a hell of a kiss—so good he'd been tempted to take her back inside and unpack his bags. But instead he strode down her front walk and out of her life. He'd known better than to email, after that. He'd made his choice.

  That tour was the game-changer, the thing that both ensured his fame and broke his soul. Two best-selling exposé books later, Jack was hollow, empty of anything except regret and bitterness. So many good men and women dead, and so many others ruined beyond repair. Some still roamed the desert in their Humvees, dodging the next IED, the next sniper's bullet, the next suicide bomber.

  His two books had changed nothing, except maybe a few opinions. The fat corporations profiting from the war kept getting fatter.

  "Horace really meant it when he said Melville's a commuter cat," Jack called as Lexie came out of the bookstore and locked the door. He rose from the bench across the street. That small moment in the aisle tonight, when they'd shared a secret laugh at Q's ridiculous paean to his masculinity, hadn't left his mind since.

  He'd spent three days in the bookstore watching Lexie shelving books, interacting with customers, alphabetizing stock, making displays, and being swatted at by Melville when she neared the cat tree. He knew it was three days he should have been writing, but somehow watching the bookstore stir to new and very different life under Lexie's hands was more interesting and more important than putting words around the latest political-military hooraw in Washington D.C. He'd even refused a paying gig, yet another article about what it was like to be a journalist embedded with troops on the front lines of a war zone.

  Jack could tell Lexie had a lot to learn about the whole business, books and authors in particular. But for every hit she took, every tiny failure, she squared her shoulders, straightened her spine, learned from the mistake, and started again.

  The other thing he found curious was that she didn't seem to know who he was. It was refreshing to be known as Jack Tucker instead of John T. Jarvis, author, freelancer, middling-famous correspondent and internet celebrity. She'd probably figure it out soon enough. Four of his books were shelved in the store's current events section, his photo on front and back. It was only a matter of time.

  Lexie turned swiftly from the door, keys in her hand like a weapon. He had known he'd startle her, so late at night, which was why he'd chosen the bench across the street. That was far enough for her to feel safe, and close enough for him to see her as she exited.

  "Jack." Her relief was plain. Melville was already headed down the sidewalk, taking small swipes at blowing leaves in his path.

  "I thought I'd walk you home, if you'll let me."

  Lexie looked around. There wasn't another person in sight. Jack wondered i
f she trusted him enough even for that small thing. "I'm fine on my own," she said. There was a long pause while she shifted her feet in the flat slip-on shoes she favored. "OK, sure. It's not far."

  "Just around the corner, I know. Horace invited me home for beers several times."

  Her attitude changed at the mention of her uncle's name. She straightened, seemed to relax and relent a little. She watched him cross the street to her, and as he neared, she headed after Melville, who was almost to the corner, tail high.

  Jack swung into stride next to her. "That was a hell of an open mic tonight," he said.

  "My first. I can't believe Uncle Horace ran those weekly. For now we're changing to twice a month. I don't think my heart could take them more frequently." She ducked her head a little. "Sorry. I shouldn't be so unprofessional. The events are good for the store, and the poets are well-intentioned."

  "I've been to a few before. They're not always like that. I think they were showing off for the new girl in town."

  Her laugh was rueful and soft. She shifted her briefcase—more of a messenger bag, he saw now—on her shoulder. "New girl. It sure feels like that." She looked up at him as they reached the corner. Melville had already turned it, and Jack saw Lexie wanted to catch up to the cat before they reached the cross street. "I remember you now. It came to me while you were putting away the chairs tonight. Thanks for that, by the way."

  Ah, well…his secret was out. "You're welcome."

  "You were at Uncle Horace's funeral, weren't you? At the rear."

  He was surprised. She didn't mean his books. "I was. I only knew Horace for a few months, but we had some great conversations about books and politics and life in general."

  Her face stiffened a little, as if she were fighting down sadness. "A lot of people miss him. I've got giant shoes to try to fill."

  "I think you've made a good start."

  "Thanks."

  Jack bent and scooped Melville under his arm before the cat left the curb. "Hang on a minute, buddy, I'll put you down over there."

  "That cat hates me."

  "He's just independent."

  "Hates me. I swear. I'm not allowed to pick him up. He doesn't even like me to pet him."

  "His loss, then."

  When she glanced sharply up at him mid-street, Jack realized what he'd said, and how it might sound. But a smile quirked her lips, and a second later they were across. Melville streaked the last two blocks on his own, flicking his affronted tail as he ran.

  The fragrance of the night was extraordinary. Jack could smell oak leaves—a crisp, spicy, somehow brown odor—and sweet gum leaves, smelling more of leaf mould, a moister scent, almost a flavor. The house they were passing already had pumpkins carved and sitting on the half-dozen front steps, and he smelled their vegetal odor. There was the leather strap of his satchel slung across his body, and some faint perfume of Lexie's, and the lingering odor of books and ink soaked into both their clothing. The wind blew her short glossy curls.

  Ahead, Melville stopped next to a hedge, arched in a classic Halloween cat pose, then took two slow steps backward.

  Jack's hand shot out—he didn't even know why—but reflexes and instincts he'd picked up from traveling with the platoon in Iraq had kicked in. He caught Lexie's arm just above the elbow to halt her, pulling her a few steps backward into the pool of shadow cast by a neighbor's brick fence. A high section of the hedge moved, too high for someone's dog prowling there.

  "What—Jack, what—"

  "Wait," he said, in the low-voiced tone he'd learned to use in Iraq. Murmurs were safer than sibilant whispers. "Someone's hiding in that hedge."

  "Just someone's cat—"

  His free hand covered her mouth. "No. Too big." He moved his hand before she could become nervous or afraid. Though she was tense, her attention was on the hedge, and not on the way he was handling her, moving her slowly between himself and the wall and edging his shoulder ahead of her so she was protected.

  Melville shot down the sidewalk to Horace's house and disappeared up the porch steps. Lexie made a slow, silent move next to Jack. He saw she was slinging her bag across her body, moving its bulk to the back of her hip. She still had her keys in her hand, but now a slim keyring baton protruded from her fist. Good girl, he thought. She probably had mace in her bag, too.

  "Wait here. I'll check it out."

  "I'm going with you."

  "You're not."

  "What if it's Horace's neighbor, trying to get their cat in for the night? You'll scare the life out of him. He knows me."

  "What if it's someone waiting for you to come home alone late?"

  Lexie opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment the hedge shook violently, and they heard the muffled thud of footsteps sprinting toward the back of the yard, crashing through leaves and bushes, knocking over something that clanked as it fell.

  Jack dashed forward, with Lexie matching his pace.

  As they rounded the tip of the hedge, they saw a shadow spilling with a rattling clatter over the tall wooden fence yards away. And then nothing.

  "Still think it was your neighbor?" Jack asked wryly. "Let's get you home. I'm coming in to check the place out."

  "I'm sure it's fine. That was probably just a peeping Tom."

  "Just." Jack felt his teeth gritting together. "Just!" He caught Lexie's arm again and hustled her swiftly to Horace's porch and up the steps. At the front door, she pointedly removed her arm from his grip. Melville paced back and forth, meowing loudly.

  "There's no need for you to come in." She fished in her bag and got out her cell phone. "I'll call the cops if something seems wrong."

  "Alexia. Please. I won't sleep if I don't know you're safe inside a safe house with good strong safe locks."

  "It's Lexie. Jack, I'll be fine. I'll check all the rooms myself. Besides, whoever it was—they weren't in Horace's hedge, they were in the next yard. What makes you think I was the target?" She put her hand on the knob and twisted it. "See? Still locked."

  Melville twined urgently between Jack's ankles. Jack heard Horace's words in his head: "Something's going on in my store, something I can't put a finger on. I don't like it. Maybe you can help me keep watch." Perhaps the lurker in the hedge and Horace's fears were unrelated, but Jack's journalist instincts were on full alert. Too many little peculiarities in a short timespan made for more than coincidence.

  "I swear I won't make disparaging comments about the dust. Please, Lexie."

  "Oh, for crying out loud. All right." She unlocked the door and stood back, waiting as Jack went past her into the house. He paused in the foyer, listening. Melville slipped past him and headed toward the kitchen and his food dish.

  Lexie joined Jack, quiet and still, arm to arm as if they were presenting a united front to any intruder. The foyer was full of Horace's old field coats on wall pegs, a tall copper bucket holding umbrellas and walking sticks, a dusty fake fern on a marble pedestal, and six pairs of shoes—all of them the flats Lexie favored, except for a pair of bright purple rubber gardening clogs. The boards of the hardwood floor stretched into the living room, past it to the dining room and kitchen. Jack knew a staircase led from near the kitchen up to the finished attic bedroom and down to the basement. To their left, opening off the living and dining rooms, were two bedrooms and the old Craftsman house's sole bath.

  "Anything feel out of place?" he asked her quietly.

  She shook her head, but her baton was back in her hand, jingling keys silenced in her palm. He hoped he hadn't frightened her with his concerns, but he wasn't about to ignore his gut instincts. Lieutenant Gardner "Gard" Dawson, his "minder" in Iraq had always said, "Ignoring that little voice telling you to duck is a good way to get dead, JT."

  He took a moment to put his satchel on the floor beneath Horace's coats, moving as silently as he could. Lexie followed suit. He took one of Horace's walking sticks for a weapon, then he began a systematic search of the house, beginning with the bedrooms and bath, moving on to the k
itchen. He paused at the staircase. One flight went up, the other down. Lexie pointed up, and after a moment, Jack nodded, preceding her.

  The attic room was clearly where Lexie had settled while she was attending Horace through his last days. There was the same comforting, old-book-and-polished-furniture smell, but the closer they got to the top of the stairs, there was also the smell of cocoa butter, a light floral he thought might be lotion, and that perfume of hers, somewhere between balsam, lilac, and caramel. Lexie reached past him and flicked on the light as they climbed the stairs. There was no door to the attic, just the stairs debouching directly into the room. Jack saw no one. The room was as empty as the rest of the house had been.

  Except for the bed.

  It was enormous, a fantastical thing made of black iron curlicues tipped with shiny steel acorns and larger acorns capping the corner posts. Clawed steel lions' feet made the bed look as if it were about to mince stiffly across the room. From his place on the stairs, only half his body above floor level, he could see right under the tall bed to the far wall. Clearly no one was under it, but the bedding mounded on it—an eclectic mix of brown plaid flannel sheets, frothy white eyelet duvet and a litter of cream-colored velvet pillows sewn with pearly beads—made his eyebrows rise. A small wicker hamper crouched like a sleeping dog next to the bed, and a pair of lacy panties dangled temptingly over its edge, as though the hamper hadn't quite licked all the latte foam from its lips.

  The reaction of Jack's body was forceful and instantaneous. He saw himself and Lexie naked and tangled in that soft, cozy mound, rain or snow outside the house, closing them away from the rest of the world.

  He was nuts. Gard would have told him, as he'd said a dozen times a week in Iraq, "Man, JT, you got to get yourself a little somethin'-somethin'. Too damn tense."

  "Nobody here," Jack said now, mentally cursing the hoarseness of his voice. "Basement." He pushed past Lexie and went down the stairs, determined to stay ahead of her so she wouldn't see the bulging front of his jeans until he'd gotten himself and his randy body under control.