by Nancy Bush
In the midst of this insanity Binkster found her way between our feet. Her little body pushed and wiggled. I tried to ignore her. Dwayne did, too. We both sought to nudge her away with our feet. She made little growly noises. In the midst of a kiss I started laughing, silently, unable to help myself. Dwayne swore without heat against my mouth, his lips curving. We broke for a moment, both of us looking at each other, then at the dog. Binkster gazed up at us, her little black face inquisitive, her ears lifted, her head cocked. With the cone as a ruffle, she really looked like a clown. Dwayne and I both started laughing and Binks began digging at my leg for all she’s worth—a ploy for attention.
“Want a mochi?” Dwayne asked her.
She instantly dropped to her four feet and stared at him, totally tuned in.
Dwayne took her into the kitchen. I heard him open the freezer and pull out the ice cream treat. I could hear Binkster smacking her lips as Dwayne gave her pieces.
I leaned against the wall. I felt exhausted and wired at the same time.
Dwayne returned, Binkster dancing around his feet, her face turned up to the half mochi left in his fingers. She gave him one sharp bark, just to remind him in case he forgot. He did forget, as it turned out. His gaze on mine, he popped the rest of the dessert in his mouth. Binks, on her hind legs, propped herself on Dwayne’s leg with one paw, gazing up at him forlornly.
Dwayne said, “You look…well kissed.”
“Yeah…well…” I gestured to his clothes. His shirt hung out, wrinkled and askew.
My cell phone, which I’d turned back to “ring” began singing away inside my purse. I grabbed at the diversion like a lifeline, picked up the phone and saw it was Jazz. While I debated on answering, Dwayne dusted his hands, showing Binks the food was gone. Then he strode to the bathroom, where I suspected he was putting himself back together. I straightened my shirt, rubbed my flushed cheeks and answered.
“Hi, there,” Jazz greeted me warmly. “I just wanted to say good night, so, good night.”
My gaze was pinned on the closed bathroom door. “Good night,” I said woodenly.
“See you tomorrow.”
I muttered a good-bye and closed my flip phone.
Oh…holy…shit.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning I ran to the Nook in record time, chased by inner demons. I know better than to get involved with Dwayne romantically, I told myself like a litany as I ran. I know better…I know better…I know better.
It had been awkward when he’d walked back out of the bathroom. Well, that’s an understatement, really. I’d kept my attention on The Binkster, using my dog as an avoidance technique. It worked better than I could have hoped for as Dwayne just said good night and left. I spent the rest of the night in a state of anxiety and mild sexual frustration. At one point I pressed my face into my pillow and screamed. Binkster growled low in her throat. I looked up at her, noticed the cone. Oh, yeah, she’s fierce.
At the Nook I lingered around longer than normal, hoping someone would come in who would occupy my thoughts. My head felt full of problems, and I didn’t feel like solving any of them. I didn’t want to prioritize. I didn’t want to think. I wanted all the problems to just go away so I could stop feeling so rotten.
I hadn’t had a chance to really process Orchid’s death.
I’d barely accepted the fact that my negligence had injured my dog.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to get involved with Jazz Purcell, no matter how damn good-looking he was, and my ambivalent feelings were all because of Dwayne.
I made a sound of annoyance under my breath that was drowned out by the espresso machine’s noisy fssstttt.
Though I waited around hopefully, I couldn’t cadge a ride from anyone, so in the end I was forced to drag my tired body back to my cottage on foot. As I walked, I crumpled the paper coffee cup in one hand to make it easier to carry. I took my time, dawdling, because I really didn’t have anything pressing. The exercise made me feel better, but one look at The Binkster and my problems returned like a lead mantle on my shoulders.
After such an intense week I decided it was time to check out for a while, and I spent the next few days doing nothing but watching television, running to fast-food restaurants when I got hungry, tending to my dog and thinking. I also swore a lot. Every word I could think of, usually tied together in a string of profanity. I was surprised how quickly I ran out of them. There had to be more but my overwhelmed brain couldn’t seem to come up with them. Luckily, they’re the kind of coping tool that can be used over and over again.
Jazz called and we talked, but we didn’t get together. This was my doing because although he was interested, I needed time to sort some things out. He didn’t bring up our pending trip to River Shores again and neither did I. At first I thought it was because, in the wake of Orchid’s death, he suddenly had a lot more pressing issues. And maybe that was the case, but after a couple of days I began to suspect he’d also forgotten we’d ever discussed the idea. His short-term memory loss was proving to have its advantages as I was so not interested in another trip to the sanitarium with Jazz in tow. Orchid was gone and whatever secrets she’d harbored had gone with her literally to the grave. If Jazz wanted to learn who his father was, that was one thing, but the mystery surrounding Lily had ceased to be a factor, at least in my opinion.
I didn’t talk to Dwayne. Okay, I did, but it was just a sentence or two on a couple of phone calls. He was working and busy. I was not, but acted like I was. I pretended to be process serving day and night and unable to devote time to anything else. He didn’t press me on the point. I think we were both relieved to take a break from each other. (At least this is what I told myself, though he occupied my thoughts far more than he should have and in new and disturbing ways.)
Thursday I was so into my non-work routine that I banged around in sweatpants and my IN-N-OUT T-shirt until nearly noon. It was while I was leaning one arm on my refrigerator door, wishing the shelves didn’t look so bare, that I remembered something important.
“Shit!” I slammed the door shut and my gaze jumped to the kitchen clock. Eleven-forty-five.
I hurtled over Binks and slid around the corner to the bathroom, stripping off my running gear and leaving it in a trail behind me. Jumping in the shower, I didn’t wait for it to turn warm as I swore pungently, running through my litany of words three more times.
Mom’s plane was arriving in ten minutes.
“Shit!” I said again, rinsing the soap from my hair and leaping, skidding onto the tile floor before wet-footing it to the bedroom. I tried to yank on my clothes but the remaining water on my skin mocked my efforts. I swore some more.
By the time I was in the car I was ready to break every speed record known to man. Midday traffic isn’t too bad. With luck, she’d just be collecting her bag when I pulled up to the curb.
Timing is everything with the Portland Airport, with any airport these days, actually. The pickup lanes are patrolled by security employees wearing Day-Glo orange vests. They have zero sense of humor—both a product of 9/11 and their own sense of importance—and I’ve been chastised for lingering too long when there was no pickup passenger in sight, and also for simply not maneuvering my vehicle into a good enough parking position. That one really torqued me. People drive crazy at airports; they can scarcely help it as they jockey into position around other crazy drivers. It’s practically a free-for-all. I’d done the best I could given the constraints of a moron driving a Suburban in front of me and a kid in a red sports car with ski racks edging in behind me. The security agent, a woman with a snarl built onto her lips, told me I was taking up two lanes. Well, duh. I would have liked to have been in one, but I could hardly wedge myself over to the curb with the Suburban’s back doors flung open. I would have also liked to point this out. I actually opened my mouth to give it the old college try but she ran right over me with a lecture that would not stop. Other drivers regarded me gratefully as I was taking the heat for them
, their vehicles being able to hog two lanes with impunity.
It had really pissed me off.
With these thoughts in mind, I kept my eyes on the road, my brain moving ahead, planning my mother’s pickup with the preparation I might give a bank heist. First: check the overall amount of airport traffic. Second: Get ready to abort pickup from the baggage level if need be, choosing the upper departure level instead. This would necessitate an instant decision that would probably infuriate the drivers behind me, but it was a viable option. Third: stay in the moving left lane as long as possible and then dart for the curb. Fourth: find God and pray for no fender benders.
Mom was coming in on Alaska Airlines, one of the carriers with the best schedules from Los Angeles to Portland. Alaska is at the end of the arriving passengers’ section, so there would be ample time to make a change in plans if need be. When the security agent had yelled at me I was trying to drop off someone for Delta. Delta’s too close to the start of carrier-row. I’d been easy pickings.
My fingers tightened around the steering wheel as I cruised up to the arriving flight deck, but today was fairly quiet and benign. I only felt like making one rude gesture at another driver. The security people didn’t appear to be in attack mode. They were grouped along the divider between the pickup lanes and the roadway for hotel vans that ran in front of the parking garage.
Mom wasn’t standing outside. I felt my first tickle of worry. If I pulled over, I would undoubtedly be swooped upon with all due haste, although there was a chance they wouldn’t immediately notice. If I slowed down and just crept along, hoping Mom would suddenly appear, I was inviting unwanted attention and the chance for another lecture.
I tried to do a little of both. Moving into a slow, slow stop, I pulled up to the curb just before Alaska’s sign and tried to be inconspicuous.
My efforts were wasted. My nemesis strode toward me, waving a flashlight like a billy club, her mouth twisted into its snarl. It was the same damn woman who’d yelled at me before. Why wasn’t she down at the Delta area, that’s what I wanted to know.
I chose deception as my means of defense by pretending I didn’t see her charging toward me. Then I started waving furiously to a young woman standing at the curb as if we were long lost friends. The woman lifted a tentative hand. I climbed from the car and said, all smiles, “I thought you were coming in on Frontier! Get on in!”
She looked a bit confused. “Did George send you?”
“You better believe it.”
From the corner of my eye I saw my nemesis slow down. She stopped about twenty feet away. “I’m Jane,” I said, holding out a hand to the girl.
“Cheryl. You sure you’re here for me?”
I shot the security guard nemesis a sideways glance out of the corner of my eyes. Her attention had been diverted by a young Asian woman who’d climbed from the driver’s seat and was yakking on her cell phone. She was stomping toward the offender, her snarl in place. I smiled gleefully, thrilled to have foiled her, but Cheryl was gazing at me quizzically. “Actually, I’m not,” I apologized. “I’m waiting for my mother. But hey, you saved me from security sending me out on a another loop around the airport. If you need a ride, I might be able to help.”
“Ahhh…” She smiled, then swept a glance at her cell phone, making a sound of disgust. “Battery’s dead. Just when I need it.” Making a face, she added, “You don’t look like a serial killer. I might take you up on that ride.”
“Take your time putting your suitcase in the back,” I said cheerily. I love thwarting authority. It’s definitely some quirk in my makeup, but I’ll go out of my way to be a pain in the ass. It’s just so…gratifying.
Cheryl, it turns out, was totally up for being my partner in crime. In fact, I was a little worried she was overplaying her part when she acted like the suitcase was too heavy to lift. However, when I tried to help her I realized the thing weighed a ton and a half.
“What’s in there?” I asked.
“Shoes, mostly. I love shoes. Went on a spending spree in L.A. I hate paying sales tax, though.”
Oregon’s one of the few states that does not have a sales tax, but we try to make up for it with property and income taxes. “You were on the flight from LAX?” She nodded and at that moment Mom came through the glass revolving door, wheeling a small red suitcase behind her. I was heartened by the idea that Mom apparently wasn’t planning to stay a millennium if that’s all the clothes she brought with her. With all the balls I was juggling in my life, I didn’t think I could take the distraction for long.
Introductions were made all around. Cheryl and Mom recognized each other from the flight and began a lively discussion about some passenger who’d gotten so drunk and obnoxious that the flight crew had almost returned to LAX to eject him from the plane. I kept an eye on my nemesis who was now patrolling around us, her gaze fierce. She suddenly blew her whistle and motioned at me. “Move on!”
I took my time getting to my car door, then I asked Mom earnestly, “Do you need help with your door?”
She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “How old do you think I am?”
“It’s kind of sticky. Let me help.” I trotted around to the other side of the car and opened the door for her. The Volvo obligingly made a wrenching sound but it’s done this for years. Mom settled in and the security woman looked like she wanted to thrust my car in gear herself to get it moving.
I lifted a hand in greeting and smiled as I slowly herded the car back onto the road. Mom watched this exchange. “Making friends?” she asked drily.
“Yup.”
Cheryl lived in Beaverton and that took us out of our way about thirty minutes but it was worth it. Mom veered the conversation to my job, surprising me by telling Cheryl I was an “information specialist, which is a blanket term for private investigator”; I really never can tell what goes into her brain and what doesn’t.
Cheryl brightened. “My brother, Josh, is a Lake Chinook police officer. Josh Newell. You should look him up.”
I smiled and made agreeable sounds. I didn’t tell her I avoid the Lake Chinook police on principle. I worry about their “no call too small” motto. And with my penchant for bending, or blatantly ignoring, the rules, the less they know about me the better. It’s bad enough having an overbearing brother on the Portland PD.
But I committed his name to memory anyway. One never knows…
We dropped Cheryl off, then headed for Lake Chinook. As I pulled up to the cottage, I asked Mom, “Does Booth know what time you were getting in?”
She nodded. “We’re all going to dinner tonight. This is the first time I get to meet Sharona, so it’s kind of a celebration. I’m buying. Booth said you have a favorite place on the lake. Foster’s, I think?”
I pictured myself at Foster’s On The Lake with my whole family. “I don’t have a boat.”
“Can’t you drive there?”
“Yes, but it’s hellish parking.”
“You don’t want to go?”
I really didn’t want to see Booth and Sharona at all. I’d kind of hoped they would take Mom out and I could be by myself, which was a pipe dream from the outset, but hey, it had kept my momentum up all afternoon. Now I pulled Mom’s suitcase from the back of the car and sighed. “I might be coming down with something,” I said as we walked to the front door.
Mom harrumphed her disbelief.
As soon as the door was open Binkster trotted up to us, wriggling in delight at meeting my mother. Mom gazed down into the dog’s little black face. “Who’s this?” she asked. “And what’s with the lampshade?”
“Mom.” My voice took that tone I despise in others, that one where you’re holding onto yourself with everything you’ve got because you just might snap. “This is the dog you foisted on me. The one from ‘Aunt Eugenie’? The friend of yours you promised to take care of her dog when she died.”
“Oh, yes, yes. I remember.”
Did she? I wasn’t sure.
“He�
��s cute, isn’t he?”
“She. She’s cute. She was in an accident earlier this week and the neck cone is to keep her from licking the wound.”
“Poor little thing,” Mom said.
Was there condemnation in that phrase? It sounded like a Mom thing to say, but I was so tender on the subject I was looking for blame in every syllable.
“I don’t really want to leave her alone tonight,” I said. “Maybe you all should go to Foster’s without me.”
“Nonsense. We won’t be gone long. The dog’ll be fine.” She peered at me. “Honestly, Jane, I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“What?”
“You’re pretty attached to him.”
I said, succinctly, “Her.”
My mother smiled, her point made. At fifty-five she’s a shorter, plumper and more scattered version of myself: same straight light brown hair, same hazel eyes, same belief that everyone else is slightly off and we’re the only sane people left in the world. I would never tell her that I think she might have gone over to the other side. Conversations with Mom can be tricky.
I took her bag into the bedroom over her protests, making it clear that I’m perfectly happy sleeping on my couch. I brought Binkster’s bed into the living room, so she could sleep by me. She snuffled the cushions hard, making sure it was still hers, I guess, then promptly sat upon it like a throne.
“She’s so cute,” Mom said.
“You think she’s too fat?”
“Well…” Mom trailed off, so I guess I had my answer.
I was itching to do something, but I couldn’t rightly just take off. I’d called Greg Hayden and there were a couple of seventy-two hour notices to deliver, but he’d planned on giving them to someone else as he knew I was into the private investigation thing. I complained loudly. No, I wasn’t through with process serving. I couldn’t be. After all, I very well could have blown the whole gig with Dwayne.