Susan Donovan

by Public Displays of Affection

  “Oh, really?”

  “No mail delivery. No garbage set out for pickup. His lights are on late every night. And I don’t know when the hell he goes grocery shopping, unless it’s at three in the morning.”

  Bonnie stared.

  “So it’ll be easy to ignore him. As far as I know, the man doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s all still my imagination, that I’m still making up everything about Joe Mills and his incredible—”

  Charlotte stopped herself, realizing that Bonnie was still laughing.

  “Go on,” Bonnie managed. “His incredible what?”

  Charlotte felt her face go scarlet. “Anyway, I did try the Internet once, Bonnie.”

  “Really? So how did it go?”

  Charlotte watched Hank and Matt sprint back from the pond to the swing set, Hank edging out her brother with a final push, then laughing loudly in triumph. The girl never let her brother win, and Charlotte had never asked her to. She hoped that was the right approach.

  “Charlotte?”

  Oh, hell. She’d just avoided one pothole by stepping into another.

  “I’ve never signed up for a dating service or anything, but one night, I went into a chat room.” She picked up her coffee cup, happy for the warmth that spread to her hands. “It was about six months after Kurt died. I was feeling sorry for myself. It was a disaster.”

  Bonnie’s eyebrows popped up in a question. “Do tell.”

  “First of all, they’re all psychos or people just as desperate as I am. Pretty slim pickings.”

  “I see.”

  “I started chatting with a man who seemed perfectly normal for the first fifteen minutes. Nice, even. But then—” Bonnie seemed to be hanging on her every word, and as embarrassed as she was, Charlotte supposed there was no harm in sharing this with her best friend—she’d shared everything else. “He said he wanted to… uh…” This was harder than she expected.

  “Ahhh. Cybersex.” Bonnie nodded. “Did you do it?”

  “What? Are you nuts?” Charlotte’s voice was so loud she saw the kids look her way. She waved and smiled at them and they went back to playing. “He told me to go gather a bunch of supplies and come back to the computer.”

  “Supplies?” Bonnie’s laughter sailed on the wind.

  “Office supplies, mostly.” Charlotte dared to look at her friend’s amused face.

  “Oh, dear,” Bonnie said.

  “Paper clips, rubber bands, clothespins, Scotch tape, and an empty beer bottle.”

  “And this would be for—?”

  “You think I stuck around to find out?” Charlotte took a sip of her coffee, which was rapidly losing its heat.

  “And that was your big Internet experience?”

  “That was it.”

  “Huh.” Bonnie frowned, looking out at the rolling hills of the park. Then she sighed. “Look, Charlotte. Just go over there, knock on the man’s door, and introduce yourself. Feign ignorance. Pretend you don’t recognize him. See what happens.”

  Now that was an approach she hadn’t considered. “You think I could pull that off? It sounds like something that would require advanced acting skills.”

  Bonnie thought for a moment, then put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulder. “Well, I can always watch the kids if you want to hit the bars.”

  Joe knew that spending most of the day spying on Charlotte Tasker and her family was the last thing in the world he should be doing, but he couldn’t stop himself. He was damn bored. He was dying of curiosity. Hell—he was just plain dying.

  He’d spent the morning packing up his belongings, and everything was back in cardboard boxes except for a couple changes of clothes and the punching bags and computer, his main sources of amusement. He’d called Roger at home last night, only to be told to be patient again, that they were looking for somewhere else safe to move him. Patience, however, had never been Joe’s strong suit. He was ready to leave. Now. Ready to get out of this town, this neighborhood. Ready to say good-bye to Charlotte Tasker before he broke down and said hello.

  The woman was busy; that much he could say for her. Even on a Saturday, she seemed to be in perpetual motion. She was out pulling weeds by seven that morning, wearing what he noticed was a rather appealing pair of old jeans with holes in the knees. With just the right light, he could see a peek of adorable pink flesh under the shredded denim.

  Then, about two hours later, her big oaf of a dog—who looked like some canine genetic experiment gone wrong—wandered out of the yard. Joe watched with a mixture of amusement and pity as she and her kids walked up and down the sidewalk yelling for the dog, eventually getting in the minivan and cruising the streets, calling out what sounded like, “Hoover!”

  Bizarre name for a dog, if you asked him.

  As luck would have it, Hoover suddenly appeared right on the sidewalk in front of Joe’s own house, and he couldn’t help but laugh watching how Charlotte lured the beast to the minivan.

  She held a mostly melted vanilla ice-cream cone out the open door, continually cooing the phrase, “Creamy Whip, Hoover! Creamy Whip!”

  The dog trotted merrily to the van, hopped inside, and devoured the cone before the kids could even get the side door shut.

  The Taskers weren’t home more than ten minutes before they all piled into the car again—this time with Charlotte’s neighbor Bonnie Preston, the pleasant-looking older woman he’d seen with Charlotte that first day. According to the files Roger had sent him, Bonnie was a retired high school art teacher married to the town’s former police chief, a guy named Ned Preston. The files said Preston was a former marine MP with two tours in Nam to his credit. Joe had yet to lay eyes on the fellow.

  While the Taskers were out, Joe did about an hour and a half on the bags, made himself a roast beef on rye, watched something on Nickelodeon called SpongeBob SquarePants—which turned out to be damned funny, actually—then took a nap. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken a nap. Maybe he’d never taken a nap. Maybe this marked the beginning of the end for him, a sign that it was only a matter of time before he could be found asleep in the Lay-Z-Boy like his dad, a thin line of spittle escaping out of the corner of his mouth, the evening newspaper ruffling in the wake of his snores.

  Thank God the Taskers returned home about two, looking windblown and chilly. At least resuming his stakeout would get his mind off whether he was morphing into his father. Just because he might retire from casework didn’t mean his life was over. Hell, he wasn’t even forty!

  Joe brought his desk chair to the upstairs window and used his government-issue, top-of-the-line Bushnell binoculars to watch Charlotte and the kids pull more weeds. The boy did wheelbarrow duty, hauling loads to a pile behind the shed right on the property line, which gave Joe got his first close look at the kid. He was thin and serious, with intelligent gray eyes. He had straight brown hair cut close to his head, except for a little tuft that stood straight up over his forehead, like he’d just stuck his finger in a light socket. Seemed the kid never met a tube of hair gel he didn’t like.

  A little later, Joe moved to the downstairs living room window to watch Charlotte toss baseballs with the kids and marveled at the arm that little girl had—she could smoke ‘em! Then Matt pitched to his sister, and she’d smacked the stitching off the ball, sending it flying out into the street.

  The highlight of the day came late in the afternoon, when a man came to the Taskers’ front door. He was a balding blond guy with a bit of a paunch and a loud, everyone-look-at-me voice. Charlotte didn’t invite him in. She didn’t hide the fact that she wasn’t thrilled with his visit. She stayed stiff, her arms crossed in front of her, shaking her head. Joe watched the man continue to smile at her to no avail.

  It was then that Joe had to fight the instinct to march over there and toss the guy into the street. He laughed at himself—exactly when had he signed up to be Charlotte Tasker’s bodyguard?

  He couldn’t leave this town soon enough.

  But he watched Charlotte
send the guy packing without anyone’s help. Good for her. She had good instincts. It was plain to see that doofus didn’t deserve her.

  But now it was nearly dark, and Joe knew it was time to put away the binoculars and head home. He’d done enough surveillance for one day. Besides, he’d managed to slip under the radar of the dog sleeping on a rug just inside the double doors and figured he shouldn’t press his luck.

  Joe made one last sweep. From his vantage point behind the Taskers’ pine trees he had a good view into what was probably the family room, which opened into a big kitchen. Plaid furniture was arranged around a fireplace and entertainment center and the room looked lived in—kids’ backpacks hanging on the doorknobs, art projects taped up on the cabinets, dog toys and sneakers on the rug.

  Charlotte moved into range. Then the kids. Then the little family of three was sitting at the round oak kitchen table. They made a cozy picture, illuminated by the hanging lamp as they bowed their heads and said grace.

  He watched them eat some kind of rice casserole and a fruit salad. He could see them laughing but caught only the barest hint of their voices from inside the house. He longed to hear every word, but that would require either a dinner invitation or a wiretap. Equally ridiculous ideas.

  Joe lowered the binoculars and stretched. Oh, well. He was as good as gone, and he’d be content with taking this mental picture with him: Charlotte in those battered jeans, her silky pale red hair pulled back in a ponytail, laughing as she ate dinner with her kids, perfectly capable and perfectly happy without him.

  Chapter Six

  Charlotte had been in a love-hate relationship with Billy Banks for about four months now.

  Sure, she loved the way he made her feel: sleek and empowered and primed to kick some serious ass if the need should ever arise. And for a woman alone, that was a handy skill to have.

  But she hated the kickboxing tycoon for the way he made her abdominal muscles scream in agony, her thighs burn, and her lungs heave in her chest.

  “Get ripped!” he yelled at her from the TV screen, his dark, chiseled body shining with sweat.

  “Go rip yourself,” Charlotte muttered, trying to follow the complicated routine of kicks and punches.

  “Roundhouse, step, step, right jab, roundhouse!”

  She was hitting her zone. Entering that place where the endorphins beat down the pain. Her body was humming. Her mind was focused. But then he had to go and change everything.

  “Speedbag!”

  Charlotte imitated her video classmates, adjusting her weight evenly, knees slightly bent. She began to spin her fists in tight circles in front of her face in an imaginary attack of a punching bag, and as the seconds ticked by, her arms ached, ached, until they turned to pillars of lead. “Change direction!”

  She could just barely hear the phone ringing over Billy’s drill sergeant commands and the pounding of her own heart. She jogged to the kitchen cordless phone, keeping her fists flying high in front of her eyes until the last possible second.

  She grabbed the phone with a sweaty hand. “Hell… oh!”

  “Ah. Tae Bo time.”

  She could hear the amusement in Ned’s voice and it made her smile. “Sure is. Hold a sec. Let me catch… my… breath.”

  “Listen, I hate to bother you so late—”

  She glanced up at the kitchen clock to see it was 9:30.

  “—but Hoover’s out in the cul-de-sac again. I saw him in the Noonans’ yard a few minutes ago and then all the way over at the Rickmans’.”

  “Oh, hell.” Charlotte leaned forward at the waist and drew in air slowly and deeply, shaking her head. Obviously, the seven-hundred-dollar electric dog fence had been a colossal waste of money. The jolt didn’t even seem to register with Hoover. And the Rickmans and their trigger-happy calls to the home owners’ association were the reason she had to buy the fence in the first place.

  “You know, I swore I turned the juice to maximum on that thing the other day,” Ned said.

  “You did, but it doesn’t… seem to make… a difference.”

  “Well, honey, you’re going to have to get him. I went out with some bologna, but he didn’t fall for it.”

  “Okay, Ned. Thanks.”

  “And I’m not giving that dog one of my perfectly good Nutty Buddies. That’d be a sin.”

  Charlotte laughed, pulling a paper towel off the dispenser and dabbing at her dripping face. Everyone in Hayden Heights knew that Hoover could usually be bribed with an ice-cream cone.

  “No problem, Ned. I’m on my way.”

  “Want me to come over and sit with the kids?”

  “No, thanks.” Charlotte used her left toe to open the trash can lid, tossed the soggy paper towel inside, and pulled on the freezer handle in one continuous movement. She tucked the phone under her chin and pulled out the half gallon of all natural French vanilla, reached into the drawer for the ice-cream scoop, and kicked open the swinging pantry door with her knee, scanning the shelves for the box of cake cones.

  She flipped open the ice-cream lid while reaching for the cones.

  “It’ll just take me a second. The kids are in bed.”

  “Okay, Charlotte. You all doing okay over there?”

  She smiled, feeling safe and well-cared for. She couldn’t have asked for a better friend and neighbor.

  “We’re all doing great. And thanks again for letting me know about Hoov.”

  It took her exactly forty-seven paces at a quick jog to reach Hoover. He was peeing on the meticulously planted circle of purple and yellow pansies around the Rickmans’ carriage light.

  “Hoov, come here, boy!”

  The dog glanced nonchalantly in her direction and continued to water the Rickmans’ flowers. Then, without warning, he took off at a run right past her, ears flying back in streetlight.

  “Hey! I’ve got a Creamy Whip! Get back here!”

  Yes, the spring night was chilly but obviously not as cold as the freezer, because Charlotte looked down to see the ice cream melting all over her hand.

  She had no choice but to run after him.

  Holding the cone like the Olympic Torch, Charlotte took long strides down the sidewalk. At least she was dressed properly for a nighttime run, in her black bike shorts and coordinating black and purple jog bra. At least she’d complete her workout.

  “Hoover!” she called out in a voice loud enough for the stupid dog to hear but soft enough not to startle the neighbors.

  “He’s down at the Connors’ place!”

  “Oh!” She came to a halt, barely making out the figure of Mrs. Watson at the end of her driveway, putting out her matching set of Rubbermaid garbage cans. “Thanks!”

  Charlotte continued on, growing more and more annoyed at the stupid dog, wondering if the kids were okay, hating to be out of the house for even a few minutes.

  “Hoover, you dumb thing!” she whispered, now walking in front of the Connors’. She stopped and looked up. The stone and wood house rose up from the slope of lawn, its tall, slanted windows glowing with light from inside.

  My God—he was in there.

  At that instant, she realized that she hadn’t thought of Joe Mills for at least twenty minutes—which may have been a record for the last couple days. But she sure was thinking of him now—wondering what he wore as he walked around inside that house. Wondering which bedroom he slept in. Wondering on what section of kitchen countertop he’d decided to put his coffeepot.

  She saw a shadow pass in front of a window—and gasped.

  The ice cream was running down to her elbow now. She wondered if that man had even the slightest, tiniest, most minuscule memory of that day on the GW Parkway. Her knees felt wobbly.

  “Hoover! Please, please, please!” She tried to be as quiet as possible. “Come get your damned Creamy Whip!”

  She saw a movement in the boxwoods along the front of the house and sighed with relief. She crept up the grass, holding the now lopsided ice-cream cone out in front of her body.
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  “Hoov?”

  More rustling. She saw the streetlights reflected in a pair of beady dog eyes peering out from the shrubs. Then she felt the first sprinkles and cursed the fact that it had started raining, only to realize that the Connors’ much-envied automatic sprinkler system had just come on.

  “Oh, great.” She was about to call Hoover every nasty curse word she knew when she was suddenly off the ground. Her brain seized in panic and confusion as she saw the grass turn to a blur beneath her useless feet, the ice-cream cone falling from her grip. She was being carried. Someone was running with her….

  She hit the ground with a thud and that’s when she remembered to scream.

  “Oh, hell,” the voice said, just as she was being flipped onto her back. A big hand came down over her mouth. She looked up to see—this couldn’t be right—a gun? Pointing in her face? But it was gone so fast she thought she’d imagined it. And then all she saw was… it was him!

  Her scream made no sound, even as her throat burned with the force of it.

  “Please stay calm,” he said, and she looked up into those black eyes and experienced a sharp plunge into the surreal. His body was fully on top of hers. His hard weight pushed her into the unyielding ground. The water misted over them in a steady spray. He wasn’t wearing a shirt—and she could feel how hot his skin was against her bare midriff. She could feel the wiry hair all over his upper body.

  Charlotte blinked against the water—against the memories rushing into her—and screamed even harder.

  “I apologize for this,” he said.

  Apologize?

  She screamed again, this time trying in vain to open her mouth enough to bite his hand. “I saw somebody in the yard.”

  She attempted to squirm her way out from under him, but her arms and legs were tightly pinned to the grass. She could hardly breathe. He was squishing her.

  In a burst of optimism, she looked around his big body toward the front yard, hoping Hoover would find it in himself to take a chunk out of this idiot’s ass and save her. Instead, she witnessed Hoover lick his chops for the remaining ice cream, then trot merrily away down the sidewalk.