by Judy Baer
Ken often says I’m a little on the scrawny side for his taste, “like a half-grown chicken, half down and half feathers.”
Translation: There’s not enough meat on my bones and I’m mostly squawk and noise.
I surely do attract romantic men.
The coffee shop was busy but it felt good to be away from my apartment and distracted from the doldrums I’d been steeped in there. Ken didn’t hurt my mood either. He was as solicitous as I’ve ever seen him, bringing me candy-coated spoons to stir my coffee, chocolate-covered coffee beans and a tin of after-coffee mints. He loped to the counter for refills on both lattes and coffee cake and hovered over me as if I was a delicate flower. I hadn’t known he had it in him.
“Settle down,” I said finally. “I’m disappointed, not dying.”
“I’d love to get my hands on this guy.” He clenched and unclenched his fists menacingly. Then he blinked slowly and a guarded expression settled on his features. “Is there anything else I should know about this fellow?”
Like, was I in love with him?
Ken’s no dummy, but there was no use confessing to an unreciprocated infatuation.
“He’s just a guy that I thought was a friend and neighbor. I’m apparently not as good a judge of character as I thought. I’m going to be fine, Ken. And you know perfectly well that I do not want you punching anybody. Exodus 21:12.”
Anyone who hits a man so hard that he dies shall surely be put to death.
“I’m not going to kill the guy, you know!”
I had to smile. Ken, at least, has begun to catch on to our family’s abridged form of speech. He’s a quiet Christian, on a journey of his own. Relatively new to faith in Christ, he’s always listening, sorting out what he calls “the God stuff.” He’s fascinated by our family’s biblical shorthand and it made me smile that, even though he doesn’t speak it, it was a language he’s learned to understand.
“Well, I don’t want you to talk that way. I have to take some responsibility, too. I should have been more careful.”
Careful about falling in love. What an odd concept. Who plans to fall in love? No one ever says, “I’m going to fall in love today. I have time to fall in love with the guy at the coffee shop if it doesn’t take more than an hour.”
“Okay, I’m here for you, babe. Whatever you want.”
I felt a stirring of appreciation and affection within me. In a pinch, Ken is really coming through. Maybe I’d underestimated him.
“My friend Cricket is having some people over for a cookout. Want to go?” I wiggled my toes as we sat on benches in the art gallery looking at a piece of important contemporary art Ken had dubbed “worm tracks.” I was happy to be out of my shoes for the first time since we’d left my place this morning.
We’d been to the sculpture garden, the zoo and the Science Museum, and it was still only four o’clock in the afternoon. Ken is an efficient sightseer. He scans the place, heads for what interests him and moves on. He took his time in the zoo but managed the sculpture garden in just a few minutes.
“What kind of name is Cricket?”
“A rich one. She’s one of those who won the lottery.”
Ken shrugged. “May as well go, unless there’s somewhere else you’d rather eat.”
At least, I realized, I felt like eating again.
Cricket’s house is a tribute to all things feminine, from the soft pastel colors of the stucco to the over-abundance of potted flowers scattered everywhere. Her first purchase since the lottery, the house has been like a big playhouse for Cricket, who’s been buying, moving, returning, buying furniture again and again. I could tell from the way Ken whistled under his breath that he approved of the soundness of the structure, if not the soft pink and pale turquoise exterior.
Cricket came to the door in a grass skirt and wearing leis around her neck. I could hear hula music and laughter in the background. “You came!” She flung her arms around me and gave me a hug. In my ear she whispered, “Stella told me what happened.”
Then her gaze shifted to Ken. “But you seem to have recovered nicely. Where do you find these hunky men?”
I looked over at Ken, who was studying an appetizer platter. He picked up a skewer of teriyaki chicken and pineapple before turning to beam that devastatingly charming grin of his at me.
Cricket put her hand to her chest. “Be still, my heart,” she murmured as she drifted off, grass skirt rustling.
All my money mates—what else can I call them?—were present except for Bob. Bob is avoiding the public for the time being. Probably a wise decision.
Thelma was sitting by the pool in a wheelchair, her leg in a cast.
I introduced her to Ken and asked, “What happened to you?”
Thelma used the cane in her lap to tap her cast. “Just the craziest thing, I tell you. I was on my way to the basement to pack boxes for the Veterans of Foreign Wars pickup, and a step gave way. Whoosh. Just like that, a broken leg.”
“Sorry about that,” Ken said solicitously.
Thelma beamed at him. “It’s fine. Frankly, I believe I’m fortunate not to have been hurt more seriously.” She tapped her cast again. “Yes, sir, this has been my lucky day.”
“It’s all in the perspective, isn’t it?” Ken commented as we moved away from Thelma. “Whether we’re lucky or not, I mean.”
I felt a spot melting in my heart. I’d never given him credit for being introspective—shame on me. “What’s your take on things, Ken?”
He stopped and turned to look me full in the face. “That no matter what, I’m very lucky to know you, Cassia. You are—” he grinned “—a ‘treasure beyond measure’ to me.”
“Ken, you’re a poet!” I grabbed his hands and we both laughed.
And I didn’t want to let go. Obviously neither did Ken. We walked hand in hand to the big spit, where someone Cricket had hired was cooking pork roasts.
It wasn’t as if Ken and I hadn’t dated or held hands or laughed together over private jokes before, but this time it was different. This time I really wanted it to happen again—soon.
Ego Ed was less talkative than usual. He had an expensive toupee on his head and a sad expression on his face. While Ken was whacking his way to a croquet victory on the lawn, I sat down by Ed near the pool.
“You’re quiet today.”
“Just haven’t got much to say.”
“Cricket told me your daughter is getting married soon. Congratulations. You’ll be a proud father walking her down the aisle.”
To my surprise, Ed gave a rather ungentlemanly snort. “Hah! Wedding’s been called off.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…”
“It’s okay. It might feel good to talk about it.” He eyed me speculatively. “I’ve always thought you were easy to talk to, nonjudgmental. You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
“Well, my daughter really loved this guy—and she thought he loved her. Then I won the lottery. They were looking at a house to buy, something with a nice yard and a couple extra bedrooms for the kids they were planning to have…then all of a sudden he started driving her by these big fancy homes, saying he liked this one or that. He decided it would be ‘cool’ to live next to a big athlete and tried to find out where members of the Twins and the Timberwolves live.” Ed scowled. “All this on a truck driver’s salary! And he decided he wanted his wedding ring to have a diamond in it. A carat’s worth of diamond.”
Uh-oh…
“Next thing my daughter knew, she was getting bills for things she hadn’t purchased—a designer tux, plane tickets to Rome, a Bentley…. When she confronted him, he told her he wanted to give her the best—and, oh, yes, could she write checks for the bills before the tenth of the month, please?”
Ed scraped his fingers through his hair, and I could feel his frustration. “I don’t care if people want to beg or borrow money from me. I can handle myself. But my daughter…” He looked up and I saw raw pain in his eyes. “She
dumped him, of course, and we’ve been dealing with the fallout ever since. She cries and won’t eat, he calls a hundred times a day—what a mess! I can’t believe I’m saying this, but sometimes I wonder if we wouldn’t be better off without all that money. A million would be okay, but this…”
Ken and I talked about Ed’s words as we drove back to my place.
“That party was proof money doesn’t buy happiness,” Ken commented as he turned sharply, taking a C.O.D. on the street that led to my house.
Ken is the one who taught me what a C.O.D. is. It’s executed by turning a corner so sharply that if the passenger isn’t buckled in tightly, he or she slides right up to the driver. He calls it a Come Over Darling and says it was much more effective before everyone got so seat belt conscious.
“There wasn’t a lot of laughing going on.”
“Parties in Simms are different,” I pointed out. “Everyone knows everyone else very well.”
“If these people don’t know each other all that well, then why are they hanging out together?”
“We have a lot in common these days.”
He looked at me pityingly. “You have to do what I do, darling—make sure people forget you’re rich and just love you for your charming personality.”
I didn’t expect to feel down when Ken left, but I did. I’d seen a new side of him, the tender, funny, compassionate side. And when he departed for Simms, I had tears in my eyes.
CHAPTER 25
I’m a sick, sick woman. I must be. I keep pouring salt into my own wounds.
I stayed off the Internet for three days after Ken left, telling myself that it didn’t matter what Adam did for a living, that I knew far too much about him already. I also told myself that there was nothing but relief in my heart that his slimy charade was exposed before things went any further. Why, I asked myself sensibly, would I yearn for a charlatan who had come so close to breaking my heart?
I’m also a liar.
“Had come close” to breaking my heart?
Adam Cavanaugh did break it. I can imagine it fragile and shattered and lying in bits, resting all over my insides, shards poking at my gall bladder and into my appendix, chunks wedged in my stomach, all making me ill.
Okay, okay, so I’m not a doctor. But I still have a constant stomachache that flares up every time something reminds me of Adam. Unfortunately, everything reminds me of Adam.
Even Winslow strikes a painful chord in me. He insists on sitting by the front door, waiting for Adam to arrive. And of course, Adam never does. Sometimes Winslow whines, lies down and buries his head in his paws as though he’s crying. That, naturally, makes me feel like crying, too.
Snap out of it, you silly goose!
I also have selective hearing. I’ve quit listening to my own good advice.
I looked up Adam on the Web and scrolled down the page, amazed at the number of hits that came up on him.
“Cavanaugh Nominated For Second Pulitzer, This One On Children And War In Iraq. Cavanaugh Series Concerning Fatherhood And Federal Inmates Sparks National Interest. Balanced And Accurate Reporting Are Adam Cavanaugh’s Forte.” And there was a list of awards won by Adam spanning university faculty awards to national recognition for journalism, research and reporting, excellence and even ethics.
I did a double take at that one.
He’d written a significant piece on fetal alcohol syndrome and a dramatic exposé about corruption in countries where governments were allowing food shipments to rot at docks without distributing them. His compelling series of interviews of federal penitentiary inmates who were separated from and unable to parent their children had sparked new investigation into the topic.
Mesmerized, I kept digging until I came up with some of the articles Adam had written. Several were about children.
A knock on the door snapped me back to the present, and I felt heaviness wrapped around me like a cloak. Adam could breathe life into his subjects with his words, so that it was virtually impossible not to care about what happened to them. Unfortunately, for many of those he followed up on later there were no happy endings.
Winslow was on his feet and waiting for me to open the door in the vain, misguided hope that Adam was on the other side. I peered out the peephole and a black-eyed Susan stared back. More flowers? I opened the door.
“Hi, Cassia.” The delivery guy thrust a giant bouquet into my hands and grinned. “Run out of space yet?”
It’s pretty remarkable that the floral delivery man and I are on first-name terms, but he’s visited here more in the past couple days than my own sister.
“Not yet. There’s room for a couple more floral arrangements in the bathtub. And if you start bringing bamboo, I can probably keep it in my closet.” I lowered my voice. “If he calls to order any more, just take them to the nursing homes, will you?”
“No can do. They come to you. But it’s a great idea. Do you have room in your own car to transport them?”
I rolled my eyes. My car was another whole issue. “I’ll work it out. Thanks.”
Mr. Bouquet stared at me, shaking his head. “I don’t know what you did to deserve this, but with the exception of churches, banquet halls and hotels, I’ve delivered more flowers to you than to any other home address this week, and it’s only Wednesday.”
“Just lucky, I guess.” I smiled brightly and shut the door.
This has to stop. My apartment is full. Ken has been sending flowers, candy and even singing telegrams. If I’d had to pick a favorite, it would have been the three-hundred-pound guy in the Fred Flintstone outfit singing a rather good imitation of Elvis’s “Love Me Tender.”
Ken has found his niche—taking care of me, protecting me, fighting for me, lavishing me with gifts and doing his best to be my superhero. Adam’s duplicity has paved the way for Ken to leap a tall building or two and come to my rescue. He’s good at it. On the other hand, twelve or fifteen bouquets of flowers would have been plenty.
I put the black-eyed Susans and company into the bathtub, grabbed a granola bar from the counter and went back to the computer to print out Adam’s articles. When I was finished, I spread them out on the coffee table in front of my couch to study them.
Now I know more about Adam than I had in all the time we’d lived in neighboring apartments. Much of what I’ve learned doesn’t jive, however, with his crass treatment of my privacy. In articles about him, words like moral, principled and fair cropped up over and over, as did impartial, unbiased, unprejudiced and objective. “Cavanaugh goes for the gut and grabs the heart,” one article said. Another proclaimed, “If it’s about children and it’s by journalist Adam Cavanaugh, it’s a must-read.”
I sat back and stared at Winslow, who was studying the papers as intently as I, hoping I’d drop food crumbs onto the articles. Children and animals, I realized. There was something in Adam that seemed to connect with the vulnerable, the defenseless and the unlovely. Pepto was proof of that.
Articles that didn’t refer to children in some way or another were few and far between. Sure, he’d covered war, famine, corruption and vice, but the single underlying theme was always children and how they were affected by the nonsensical world of the adults around them.
But if he’s so noble and trustworthy, why did he betray me?
It’s the question I can’t answer. It is also the question that has ripped my heart in two.
I must have fallen asleep on the couch, because when I awoke I was sprawled across the pillows. Winslow had taken up guard duty and was stretched on the floor in front of the couch like a large, lumpy rug. I haven’t been sleeping much, so I suppose I should have been glad for the rest, but my entire body felt as though it had been sent through a juicer. I groaned and tested the foot that had fallen asleep beneath me. It felt as though it was being stabbed with hundreds of needles and pins, and it hurt to wiggle my toes.
I didn’t have long to cosset myself, however, because someone started banging on my door.
“What is
this, Grand Central Station?” I addressed no one in particular as I hobbled to the door. It was my landlord.
“Hi, there,” I greeted him. He was holding a white envelope in his hand. “Do you have something for me, or is it rent time already?”
“Mr. Cavanaugh downstairs asked me to give this to you after he left.” He thrust the letter into my hands and stomped off.
“Wait! When did he leave?”
“Just a minute ago. He said I was to wait to give it to you, but I haven’t got time for such nonsense. The plumbing is backed up in apartment twelve.”
I spun and ran back into my apartment, across the floor and skidded to a stop in front of my living-room window. I could see Adam loading his laptop carrying case into his Hummer. He slammed the door, rolled his shoulders as if to release tension and glanced upward in the direction of my apartment.
Instinctively I stepped back. He didn’t see me. Then he rounded the vehicle, swung into the driver’s seat and drove away.
I looked after him, glad he was leaving and devastated that he was gone. Slowly I opened his letter.
Cassia,
I know you’ve been hiding out in your apartment. I can hear you cleaning your place at all hours of the night. Just wanted you to know that I’m leaving on assignment and that you can come out now.
I’m so sorry about everything.
Adam
That was it? No explanation? No nothing? And how did he know I was cleaning, anyway?
“Jane? It’s Cassia. I have a question for you.”
“Shoot.”
I could hear the clatter of Jane’s calculator in the background. Jane is always multitasking. She knits when she visits with her husband, pays bills while watching TV and either adds numbers or plays solitaire on the computer when she’s talking to me.
“I need to know how much interest I’ve earned on the lottery money.” It’s been over two and a half months now and probably time to ask.
There was a stunned silence at the other end of the line. “You? Interest? Like you might spend some of it?”