Troubleshooters 05 Into The Night

by Suzanne Brockmann

  "What's up, my brother from another mother?" she asked.

  "I'm really just checking in," he told her. "I've got a little time to kill, too. I guess I just wanted to make sure that Steve was still getting the job done for you."

  "He is," Joan said. "He's been very nice. Not as nice as you, but..." CNN cut to commercials and she was able to drag her eyes away from the screen. "Speaking of nice, do you know there's a rumor going around that you're gay?"

  Muldoon choked. "What? "

  Boy, he actually sounded surprised. She was sure he'd just laugh, sure he'd be aware of the rumors. "Oops. Never mind."

  "Hold on," he said in his commanding officer's voice. "Wait. You can't drop a comment like that and then go never mind. Where did you hear that?"

  "Is it true?" she asked.

  He laughed in disgust. "What do you think?"

  "I think if it's not true, why do you care where I heard it?" she countered.

  "I'd kind of like to know who's spreading rumors about me."

  "What are you going to do, go beat 'em up?" she asked. "Or—I know—hah! Go have heterosexual sex in front of them?" She laughed.

  "Yeah, right," he said. "You are so not funny this time."

  "Oh, but I am. I crack-a myself-a up," she admitted. "I was just picturing..." She laughed harder.

  "What?"

  "I was just picturing..." She couldn't stop laughing.

  "What?"

  "We were looking for a really flashy way to kick off the President's appearance next week, thinking about some kind of SEAL demonstration, and John Grotto, he's a major player in the White House communications office, he kept saying, 'We want to do something unusual. Something that's never been done before.' Quick, let me send an email to John suggesting ... Wow, it puts a new spin on the idea of a demonstration, doesn't it?"

  He laughed, and she could almost see him roll his eyes. "I'm so very glad I amuse you."

  "Don't take it personally. It's really just... Sex is really very funny, don't you think?"

  "Funny isn't the word that comes to my mind—

  "No," Joan said, trying her best not to start laughing again. "I know. You're right. When it's just two people and there's passion and maybe even real, honest love and the room is dimly lit—very dimly lit—then it can be pretty serious. But public sex? No, thank you. No way. It's just not... I mean, have you ever watched a porno flick?"

  "Urn..."

  "Of course you have. Everyone's seen at least one and probably only one because, let's face it, you watch one and you never want to have sex again, let alone ever watch another porno movie. It's not sexy at all. It's hideous. At best, it's funny—laughably funny. There's lots of odd positions with strangely placed and therefore freakish-looking naked body parts. And there's grunting and all kinds of strange and very unsexy noises and... Have you ever watched yourself have sex?"

  "Uh..."

  "Well, no. Bad example," Joan said. "Because look at you. You probably don't have a bad side. You probably look terrific from all angles. But I had a very intense relationship in college with a guy who liked mirrors and I swear to God, I had to keep my eyes closed or I wouldn't be able to stop laughing. I was like, 'God! What the hell is that?' "

  Muldoon was laughing. "I think laughter is an important part of sex."

  "Laughter, yes," she said. "But mirrors, cameras, or twenty thousand people watching from the bleachers—no, thank you. Kind of ruins the moment for me."

  "Ruins the moment," he repeated. "I think most women have very definite ideas about what sex should or should not be. I mean, without a preconceived notion of exactly what the moment should be, it can't be ruined, right?"

  "I can't decide whether to flambé you for being sexist or admit that you're on to something there, considering that most men are idiots and will do it anywhere, anytime, and with anyone."

  "Nah, that's not true," Muldoon countered. "At least not the anyone part."

  "Yeah, some guys draw the line at elderly women. But everyone else in a skirt is fair game." The running headlines were back on CNN, but they were all repeats.

  "You know that's not true."

  "Oh, excuse me," Joan said. "For some men, married women are on the untouchable list, too."

  "Ms. Funny strikes again," he said. "Maybe you're right. Maybe men err on the side of being open to far more possibilities, but women ... It's been my experience that most women have their fantasies practically scripted. This has got to happen, and then this, and then that, and the list goes on and on and on. As a guy, you need to play the game—and God help you if you accidentally throw in a little unwanted improve. But after a while, you learn your cues. It gets so you know exactly what they want to hear and when they want to hear it."

  "If I'm Ms. Funny, you're Mr. Jaded."

  "Maybe." He paused. "So tell me this—what is Brooke Bryant going to want to hear?"

  Joan stopped watching the headlines. "Are you serious?"

  There was another pause and then he said, "Yeah."

  "You honestly want to start something... like that... with Brooke?"

  "I like her," Muldoon said. "She writes a mean email. She comes across as smart and funny and, well, you know. Hot."

  Oh, shit. Joan sat up. "Hot," she repeated. "You think that she's hot from the way she writes email?'

  "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you know, I do."

  Joan closed her eyes. She wrote that email. All of it. All seven of them.

  In the past twenty-four hours, she and Muldoon had exchanged seven different emails. God. What had she been thinking?

  She'd forwarded Mike's first email to Brooke, who'd sent a reply directly to Joan.

  What are you doing, sending this to me? Brooke wrote. She sounded brittle. Extremely stressed. Who is this guy? I don't have time for this right now. Handle this, Joan, please. Write something back to him and say it's from me. In fact, send it from my official White House screen name. You know my password. I never have time to check that address anyway. Just deal with him!

  "Look," Muldoon said. "She wrote me some really great email, and I really like her, and, well, I don't want to blow it."

  "Wow. Well, okay." God, was she really jealous? She was. Which was stupid, since this was what she wanted, wasn't it?

  "So how do I do it? How do I make sure she'll agree to see me again? I mean, I'm pretty sure that she thinks of me as being too young or—"

  "Well, you are," Joan interrupted. "She's forty; you're twelve!"

  "Twenty-five."

  "I know," she said. "I was just being—"

  "Narrow-minded," he said.

  That stopped her cold. "You think I'm—"

  "Yes," he said. "I do."

  "She's old enough to be your—"

  "Lover," he said. "We've exchanged lots of great email in a very short amount of time, Joan. I'm pretty sure she likes me, too. You know, she's really a great writer and a great person and... I need you to help me here."

  Joan stood up and walked across the room to the window, with its view of the Pacific Ocean. He thought she was a great writer. "How?"

  "I'm not sure," he said. "See, I've never done this before. I've never, you know..."

  "No," she said. "I don't know. Spit it out, Muldoon."

  "The number of times I've asked a woman out are in the single digits," he said. "I just... I've never had to, you know..."

  "No," Joan said again, more irate than she had the right to be. "I don't know. For God's sake—"

  "Women come to me," Muldoon told her. "If I want to be with a woman, I go someplace where women hang out—a bar, a party, an aerobics class, the grocery store produce section..."

  "Oh, my God," she said. "You're really not kidding, are you?"

  "No," he said. "Women approach me. All the time. I basically just say yes or no. I mean, obviously it's not as blatant as that. There's a whole game to it—or maybe dance would be a better way to describe it—but..."

  "Well." Joan leaned her forehead against t
he coolness of the glass. This was crazy. What was she supposed to say to him to help him snare Brooke Bryant? "It sounds like you've had a lot of experience from the pursuer's perspective. What makes you say yes?"

  He was silent.

  "Other than the size of her breasts?" she added tartly.

  "I don't know," he said. "I guess I say yes when she looks me in the eye and doesn't pretend it's going to be anything more than what it's actually going to be."

  "So make sure you look Brooke in the eye," Joan said. God, she couldn't believe she was doing this. "You know, Mike, she's got a lot of issues, a lot of luggage. I'm not sure you really understand—"

  "I look her in the eye and say... what?" he asked.

  "God, I don't know. 'Wanna do me, baby?' "

  "Hey, I'm being serious here. Help me out," he said. "Tell me—I don't know—is there some kind of line or approach that gets you every time? Something you can't turn down?"

  "Honesty," she told him. "Kind of the same as you, you know? With the not-pretending thing. No lines. No bull. I like men who can hold my gaze and tell me that they like me— and mean it. Kissing works, too," she admitted.

  "Kissing."

  "Yeah, I'm not talking 'let me see how far down your throat I can stick my tongue.' I'm talking artful kisses. Persuasive, persistent kisses. Sweet kisses. There's a message being sent there—a very subtle message that says, 'This is not just about me getting off. This is about your pleasure, too. And see how good I am at that?' "

  "Hmmm," he said. "Yeah, that's... good to know."

  "It's a positive message to send to a woman. Of course, you could be less subtle and throw yourself on your knees before her, proclaim her your goddess, and beg to be her personal slave. That one gets me every single time."

  He laughed.

  "Michael, it's entirely possible Brooke was just messing around with that email. I've heard some stuff recently— rumors—that make me think she might be involved with someone right now."

  "Yeah," he said. "And we all know how true most rumors turn out to be. Hey, whoops, I've gotta go. Thanks for talking, Joan."

  "Mike," Joan said, knowing that she had to tell him the truth about who wrote all that email, but he was already gone.

  "I'm so sorry I'm late." With Haley tightly secured on one hip, Mary Lou pulled a stray strand of hair out of her mouth and back from her face as she tried her best to smile.

  Bob Schwegel, Insurance Sales, held his own against the embellishments several days of imagination had added to her memory of the man.

  His blond hair gleamed in the sunshine, his chin was smoothly shaved, and his shirt was crisply white—obviously freshly laundered beneath his well-tailored business suit.

  Mercy! Not only did he hold his own, he knocked that memory clear out of the park because he smelled so damn good.

  "No problem. I always have plenty of files to read. Besides, you're doing me the favor, right?"

  Mary Lou wondered if the makeup she'd bothered to put on this morning had already run down her face from the marathon she'd just raced—thanks to Haley's waiting to poop until they were out the door and halfway in the car seat and already five minutes late.

  He smiled, his perfect teeth gleamingly white against his perfect tan. "You ladies look particularly lovely today."

  He was still slinging the BS with an elephant-sized shovel, same as he had when they'd met at the library. Haley was mottled from crying, her eyes red and her entire face runny, and Mary Lou... Well, God only knew what she looked like now.

  "Hi, Haley," he said directly to the baby. "How are you today? A little grouchy, huh, kid?"

  He saw that Mary Lou was juggling her car keys and her purse, and he reached over and plucked Haley from her arms, snot and all.

  "Don't let her get your—

  "I've got it." And he did. He was actually carrying a handkerchief in his pocket and he whipped it out and expertly wiped Haley's face and nose.

  Mary Lou put away her keys and pulled the straps of her purse up onto her shoulder. "I didn't think men knew how to do that," she said, as she reached for Haley, who was starting to come out of the shock of being held by a strange man and beginning to look as if more tears were imminent.

  "Back to your mommy," Bob said, smiling at Mary Lou and slipping the handkerchief into his jacket pocket.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "My pleasure." His eyes actually twinkled as he gazed down at her.

  After picking up Haley from Mrs. Ustenski's, Mary Lou had come home from the AA meeting last night to find a message from Bob on the answering machine.

  "Mrs. Starrett, this is Bob Schwegel from Medway Insurance," he'd said. "We met at the library a few days ago. I helped you carry your books out to your car? Forgive me for calling you like this, but I think I might've left my book with yours."

  He'd left his number.

  Mary Lou wrote it down and was about to erase the message on the machine because what would Sam think? But on second thought, she left it there. Let him think whatever he wanted to think. Of course, that was assuming he ever thought of her at all.

  She'd called Bob back this morning to tell him that his book wasn't in her pile. In fact, she'd already returned most of those books to the library.

  He'd asked her, please, if she didn't mind too much, to check in her car. Maybe it had slid underneath the seat. Unfortunately, it was a forty-five-dollar book...

  But Mary Lou couldn't check. Her car was in the body shop.

  That was when they'd made plans to meet here.

  Mary Lou led the way into the cluttered shop office, where a biker type looked up from a stack of grease-smudged papers.

  "Hi," Mary Lou said. "My husband brought my car in for a repair to the trunk, but I need to see if I maybe left something in it..."

  "Starrett, right?" the biker said, glancing from Mary Lou to Haley to Bob and back. "That's done. We replaced the entire trunk lid." He rolled in his office chair to a rack on the back wall and plucked a set of keys from among dozens hanging there, then rolled back. "Our key machine's down, so there's only one key to the trunk. You might want to get that copied." He handed the ring to Mary Lou. "It's in the back lot. Row D."

  "But... my husband's away. I have no way of getting the car home right now," she told the man.

  "Sure you do," Bob said. "You drive the truck home, I'll follow, and then I'll drive you back here for your car."

  "I can't ask you to do that," Mary Lou said, letting Haley hold the keys but keeping her from chewing on them.

  "You can leave it here for as long as you like," biker man said.

  "Thank you," she told him as she followed Bob out of the office.

  "Say in to Sam for me," the biker added. "Tell him I said we're even."

  "I will," she said.

  "I really don't mind helping you out," Bob told her as they headed past rows B and C.

  She shifted Haley to her other hip. "I hate to break it to you, Mr. Schwegel, but my husband's a Navy SEAL. Believe me, we've got our insurance needs handled."

  Bob laughed. "You think this is about me selling you insurance?"

  "Isn't it?"

  "No. It's just me doing you a favor after you did a favor for me. Very innocent. Just two people being friendly. No ulterior motives. And the name's Bob."

  And there was her car. "Oh, drat!" With a new maroon truck lid that was a dark contrast to the light blue body. There was no doubt about it any longer. She drove a white-trash-mobile. She wanted to cry.

  "Hey, it just needs a paint job," Bob said, touching her lightly on the arm. "It'll look great—you can have the whole thing done in maroon. It'll be almost like having a new car."

  "Yeah, sure," she said unenthusiastically. The paint job would never happen. She'd make some calls, get some estimates, and be stunned at how expensive it would be. Sam would tell her to go ahead and spend the money, but she'd be unable to. She'd spent too many years with her mother and then Janine, counting nickels and dimes, to b
e able to spend any money at all on something that foolish.

  It ran, didn't it? It got her and Haley where they had to go. That's what really mattered.

  Still, the crappy way it looked depressed the hell out of her.

  Mary Lou unlocked the passenger's-side door and stepped back to let Bob look for his book.

  With a triumphant "Aha!" he pulled it out from underneath the seat. "Thank you," he said, "so much."

  "You're welcome," she said, trying out the key on the trunk. It popped open.

  He took the keys from her. "Here's what we'll do. You take the truck, I'll drive this car home, then you can drive me back here to get my car. That way you don't have to move the car seat out of the truck. Smart, right?"

  "Oh," she said. "I'm sure you don't have time to—"

  "My next appointment's not until two-thirty," he said. "Not only do I have time to help you get your car home, but I have time to stop for lunch, too, preferably with a little company for a change." He opened the driver's-side door and slid in behind the wheel. "I'm not going to take no for an answer to either suggestion."

  Bob started her car with a roar and, bemused, Mary Lou started backing away.

  He made an impatient face at her through the windshield, motioning her to move faster with his hand, and laughing, she turned.

  She could feel him watching her as she walked to Sam's truck, and when she glanced back at him, she caught a definite glint of admiration in his eyes.

  Sam probably wouldn't like the idea of her having lunch with a relative stranger. He was always full of warnings— don't do this, don't do that.

  But right about now, with a handsome man checking her out for the first time in a long time, Mary Lou didn't give a good goddamn.

  "I've always loved your house," Joan said as she helped clear the table after lunch.

  Charlotte looked up at her granddaughter, who laughed and held up a hand.

  "I know," Joan said. "You don't need to say anything. I remember the hissy fit I threw when you moved here, too. What was I? Eight years old?"

  "Seven," Charlie told her as she put the leftover chicken salad into a bowl. "And it wasn't a hissy fit. It was more of a tragic pout. Deep sighs and big, sad eyes. Very melodramatic. It was all Gramps could do to keep from laughing whenever you came over."