“Yeah. I always start work at five-thirty. That way I’m done by three. Construction hours.”
Two hours later Mark was repairing the bedroom ceiling and had hired a subcontractor to do the roof.
Kate dropped a gray sweatshirt over her damp hair, pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans, and slid her feet into Docksiders. In lieu of a brushing, she ran her fingers through her hair. She was off schedule. It was seven-thirty, and she still hadn’t practiced. At least she’d had her shower. She strapped on her watch and ran next door.
Dave answered with a coffee cup in his hand.
“ ’Morning. I left my cello here, and—” The aroma of freshly brewed coffee rushed out at her, almost making her knees buckle. She licked her lips and hoped her nostrils weren’t flaring. “And, um, I need to practice.”
“Don’t you ever get tired of practicing?”
Her eyes widened. Get tired of practicing? What a bizarre thought. “Of course not.”
He sipped his coffee, studying her over the rim of his cup, and she found herself bristling under his scrutiny. So what if she got tired of practicing sometimes. It was her job. At least she had a job. At least she had goals. She glared at him, getting more furious by the minute, wondering why she felt so provoked. He’d asked her a simple question in a conversational tone, and she was ready to punch him in the nose. Coffee fumes, she decided; they were making her crazy.
Once she had a cup of coffee she’d feel much better. She didn’t mind that he’d slung a red flannel shirt on his shoulders, but he still hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. She didn’t mind that he spent the entire morning reading the Post funnies while she barely had time to glance at the front page.
He put his hand to the small of her back and propelled her toward the kitchen. “You have breakfast yet?”
“Of course I’ve had breakfast. It’s seven-thirty, for crying out loud.”
“What did you have?”
Kate looked at him blank-faced. Caught like a rat in a trap, she thought. She made a pretense of fussing with her bow and mumbled.
“What?”
She sighed and rolled her eyes. “I said I had a cookie.”
“That’s it?”
“It was oatmeal. Oatmeal is good for you. Everybody eats oatmeal in the morning.” It had been oatmeal with double stuff icing and chocolate chips. But there was no need to go into unnecessary details.
“That’s a terrible breakfast. You need juice and milk and a good whole grain cereal. You’ll never grow up to be big and strong on cookies for breakfast.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
He sliced an orange and fed it to the juicer. “I used to be just like you. Always hustling. Always busy.” He handed her a glass of freshly squeezed juice. “It’s no good for you, you know. Lowers your immune system. You take vitamin C?”
Kate ignored the question and opened a cupboard, searching for a coffee mug. “I don’t have much time…”
Dave closed the cupboard and placed a mug in her hand. “Here’s your mug, but you get coffee only if you promise to sit down and eat breakfast.”
“Will breakfast take long?”
“You ever consider yoga? Relaxation exercises?”
“You ever consider a broken nose because you deprived a redhead of her morning coffee?”
He poured her coffee and pointed to a chair. “Sit!”
“Just for a minute.”
“Seven minutes. Five minutes for me to make the oatmeal and two minutes for you to eat it.”
“Honest-to-God oatmeal? That congealed gluey stuff with lumps in it? Don’t you have any real cereal? Don’t you have Frosted Flakes or Sugar Crisp or Froot Loops?”
Dave slid the bowl of oatmeal into the microwave. “Better watch your step, or I’ll make you eat an egg.”
“You’re too good to me.”
“I know. You’re lucky to be living next door to a guy like me. I’m a real catch. I’m rich, I make breakfast, and I’m cute.”
“Is this a proposal?”
He slapped a place mat in front of her. “Nope. Last time I proposed you said you’d rather be boiled in oil. Now it’s your turn to do the proposing.”
“I’d rather be boiled in oil.”
Mark Beaman’s footsteps creaked overhead as he tore out the splintered boards and hammered others into place. Country music blared from a radio somewhere on the second floor while a power saw whined outside the kitchen window. Kate tapped her foot and pressed her lips together. It was noon, and she still hadn’t been able to practice. Carpenters and roofers asked her lots of questions. They required cold sodas, deli hot dogs, bathroom privileges, and unrestricted use of the phone to order supplies they had thought they didn’t need. Concentrate, she ordered herself. She was a professional. She should be able to work under trying circumstances, right? Right. She narrowed her eyes and began again.
Mark rumbled into the kitchen. “Howdy.”
Kate pressed her lips together and lowered the bow. “Howdy.”
“Just passing through. Don’t let me disturb you.” He went out the back door.
Kate took a deep breath and adjusted her music. Mark reappeared with a sheet of plywood, edged past her, and smiled pleasantly.
“You don’t play much, do you? I’ve been waitin’ to hear something come out of that thing, but it seems mostly you just sit there, gritting your teeth. You shouldn’t do that, you know. It’s bad for your head muscles. You’re gonna end up with a migraine.”
Kate thunked her head down on the music stand. This wasn’t going to work. She moved to the living room and set up in front of a window. Shania Twain still wailed down at her, but at least she wasn’t in the traffic pattern.
It was pleasant in the front room. The old-fashioned windows stretched almost from the floor to the ceiling, throwing the bright midday light over the glossy, dark wood floor. Across the street Emily Pearson was polishing her brass door knocker. A cluster of Indian corn tied with a pumpkin-colored bow had been hung to the side of the knocker, and a pot of orange mums sat in a redwood container on the front stoop. Despite her resolve to concentrate, Kate found herself staring at Emily Pearson.
This was the reason she practiced in the kitchen, she thought. There were too many distractions in the front room. It was almost impossible not to spy on the outside world through the big windows.
In another neighborhood there might have been pictures of pilgrims or Thanksgiving turkeys drawn by children in the downstairs windows, but A Street boasted only adult decorations. The houses were too small for families with teenagers and too expensive for families just starting out. A Street was devoid of backyard swings and the clatter of kids racing over its brick sidewalks. It was something Kate had never noticed… until now. It seemed like a simple observation, but it hit Kate in the pit of her stomach. And she wasn’t sure why. She leaned forward in her chair, nose almost pressed against the glass, and wondered where all the children were. Had they all been exported to the suburbs? To the large yards of northern Virginia? Were they living in the bigger houses of northwest Washington?
Emily Pearson saw Kate at the window and waved. She was Kate’s age, maybe a little older. A lawyer. Kate waved back and wondered if Emily wanted kids. Emily, with the appropriate door decorations and matching planters and clean windows. Emily would make a great mother. Unlike me, Kate thought. I’d probably misplace my kids on the way to rehearsal and get arrested for abandonment.
As Kate stared outside, Elsie walked past the window. She marched up the front stairs, let herself in, hung her coat on the rack in the foyer, and dropped a white paper bag into Kate’s lap. “I’m off my shift, and I brought you a burger.”
Kate unpeeled the wrapper. “Everyone’s trying to feed me today.”
“That’s ’cause you’re so skinny. Everybody takes pity on you.”
Kate smiled. She was getting used to Elsie: rough on the outside, soft on the inside.
“This looks good,” Kate said. Lettuce, tomato, pa
per-thin onion, slices of dill pickle, melted cheese, mustard, ketchup, grilled sesame seed bun, and an inch-and-a-half-thick grilled hamburger. She chomped into it and closed her eyes. “Yum.”
Elsie folded her arms across her chest and looked down at Kate. “We need to talk.”
A glob of ketchup emerged from the back end of the hamburger and slopped over Kate’s fingers. It mixed with pickle juice and dribbled onto the paper bag spread across her lap.
Elsie made a disapproving sound and pressed on. “Not that it’s any of my business, but do you always sleep next door?”
“Not always.”
“Well, there’s things you should know about him. He comes into the café all the time, all hours of the day, and he never wears a suit. I got it figured out though. I think he’s a spy.”
“Why do you think he’s a spy?”
“It all adds up. You see an ounce of fat on that man? No sir, that boy’s in fine shape. He’s got a spy butt if I ever saw one. Child, that butt works out. It’s ready for action. And another thing, where do you suppose he gets all his money? Flashy car, expensive house.”
“Do spies make a lot of money?”
“James Bond isn’t hurting.”
Kate chewed her hamburger. “True.”
“Explains your helicopter part, too. I knew from the beginning that was no accident. Some sucker dropped that thing on the wrong house. They were aiming for Dave’s house. That David person is a marked man. This here’s Washington. This here’s Spy Central.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but he’s not a spy. He was a down-and-out photographer, and he won the lottery.”
“Get out. No one wins the lottery.”
“He did. I saw a picture of the ticket and of him getting his money.” She crumpled the hamburger wrapper into the bag. “That was a great hamburger. Thanks.”
Mark Beaman sauntered down the stairs and saluted the women on his way to the kitchen. “Howdy.”
“Carpenter,” Kate explained to Elsie. “He’s fixing the ceiling.”
“Don’t look too bright.”
“He’s okay.”
Elsie snorted. “Don’t know much about music.”
“He’s from Virginia.”
“That’ll do it.” Elsie turned toward the stairs. “It’s time for my afternoon nap. I get real grouchy if I don’t get my nap. And I’m never gonna be able to sleep with that pathetic whining going on. You don’t suppose Mr. Muscle’d mind if I throw his radio out the window, do you?”
“Gee, why didn’t I think of that.”
Chapter 5
Kate squinted at her watch in the darkness. Six o’clock. She was late, and Washington was gridlocked. So what was new? She blew out a sigh and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Less than a mile from her house. So near and yet so far, she thought grimly.
She looked at her watch again. One minute past six. If traffic wasn’t moving by six-fifteen, she was going to leave the car in the middle of the road and walk home. The hell with it. Let them tow it away. She inched forward and stopped. One block more and she’d turn onto First Street.
“Come on, First Street!” she urged. Wonderful. Talking to yourself while stuck in traffic was a sign of mental instability.
She sank lower in her seat and tried to relax. This was her own fault, she thought. She had taken on too many private students, and now she couldn’t fit them all in. Every Monday she was stuck in this mess because her lessons ran late. Someone was going to have to go. But that was easier said than done. She liked all her students. And she needed the money; now that Anatole was gone, the house payments were killing her. Tomorrow she’d try to find time to call a Realtor.
At six-thirty she backed into a parking space in front of her house and hurtled out of the car. She grabbed a grocery bag, crooked her finger around a nylon tote filled with sheet music, slung her big black purse over her shoulder, and slammed the car door shut with her foot. She turned and bolted for the stairs, barely stifling a scream when Dave rose from the shadows of her small front porch.
“Damn.” She leaned against the wrought-iron railing and took a deep breath.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s not your fault. I wasn’t paying attention, and you took me by surprise.” She sighed and straightened. “You do that a lot.”
He took the grocery bag and the key and opened her front door. “The carpenters and roofers left at three. They’ll be back tomorrow to finish up. Elsie went to a bingo game at her church. Your mother called and wanted to know what I was doing in your house…”
Kate sighed.
“I explained I was keeping an eye on the carpenter, but I don’t think she believed me, so I invited her to dinner on Saturday.”
“Oh, no! How could you have done such a thing? My mother will expect real food. She’ll want to sit at a table and eat off real dishes. Last time my mother came to my house for dinner she left with a migraine that lasted for three days.”
Kate switched on the lights and looked at her empty living room. “My mother will be wearing heels and stockings. She’ll expect to sit in a chair. I haven’t got a chair,” she wailed. “And worst of all, she’ll bring my father.”
Dave set the bag on the kitchen counter and began unpacking. Graham crackers, cream cheese, a bag of carrots, quart of skim milk, and strawberry yogurt. “Boy, you really get uptight about your parents.”
Kate took the yogurt and dug for a spoon in her silverware drawer. “My parents are very traditional people. They live in a house with furniture.”
Dave grinned. “Not to worry. I didn’t invite them to your house for dinner. I invited them to my house. I figured they’d want to check me out.”
“Ohmigod.”
He liked shaking her composure every once in a while. It made her more accessible, less driven. Her music was wonderful and special, but Kate needed a little diversity. He watched her return to the yogurt and wondered if that was her supper.
“I have some steaks next door. I could put them on the grill.”
“Can’t. I work with a youth orchestra on Monday nights. Sectional coach.” She washed the yogurt down with a glass of springwater and grabbed a banana. “I’m supposed to be there at seven.” She looked at her watch and groaned.
“Is it very far?”
“No. I’ll make it.” She shoved a packet of music into her purse and pulled a hooded sweatshirt over her head. “I have to buy a coat. Maybe Saturday.”
She hadn’t directed the last two sentences to Dave. She’d been thinking aloud. Talking to herself again. Her mind was already jumping ahead to the evening’s rehearsal. They’d be playing Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony (Pastorale). Working on the last two movements…
Suddenly she was whirled around and pulled against the wall of Dave’s chest with enough force to take her breath away. Their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, long enough to make her heart race. Long enough for her to see the anger, the determination, the frustration. She expected words, but instead she got a kiss. A kiss that was almost violent in its intensity.
He released her, wondered how his heart was standing the strain, and bent to retrieve the purse she’d dropped on the floor.
Kate reluctantly opened her eyes; her lips felt exquisitely swollen. “Of course, I could always stay home…”
Dave hung the black bag on her shoulder and opened the front door. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from your obligations. Just making sure you’d remember me.”
At 2 A.M. Dave was awakened by the deep thwup, thwup, thwup of a helicopter flying low over the neighborhood. When it buzzed his house for the third time, he slid out of bed, crept across the dark room, and silently stood at his window, watching the blinking lights move across the sky. The helicopter returned to A Street, hovered for a full minute while it beamed light down on rooftops and yards, then peeled away. The thwup, thwup thwup faded in the distance, but Dave remained at the window.
Kate had heard it, too. At l
east the roof is fixed, she’d thought. It still needed to be tarred, but it was patched over and she didn’t feel quite so vulnerable. Not that she expected someone to drop through the roof SWAT style, but after the past two days, anything was possible. She’d gone to the window, just as Dave had, and when the noise was no more than a faraway hum, Kate took stock of her neighborhood by moonlight.
It was very dark, very still, very somber. A lifeless cityscape of drawn shades and brick facades. Trees were nude of leaves. Grass was sparse. The occasional splash of colorful mums was muted in shadow. Her postage-stamp front yard was mostly ivy. She’d always wanted to plant flowers, but time had a way of escaping her. At least there was the azalea, but now that she and Elsie had squashed it, she wasn’t sure if it would survive the winter.
Poor dead azalea, she thought, looking down at it from her second-floor window. A piece of plastic lodged deep in the middle of the bush reflected moonlight back to her. She stared at it dully before turning from the window and padding back to bed. She punched her pillow into shape, pulled the quilt over herself, and froze. “Son of a gun.”
Kate jumped out of bed, ran down the stairs and out her front door. Dave was still at his window when Kate appeared like an apparition, gliding ghostly white down the porch steps in her long flannel nightgown. She was barefoot, moving quickly over the little boxwood hedge that lined her front walk, into the black ivy. She stooped over the azalea, picked up something, straightened, and looked directly up at him, as if she’d sensed his eyes on her. She had a video camera in her hand!
Five minutes later she sat wrapped in a wool blanket on Dave’s couch sipping hot cocoa, waiting for Dave to rewind the tape that had been lodged in the mangled camera.
He draped an arm around Kate and pressed the play button on the remote. A number appeared on the TV screen. Six digits. There were several seconds of blank tape, then an aerial view of A Street materialized. The field of vision narrowed as the image was focused. The lens swept across Kate’s backyard, her roof, the empty road, and ran across a house on the opposite side of the street. The exact same route was repeated three times.
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