by Karen Tuft
She would also be able get her afternoon cleaning job finished by early afternoon and have free time to—what? She had free time so seldom on weekdays she wasn’t sure what she wanted to do with it. She could work on her stained-glass creation, study for her anthropology exam, or scour a couple of thrift stores for some hidden treasures.
Pulling to an abrupt halt in the driveway, she grabbed her cleaning tool kit and lightweight vacuum cleaner and headed to the front door. She had gone through the utility door on her first visit to the house, but the front door was so much closer to her car that she’d quickly made it a habit. On a whim, she went back to her car and grabbed the Beatles CD. Mr. Big Shot Attorney had a first-class audio system wired through the entire house. And she felt like rockin’.
Halfway to the door, Natalie paused and ran back out to her car again. She wasn’t in the mood to clean yet. She wanted to celebrate! For so long, her life had felt like the lyrics of a bad country song, and now she had the small miracle of time. She returned the cleaning tools to the car, grabbed her tap shoes, exchanged the Beatles for her tap class CD, unfortunately titled “Best of Vaudeville,” which contained a modern remix of some good old tap standards, and ran back to the house. She slipped into the tap shoes, slid the class CD into the audio player, cranked up the volume, and ran to the kitchen to get set.
Feet apart, hands on hips, she mentally thought through the movements she would be practicing. Step, shuffle, lift, cross—darn! What was it? She clicked across the kitchen floor tiles to the spiral notebook she had set on the table just as the music began with a crash. A long, showy drum solo got the first track cranking, louder and quicker, faster and faster, cymbals and snare drums repeating like machine-gun fire, bass drum thumping loudly. She reviewed her notes and ran back to her original position. Deep breath. Step, shuffle, cross, step. Step, shuffle, cross, step. She readied herself for her first steps. The drum solo continued, tenor drums pounding syncopations into her brain. Initially, she thought the class CD was kind of corny—it was called “Best of Vaudeville,” for heaven’s sake. But the more she had listened to it as she practiced her tap-dancing steps, the more it had gotten under her skin. Sheepishly, she acknowledged that she liked it. It was fun. Besides, it reminded her, sort of, of her nana and how she used to talk about the good old days.
The drum solo crescendoed into a big drum roll, and then the trombones kicked in with the melody. Hands on hips, she thought, here we go. This time we are going to stay with the beat. She’d had a hard time getting her feet to move fast enough to keep up with the music’s tempo, but she’d practiced a lot and was almost up to speed. She focused, took another deep breath, and lifted her right foot. Step, shuffle, cross, step, step, shuffle, cross, step. She almost had it. A couple more times through and she was sure she’d be able to stay with the music.
* * *
Ross was as close to unconscious as a person could be. A complete lack of awareness blanketed his senses, his body in a deeply relaxed void. He gradually became aware of gunfire somewhere in the near distance. Enemy artillery, gang warfare. His shoulders bunched and tensed. He was on the streets of New York—not Manhattan or Brooklyn. Somewhere more dangerous. It called for caution. He thrashed in his bed, seeking cover from the gunfire. Sunlight began filtering through the buildings. No, they were the curtains of his bedroom. He was foggy, but he remembered now, he was home. So why didn’t the gunfire stop?
Adrenaline pumped fire through his veins as a result of the disturbing images in his dream. The percussive shots hammered at his skull. What was going on? As full consciousness hit, he bolted upright with alarm. Someone was in his house. He leaped from the bed, his head swinging from side to side, searching for a makeshift weapon. Opening the closet, his eyes landed on his practice putter leaning against the corner inside the door.
He grabbed it, then ran his hand through his hair and took a deep breath to calm his jangled nerves. After his ordeal of a trip to New York, it would be just his luck to have a break-in on his first day home. A stroke of inspiration made him pause to grab his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and punch in 911, with his thumb over the send button, before heading out of his bedroom to the landing and quietly inching his way down the stairs.
Halfway down, the gunfire, which he now recognized as drums, turned into some sort of band thing. Jazz, sort of, though he wasn’t sure. He heard some strange rapping bursts, like castanets, coming from the kitchen; the “music,” he could tell, was being pumped through his audio system. Quietly, he edged his way down the hall to the kitchen door. There, in his kitchen, to his utter surprise, was a petite woman in a lime-green T-shirt and blue jeans, her blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, tap dancing, of all things. Make that tap dancing, sort of. Her arms were flailing wildly at her sides like frantic windmills as her feet hopped up and down and shuffled back and forth. If it weren’t for the fact that his head throbbed and his stomach pitched from his sudden movements, he might have found the scene humorous. As it was, she was a stranger, an intruder invading the privacy of his home. There had been a woman in his ward in New York a couple of years back who had gotten into his apartment once. He wasn’t sure how, but he’d had his suspicions at the time. He had flatly told her not to bother him again or she could expect him to file charges.
Suddenly, the woman in the green T-shirt let out a blood-curdling scream, slipped on the tiles, and fell in a tangle of elbows and legs to the kitchen floor.
Ross felt every nerve ending in his body explode, especially the ones in close proximity to his head. He clenched his hands, narrowly missing calling emergency, and raised the arm holding the golf putter. The woman’s shoulders collapsed, and she was gulping in breaths. So was he, actually.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he asked in a threatening tone loud enough to be heard over the blaring trumpets from the CD.
She looked at him like she didn’t speak English, like she was trying to process his simple questions in terms she could understand. Then she replied in a shaky voice. “Natalie. I’m Natalie.”
“Okay, Natalie, and just what are you doing in my house?”
Her hand was clutching her T-shirt over her heart, and she paused like she was collecting her thoughts along with her wits. “I was . . . what? I . . . hmmm. Shuffling off to Buffalo?” She slid her knees under her and pushed herself to all fours.
Ross wasn’t a dance expert by any stretch, but he’d at least heard the term before, and while still cautious, he started to relax. With the putter still slightly raised in warning, he walked over to the CD player and stopped the music. Gesturing with his head toward his CD player, he said, “And what was that?”
Still breathing hard, staring down at the floor tiles, the woman Natalie said, “‘Mississippi Mud.’”
Was she intentionally trying to be funny? Ross crossed his arms over his chest and gave her his best death-sentence stare. Except that she wasn’t looking at him. She moved to get her feet under her, averting her face. He put out his hand to help her up, but she ignored the gesture and scrambled to her feet, the taps on her shoes clinking like bad money.
* * *
Natalie tried to catch her breath as she surreptitiously studied the man in front of her who was wielding a golf club. He was tall and dark, his mouth set in a firm line. He had a day’s growth of beard showing, and his eyes were dark and intense but shadowed, and he looked—wrinkled. He wore rumpled slacks and a dress shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows, the collar open, the shirttail hanging partially out on the side. Unfortunately, right at that moment, the rumpled slept-in-his-clothes look didn’t make him look cute and cuddly. He looked formidable. Why was it that when she encountered a strong male her brain turned to sludge, her tongue became ten pounds heavier, and the words that plopped off of it could have been scripted into a bad sitcom?
Seeing him had scared her to death anyway, but when she’d gotten a good look at him, all broad shoulders and designer clothes, with the rugged-warrior
thing going, she’d gone into default wallflower mode. Now, if she could just leave the house with a modicum of poise . . . she’d pack up and get the heck out of Dodge.
He was staring at her, not saying anything, looking at her thoroughly, sizing her up. She realized suddenly that she had been staring at him as well and felt herself go pink. She dropped her gaze and nonchalantly hiked up her jeans. Clearing her throat, she extended her hand and said again, “I’m Natalie. You must be Ross McConnell.”
She hoped that the fact that she knew his name would add a sense of reassurance to the situation and was horrified when her vain attempt at an introduction failed. His probing looks suddenly iced over, turning glacial and rigid. He ignored her outstretched hand and leaned the golf club against a wall, then refolded his arms against his chest. “Natalie whoever you are, I am not in a patient mood. I suggest you leave my home right now.”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a quivering attempt to smile. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. Esther said, I mean—”
“Before I push the send button on this 911 call.”
Natalie’s mouth dropped into an O, then snapped shut. She swiftly moved to the kitchen table, grabbed her things, and slipped out the front door. She ground the key in the ignition, threw the car in reverse, and tore down the road. Her only coherent thought was how glad she was that she hadn’t taken all of her cleaning tools into his house yet, how that would have dragged out her entire escape. She didn’t notice how badly she was shaking until she was halfway home. And it wasn’t until she pulled into her own driveway that she realized she’d left her CD at Mr. McConnell’s house.
* * *
Ross locked the front door and headed slowly up the stairs. His head felt like it would fall off any second, and part of him wished it would. Even though his stomach still felt like he’d been on a roller coaster all night, he decided to risk it and take some ibuprofen. He headed back to the kitchen and grabbed the pills, then filled a glass with tap water. His mouth tasted like battery acid, and he felt like he’d just stepped on a bunny. The slogan on the woman’s T-shirt had read “What if the hokey pokey is really what it’s all about?”
Carrying the glass upstairs with him, he set it on the night table and lay back on the bed. He tried to fluff the pillow and settle it around his throbbing brain. He needed more sleep. He tried to push the image of a female whirligig aside but failed. He could still see the blonde ponytail whipping as wildly as her arms had been, then her falling in a sprawling heap on the floor, her green eyes wide. “Mississippi Mud,” he muttered. He probably shouldn’t have been so short with her, he knew, but he’d used every ounce of patience he had during his two weeks with Gina and the Germans. Whatever he’d had left, he was sure he’d vomited into the great void at thirty thousand feet. And seeing some strange woman in his house had conjured visions of cookies and casseroles, blind dates gone bad, nice women who turned into desperate stalkers when they scented single male prey. He thought of Liz, who had initially approached him. He’d acted on instinct today, that’s all. The tap-dancing woman seemed familiar, for some reason. He couldn’t think anymore right then. His eyes felt heavy, the pulsing throb in his temples beginning to ebb. The ibuprofen was starting to work, thank goodness.
She’d mentioned an Esther, he thought, just before he drifted back to sleep.
Chapter 8
The sky was the deep orange and red it turned just before the night turned to indigo. Ross stood at the window in his bedroom and looked out over the Salt Lake Valley and the first winking of city lights. He had awakened only a few minutes ago. While still not in top form, he felt rested, and his head no longer ached. He was trying to decide what to do about a meal. It was a relief to actually feel hungry again, not that he would be eating mu-shu pork anytime soon. He showered and pulled on his favorite pair of old Levis and a blue polo shirt.
The light on his answering machine was flashing. He used his cell phone for nearly everything but had steered local business to his landline. He’d even trained his family to use the home phone unless it was urgent. The LCD display told him he had sixteen messages in the two weeks he’d been in New York.
He decided to take a minute to go through them. Sitting on the edge of his desk, he grabbed a notepad and pen and pushed the play button.
The first few were hang-ups with no messages left. Fine. The first real message was from his investment broker. That could wait.
“Ross, dear, it’s your mother. Be sure to put October 27 on your calendar. It isn’t every day a woman turns sixty-five, and you had better plan on being here. Jackie and Suzie have a big family thing planned. You can bring someone along if you like. Or they can bring someone along for you if you’re too busy to arrange something yourself.” He sighed. His mom and sisters were not going to let up on him until they could see the ring on his finger. “Be safe in New York, honey, and give me a call when you get back to town.”
“Hey, Uncle Mac, I know you’re not home right now, but I e-mailed you my football schedule. If you can make it to any of the games, that’d be awesome. Braden got injured, so they moved me to first string. So, cool, well, see ya.” Brett, his sister Jackie’s son, was a junior at East High.
“Mr. McConnell, sorry to bother you—I hope this isn’t a problem. Oh, this is Esther Johnson. Listen, my husband’s in the hospital, and I had to arrange for someone to take over your housecleaning. I wish you weren’t out of town; I would feel so much better getting your approval up front. Anyway, her name is Natalie Forrester. I got references, and they looked good, so I hope it won’t be a problem. I’m not sure how long this will take, but Natalie seemed willing to fill in for as long as you need her. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
Esther. That meant Mississippi Mud was his new—albeit temporary—housekeeper. The case of the tap-dancing stranger was solved. A few guilt pangs knifed through his gut, along with his hunger pangs. Still, she hadn’t exactly been doing housekeeping when he’d encountered her, so how was he to know?
“Ross, this is your sister.” Susan. Suzie automatically assumed he only had one sister when she called him. Jackie always said, “Mac, it’s Jack.” His sister with the boy name was the most feminine female he knew. “Megan Howard called me—you remember Megan, don’t you? She’s the tall Stevenson girl with horse teeth that she had fixed in college? Well, it’s Megan Howard now, and I saw her at the mall, and we got talking, and then we got talking about you, and she mentioned she has a sister-in-law who’d be perfect for you. I told her how picky you are, and she said she understands, but she e-mailed me a picture of her sister-in-law at the wedding—Megan’s been married ten years, so it’s not that old of a picture, and she’s really pretty, Ross. So I called her back and said I’d talk to you and see what you think—I mean with Mom’s birthday bash coming up, you have to make room in your busy social calendar for that, and I don’t think you’ve met anybody, really, since you moved back to Utah, so what do you think? Should I give her a call and set something up, or what?” Did Suzie never breathe? “I need to get back to her pretty soon because Mom’s birthday is a week from Saturday, and that’s not a lot of time. So call me.” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “What if she’s the one, Ross? I have a feeling something is going to happen, and it would be so good for Mom to see you happy and settled with kids. She’s been waiting for so long.” Ross rolled his eyes and sighed. “Call me, Ross. Bye.”
Thankfully, there were more hang-ups on the machine after Suzie’s call. There was a call from Jackie, quietly telling him that Brett had caught a long pass for the winning touchdown at the game last Friday and she hoped he was having a nice trip. Nice trip, like he was taking in Radio City Music Hall or Madison Square Garden and not going head-to-head with Engel Tech and Gina. Jackie didn’t force the females down his throat quite like Suzie did, but she more than anyone seemed to unconsciously remind him that something was missing in his life that he’d forgotten he needed.
He shuffled down the stai
rs and poked his head into the fridge. He didn’t really expect there to be anything edible after more than two weeks back East, although one never knew until one looked. But there, sitting on the top shelf, was a jar of homemade chicken noodle soup. Attached was a Post-it sticker with today’s date on it. The soup was fresh.
Chicken soup with homemade noodles. Nothing could sound better to his stomach. He reached into a cabinet for a bowl and noticed a small bag containing three large rolls on the counter. Next to them was a small plate with a stick of butter. Did one of his sisters know he’d gotten home last night? It wouldn’t surprise him. Could it have been Esther? He had no idea. He poured a third of the soup from the jar into the bowl, threw a paper towel over the top to contain splatters, and popped it into the microwave. Two minutes later, he was seated at the kitchen table, scooping up a man-sized chunk of chicken as he took a large bite of a soft, buttery roll. Slouching into his chair, he extended his legs and crossed his ankles on the seat of the chair across the table from him. Savoring the bite, he pulled out his cell phone and punched the buttons. A tiny female voice answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, how’s my best girl?” Ross took another quick bite of soup and grinned at the squeal that began on the other end of the connection.
“Uncle Mackee! Mama, it’s Uncle Mackee!”
“Hush, Lex. Mac? Hello?”
“Hi, Jack. How’s the world hanging together?” Ross took another bite of soup.
“Are you back in town? For some reason, I wasn’t expecting you to be home so soon this trip.”
That left Jackie out as his good soup fairy. “Just got in last night. Red eye. You’re my first call.”
“You haven’t talked to Mom yet?”
How could he explain that he fared better with other family members if he got an emotional barometric reading from his sane baby sister first?
“I wouldn’t advertise that fact around Mom and Susan,” Jackie said. “Mom is so worked up about this birthday of hers, and Susan is turning it into an event worthy of Ringling Brothers.” She chuckled.