Don't Turn Around

by Hunter Morgan

  Joaquin met her in the foyer with a thread and needle in one hand, a tiny pink skirt in the other, and yards of pink tulle wrapped around his neck and tumbling over his broad shoulders. He opened his arms and grimaced. “Can you tell Jayne’s running late?”

  Chapter 9

  “More wine?” Lincoln reached for the bottle.

  They were sitting in his eat-in kitchen just finishing up a delicious lamb stew that he had cooked inside a pumpkin, of all things. His house, located on the family farm, was nothing like she had expected. She had anticipated sleek, modern lines; cool, light woods; and solar panels. She’d guessed right on the solar panels, but they were completely out of view. The two-story, three-bedroom house was a restored eighteenth-century frame farmhouse and the home his grandmother had grown up in. The ceilings were low with dark, exposed beams; the walls were painted warm fall colors; and the floors were stained walnut and had colorful handmade rugs thrown all over the place. Lincoln had a cat, not a dog, and his grandparents talked to him via a walkie-talkie, from their new modular house across the pasture from him.

  “No, thank you, no more wine.” She covered her glass with her hand. “After two, I start to get silly.”

  “Do you, now?” He poured himself a glass and sat back in his chair studying her. “That’s something I’d like to see. You silly.”

  “My father never approved of silly.”

  Lincoln lifted his glass in toast. “I’d say he’s pretty silly now.”

  He offered a boyish grin.

  She laughed. It was nice he could make light of the situation without disrespecting the man her father had once been. She knew that was all Lincoln was doing, just making light of it.

  “How about dessert?”

  “You made dessert?”

  “Of course I made dessert.” He walked the three steps to the refrigerator and removed two parfait glasses.

  “Pudding?” she questioned.

  “Mousse, smarty-pants. Homemade.” He grabbed two spoons from a drawer and carried the beautiful dessert glasses to the table.

  “How did you work all day and still have time to do this? Weeknights, Dad and I are lucky to get hot dogs and steamed broccoli.”

  “I have to confess, I made the stew last night and just reheated it in the pumpkin.” He pushed her mousse across the table to her. “My plan was that if it tasted awful last night, I could stop for steamed shrimp on the way home tonight.”

  She dug into her mousse with her spoon and sampled it. “Mmmm.”

  “But I made the mousse after work.” He pointed at her with his spoon. “Found the recipe on the Food Network.”

  “Homemade dinner, wine, chocolate dessert.” She looked at him over the dessert glasses. “You trying to romance me, counselor?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “Is it working?”

  She smiled, suddenly feeling shy. This was always the hard part for her. The intimacy. Not sex, but the talk that came before and after. The opening up, that was what was difficult. But she really did like Lincoln and she really was ready for another relationship. “I think it’s working,” she told him.

  After dinner, they cleaned up and then went into the small, neat living room. There was a working fireplace and Lincoln had it all ready to start; all he had to do was strike a match.

  “Homemade dinner, wine, dessert, and a fire?” She curled up on the couch, tucking her stocking feet under her. “Who are you kidding? You’re not trying to romance me; you’re trying to get me in the sack.”

  The crumpled newspaper on the fireplace grill caught and leaped upward, licking at the kindling.

  Lincoln waited to be sure the wood caught and then he sat down beside her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. She snuggled against him.

  “What time do you have to go?” He drew his mouth along her cheek, making contact with her lips.

  “Not for a while. Jayne’s having Daddy over for dinner and then she’s taking him trick-or-treating with them. She told me she didn’t think she’d possibly get him home before nine.” She turned her head to meet his mouth.

  He tasted wonderful. His arms were warm, secure. Casey could feel herself relaxing. As they kissed again and she parted her lips, she thought about what she and Mandy had been talking about. Casey really did want to sleep with Lincoln. It seemed soon, but she wanted to. Obviously, he wanted to. But he wasn’t being pushy. He wasn’t making her feel uncomfortable about it in any way.

  Casey turned so that she could lie back in Lincoln’s arms. She slid her hands over his chest and around his neck. “You hot in this?” she whispered, tugging at the wool sweater he wore.

  “You hot in this?” He pulled on the collar of her shirt.

  She could feel her cheeks growing warm. “But I’m not wearing anything under this.”

  “Not a problem for me.” Keeping eye contact with her, he grabbed the hem of his sweater and pulled it over his head, then tossed it on the couch beside them. Beneath the sweater, he wore a tight, black, cotton T-shirt that was pretty damned sexy. “Nothing under that a problem for you?”

  She leaned forward to whisper something witty. As she toyed with the top button of her blouse, the walkie-talkie on the kitchen counter suddenly squawked. “Base Camp Two, come in. Over.”

  “Holy hell,” Lincoln muttered.

  Casey crawled out of his lap, cracking up.

  “Base Camp Two, this is Base Camp One. Do you read me? Over.”

  Lincoln jumped up off the couch and dashed for the walkie-talkie.

  “We need to add tart cherry juice to the grocery list, Base Camp Two, do you copy? Over.”

  Lincoln snapped up the receiver and walked back into the living room, raising one hand to Casey in abject apology.

  Casey reached for his wineglass and took a sip, still giggling.

  “Grandma, I’m not going to the grocery store tonight. Over.”

  “You can take Blue Bessie. Over.”

  “I don’t need your old gas-guzzling car. I have my own. Over.”

  “Save you on your gas. Over.”

  Lincoln rolled his eyes. “You’re supposed to be in bed. Are you in bed? Over.”

  He waited.

  “That’s an affirmative, Base Camp Two. In my bed in the living room. Your grandfather says he’s sleeping in his own bed tonight. He’s not sleeping on the couch. Doesn’t care if I die out here, he’s not sleeping on the couch another night, he tells me. Over.”

  There was the sound of a deep voice in the background mixed with the static before the walkie-talkie cut out again.

  “Grandma, you’re not going to die in the middle of the night unless Grandpa or I smother you with a pillow.”

  The walkie-talkie crackled. “That’s not funny, Base Two. This is your grandmother you’re speaking to and—”

  “Grandma,” Lincoln interrupted, “Casey’s still here. Dinner. You weren’t going to disturb me unless you or the house was on fire, remember? Over.”

  “Oh, my, you have a girl. Porter, our Lincoln has a girl in his house.” The receiver crackled. “Over,” his grandmother came back on and said.

  Casey covered her mouth with both hands trying not to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. Lincoln looked so pathetic.

  “Anything else but the grape juice, Grandma? I’ll get it tomorrow. Over.”

  “Tart cherry juice,” she corrected. “Over.”

  “Good night, Grandma. Grandpa. Over and out.”

  “Over and out, Base Two.”

  Casey was still chuckling to herself when Lincoln returned the walkie-talkie to its base charger on the kitchen counter and walked back into the living room. He added two logs the thickness of his wrist to the fire before joining her on the couch again.

  He picked his sweater up off the floor and covered his face with it. “I would apologize,” he mumbled, “but I’m already so mortified, I’m not sure I can speak in a coherent sentence.”

  Sitting on her knees beside him, Casey tugged the sweater away
from his face, then looked into his warm, blue eyes. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed. I think it’s very noble of you to be taking care of your grandparents like this.”

  “Noble, huh?” He took a sip of wine from her glass and placed it on the end table. “Well, it doesn’t feel noble. Good days I feel like I’ve been taken by two clever con artists with arthritis. Bad days…” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  Casey drew her palm across his cheek. He had the barest amount of beard stubble. It felt good beneath her fingertips. “On bad days?” she prodded softly.

  “I wanted a family, Casey. I wanted a wife. Children. A life beyond work and”—he ran his fingers through his slightly disheveled blond hair—“tart cherry juice.” He let his hand fall. “I’m lonely. Thirty-five years old and I’m all alone.”

  She took his hand in hers, turning it, smoothing it. “No brothers or sisters?”

  He shook his head.

  She knew that he’d been raised by his grandparents and that he had never known his father, but she didn’t really know what the story was with his mother. When she had tried to ask him about his mother the week before, he had smoothly moved on to another subject.

  “And your mother—”

  “Is a crackhead, Casey.” He drained the last of the wine. “We haven’t heard from her in almost two years, and for my grandparents, that’s a good thing. She only shows up when she needs something. Money. She’s been in and out of jail. After me, she had at least two more children; we have no idea where they are. We don’t even know for sure my mother’s still alive.”

  Casey rubbed his hand between hers. “I’m sorry, Lincoln. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, it’s okay.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I should have told you sooner. It’s just that some people don’t like the idea of dating a—”

  She silenced him by pressing her fingers against his mouth and then replaced them with her lips. His fingers found the top button of her blouse. She curled against him, closing her eyes as he slid his warm hand inside her blouse and cupped her breast.

  Their mouths met hungrily and the flush from her cheeks seemed to flow outward, first warming her face, then her torso, then her limbs. Her lips, her toes, her fingertips tingled and then the slow burn began in the pit of her stomach.

  It had been a long time since someone had kissed her this way.

  Who was she kidding? No one had ever kissed her this way. Made her feel like this. Not John. Certainly not Billy.

  Casey could feel herself melting in Lincoln’s arms.

  She wasn’t afraid. Not of Lincoln. Not of herself. Mandy was right. She really had come a long way, hadn’t she?

  The faint sound of musical notes penetrated Casey’s lust-fogged brain. Art Garfunkel.

  Lincoln drew his mouth from the corner of hers to her cheek. “Hey,” he whispered in her ear, “isn’t that your phone?”

  Casey looked at Lincoln for a second. Blinked. It was her phone. Art was singing “Homeward Bound.” “My bag,” she managed. Her lips felt love bruised. Her head was swimming.

  “I’ll get it.” Lincoln was back in a second carrying her stone-tumbled, brown leather purse.

  Casey dug inside for the phone and hit the receive button. “Dad?”

  “He’s gone,” her father said into the phone. He didn’t sound scared this time. This time he sounded angry. Worried.

  Not the man-in-the-window story again. Not Richard Nixon standing in the flower bed. “Who’s gone, Dad?”

  “Frazier. I sicced him after that lying bastard Richard Nixon,” Ed said clearly. “And now they’re both gone.”

  Casey threw on her coat as she rushed out of Lincoln’s house, her purse flung over her shoulder. She didn’t bother to apologize. He didn’t bother to ask if it was okay if he followed her home. On the way, Casey called Jayne.

  The phone rang. And rang. Eventually, the answering machine picked up, and Casey listened to the corny recording made by Jayne, Joaquin, Chad, and Annabelle: “You’ve reached the Mendez family. Sorry, we can’t come to the phone right now. We’re out making a difference. Leave a message.”

  “Leave a message,” Annabelle repeated in the end in her sweet little-girl voice.

  Casey groaned as she checked the digital clock on the dash. Eight-forty. It was past the kids’ bedtime. Where could they be? The answering machine beeped obnoxiously loudly in her ear.

  “Jayne? Joaquin? Could someone pick up? Dad just called. I thought you weren’t taking him home until nine.” She tried not to sound annoyed. “Is anyone there?” When still no one picked up, she hung up.

  She had almost reached home when her phone rang to the tune of Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family.”

  Casey thought she liked the new ring tones she had added to her phone plan, but tonight they were annoying her.

  “Jayne,” Casey said, not giving her sister a chance to speak, “Dad says Frazier’s run away. I thought you were keeping him until nine.”

  “Casey, you need to calm down.”

  Jayne’s tone annoyed Casey even further. It was her “now don’t get hysterical, Casey” voice. It was the same voice, Casey suspected, that Jayne used with her clients who were prone to hysterics.

  “I am calm.” Casey tried not to sound quite so waspish. Why did her sister always do this to her? Why did she make her the bitchy one? “I’m also concerned. I thought Dad was with you. Apparently, he thought someone was looking in the window at him so he let Frazier out the door and now Frazier’s run off.” She decided to leave out the Richard Nixon part. It was just too bizarre for a cell phone conversation.

  “Is Dad all right?”

  “I don’t know, Jayne. He’s home. I thought he was all right because I thought he was with you.”

  “I’m just putting Chad into the tub. He’s got gum in his hair. You want me to send Joaquin?” Without bothering to cover the phone, Jayne hollered, “Joaquin, can you put down what you’re doing and run over to Casey’s?! She needs help with Dad again!”

  “No, it’s all right. Joaquin doesn’t have to come.” Casey was caught between being annoyed with Jayne for suggesting she couldn’t handle their father, and wishing Jayne had offered to come. Maybe sit with Dad while she and Lincoln looked for the dog. “I’m sure Dad’s fine. He’s just upset about Frazier taking off. I’ll find him.”

  “I think we need to start thinking seriously about our options with the dog, Casey,” Jayne said.

  Casey could hear water splashing and the sound of Chad’s laughter.

  “Options? What options? Frazier’s no trouble. He just—” Casey pulled into her driveway. “Look, I’m home. Dad’s standing on the front porch in my bathrobe. I have to go.”

  “Call me if you need me,” Jayne said cheerfully.

  Casey hung up. Lincoln reached the front porch before Casey did.

  “Hey, Ed,” Lincoln said casually, as he walked up the steps. “It’s chilly out here. Why don’t we go inside? Get warmed up.” He put his arm around the old man.

  “It was Richard Nixon,” Ed insisted. “He took my dog.”

  “I know, but we’re going to get him back.” Lincoln ushered Ed through the front door. “I promise.”

  Chapter 10

  In the end, Casey agreed to stay with her father while Lincoln searched for the runaway. Leaving Ed in his bedroom to get dressed in his own pajamas, Casey walked out on the front porch with Lincoln. “He never runs away.” She wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. A cold wind whistled through the shrubbery, tugging her hair from its ponytail. “He can’t be far.”

  “I’ll find him.” Lincoln gave her a quick kiss. “Go inside, make us some hot tea, and I’ll be back in a few minutes, one slobbery boxer in tow.”

  He started to walk away, but Casey grabbed his arm. “Lincoln, keep your eye out for an older blue car.” Then she added quickly, “Or white.”

  “What?”

  She wondered, at once, if she should have said anything
. It sounded crazy coming out of her mouth. It was going to sound crazy to Lincoln. “I’ll tell you later. It’s probably nothing.” She waved him off as she stepped back into the house, shivering. “Call me if you have trouble getting Frazier into the car with you. He can be skittish with strangers.”

  “Inside,” Lincoln ordered.

  Casey locked the front door behind her. She helped her father put his flannel pajama top over his white T-shirt, rather than the other way around, then led him into the kitchen and made him sit at the table. She gave him a couple of cookies to keep him occupied while she made tea.

  “So Frazier just took off, Dad? That’s unbelievable. He never goes out of the yard.”

  “You think I’m lying? Do you see the dog?” He gestured with his cookie.

  “No, Dad, I don’t think you’re lying. Obviously, Frazier isn’t here,” she said patiently, knowing she shouldn’t be hurt by his resentful tone of voice. “I was just remarking how surprised I am by his behavior.”

  “He didn’t just take off, you know.” Ed still spoke as if Casey was stupid. “I told you, I sicced him after Richard Nixon. He was doing as he was told.” He took a bite out of a chocolate sandwich cookie. “I knew I should never have voted for him. I told Lorraine there was something suspicious about that man. I should have seen Watergate coming.”

  “No one saw Watergate coming.” She filled the electric teakettle with water. “And he’s dead, Dad,” she said gently.

  “Frazier’s dead? My dog died?”

  The pain in her father’s voice made her instantly contrite. She put the electric kettle on the counter and flipped the switch on. “No, Dad.” She sat down in the chair next to him and looked into his gray eyes. “Frazier’s not dead. President Nixon is dead. He died in nineteen ninety-four. You were still at the university teaching. We’ve been to the Richard M. Nixon Presidential Library in California, you and Jayne and I. Remember the life-size bronze statues of world leaders there? You particularly liked the one of Mao.”

  He picked up another cookie and nibbled on an edge, the lines on his face sharp with concentration. He seemed to be trying to wrap his mind around what she was saying. “Frazier’s not dead?”