“Do you remember a family in our neighborhood named Delaney?”
He wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Like, from when we were kids?”
Things had changed so much over the years. The homes in our neighborhood were built back when my parents and their generation were young couples starting their families. Elsa and I are now some of the few originals remaining on the block.
“Rick and Jane Delaney have been there a long time. They have twin daughters who were tiny when I was a teenager.”
He waved it off. “I would have been out of the house by then.”
We were all out of the house, technically. When our parents died in a plane crash, I was the only one still home and Elsa Higgins had—insanely—volunteered to take me in until, at my eighteenth birthday, the law would allow me to be on my own.
“Why do you ask?”
I wondered if he was truly curious or if he was only filling time as he ate the last of his fries.
“A comment Gram made this morning. She thinks there’s something odd going on with the twins. I might look into it.”
Ron bunched up the fast food bag and boxes from our meal, stood and took them to the big trash basket by the back door. I took what was left of my Coke upstairs to my desk. The tax papers awaited, but my mind went back to thoughts of the old neighborhood and the way it had been.
Chapter 3
Seventeen years ago …
Oh. My. God. Pink curtains and bedspread. I stood at the bedroom door, staring. Apparently, while I was at school Gram had decided to redecorate my room. In pink. The pattern was Hollie Hobbie or some little-girl design that might have been semi-okay for somebody, like, six years old. There was a new lamp on the old mahogany nightstand, a white china thing with pink roses and a ruffled pink shade. No teen in the world could love this. Especially me, a girl who would rather climb a tree than put on a frilly dress.
“What do you think?” Gram had sneaked up behind me. There was no escape.
Inexplicably, tears welled up. I hate when that happens. I blinked them back.
“It’s—wow—it’s pink.”
“I thought it was just the cutest thing,” she said, reaching an arm around my shoulders.
“You shouldn’t have.”
“They had a sale at JC Penney’s so it wasn’t very expensive.”
No, I really meant you shouldn’t have. I looked away from her prying gaze and clamped my mouth shut. How was I going to sleep in this cotton candy room? I could never invite a friend in here. I walked in and dropped my books on the bed. I needed to talk to Stacy, have someone I could vent my feelings to.
The only phone in the house was on a table in the living room. I swear, living with an old person just sucked. I stomped toward it while Gram went into the kitchen, saying something about having baked chocolate chip cookies and bringing me some. Sheesh—didn’t she remember chocolate made my face break out?
I picked up the phone and put my finger in the ancient rotary dial, laboriously finishing Stacy’s number in about twenty-five minutes.
“Hey, Stace. Can you get out?”
My best friend lived three blocks away and ever since we were kids we would meet at the little neighborhood park. Nowadays, Stacy sometimes got use of her mother’s car—mainly, only when her mom needed something from the store. Of course, I never got to use a car. Gram was paranoid as hell about something happening to hers with a teenager behind the wheel, so even though I’d gotten my license last fall, I was only allowed to drive if Gram was with me.
“Sure. The usual?”
“Yeah.” I heard a footstep behind the swinging kitchen door and raised my voice. “Yeah, if I could get that history handout Smith gave in class today … I guess mine fell out of my backpack.”
If it pertained to homework, there was no way Gram could refuse to let me go.
The kitchen door swung open and there she stood with a glass of milk and plate of cookies. They smelled heavenly but I was determined not to waver.
“You’re going somewhere?” she asked.
“Yeah, I need to run over to Stacy’s to get a homework assignment. It won’t take long.”
“Okay, good,” she said, working to hide her disappointment. She liked for us to sit at the dining table together, talk about my school day and have a snack. I knew it was so she could be sure I really was getting started on homework.
“Mrs. Delaney is sending the twins over at four o’clock,” Gram said. “I told her you’ve been wanting to get some babysitting experience.”
What? Oh, man, shoot me now.
“I’ll be here to help out. They’ll only be here a couple of hours. We’ll give them their dinner and their mom will pick them up around six-thirty.”
“Gram, I don’t know anything about—”
“It’ll be fine. They’re out of diapers already. We’ll just play some games and—”
“Stacy’s waiting on me. Can we talk about this when I get back?”
I practically ran out the door. Kids … games … diapers. Oh, god. Across the street, I spotted Mr. Delaney pulling into their driveway and the two little girls ran out the moment his car stopped. Two identical little blondes with hair down past their shoulders, matching shorts and tops, shrieking with excitement at seeing their daddy.
The tears really did flow then. I would never again greet my dad when he got home from work, never eat cookies baked by my mother rather than a neighbor. I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk but caught my balance and turned the corner toward the park.
Stacy O’Donnell sat in one of the swings, twirling back and forth by stubbing one sneaker-clad toe into the sand, then the other. She’d gathered her permed blonde curls into a clip at the back of her head and changed from jeans to shorts. She’s so pretty she could fit in with the popular kids, but she hangs out with me instead. I wiped my eyes during one of her sways in the opposite direction.
“There was no history handout in Smith’s today,” she said, “so I brought the one from last week. Guessing you need to walk back in the house with something in your hands.”
She gave me a firm stare as she handed over the sheet of paper. “What’s up?”
I flopped onto the swing beside hers. “She decorated my room in pink—pink! And she made chocolate chip cookies.”
“Wow—that’s abusive, if you ask me.”
“I know. She’s not doing anything wrong. She’s doing everything right. So right that it sucks. Ron tells me I’d better be grateful every single day. I could have been put in foster care when Mother and Dad—” I dipped my head so my hair would hide my face.
Stacy put her hand on my arm. “Well, you know, with one brother in college and the other living in a dumpy apartment, you wouldn’t exactly be able to live with either of them. You’ve made it through more than a year with your Gram, Charlie. Only a couple more …”
I nodded and sniffed loudly, wishing I’d put some tissues in my pockets.
“Hey, have you read the latest Mary Higgins Clark? I read under the covers last night until my little book-light battery went out. It’s so spooky.”
I shook my head.
“I’ll give you my copy when I’m done.” She pushed off with her toe again. “Maybe you can come sleep over Friday night?”
I nodded with a flicker of enthusiasm. Stacy’s mom wasn’t as cool as the ones you saw on TV but at least she wasn’t a million years old.
“Gram’s set me up with a babysitting job this afternoon. Twins. I get these little hints she thinks she’s preparing me for life as a wife and mother. All this cookie-baking and everything.”
“I think having kids would be fun—someday. Not ’til way after college though.”
I pictured the toddler twins across the street. Nuh-uh. That was a long way off for me.
Chapter 4
I rechecked the figures I’d entered into my tax preparation program. Something wasn’t making sense and it had to be my mistake—after all, these programmers guaranteed t
he math would be correct. I went through it again but the problem with scrolling up and down the computer screen was that I began to lose track of my place—which line on which form. I took a deep breath.
Babysitting the twin girls hadn't been so awful, I thought, in retrospect. They were cute kids and well behaved, as I remembered. Gram had handled most of the actual work and I mostly watched them play with a plastic toy where they were supposed to press buttons and cause plastic animals to make squawking sounds. The problem-causer in the room had been me.
I flushed with embarrassment at how rude I’d been to Elsa in those years. She’s such a sweetheart and was so kind and self-sacrificing for me, and all I could do was find fault. Over the years, I’ve apologized for my behavior back then, but my conscience still niggles at me whenever a scene from the past comes back. How could I have thrown a fit over a pink bedroom? Elsa and I have laughed over that one.
The stupid tax return still didn’t make sense. I decided I needed to get some distance and look at it later. I printed the forms and jammed them into a folder. Freckles popped up out of a dead sleep the moment I switched off my computer, recognizing the signal for going home. Going home meant having dinner and, to a dog, any meal is cause for celebration.
Downstairs, Sally’s desk sat neat and empty. I’d not heard her leave, nor had I remembered Ron saying goodbye, but by the hollow sound in the office I knew he’d gone for the day. I switched off the few remaining lights and paused in the kitchen to load the coffee maker for tomorrow morning. Those chores done, I opened the back door and raced Freckles for the Jeep. She won. She always wins.
My once-pristine Cherokee was showing her age, victim of a few mishaps during some of my cases—a small dent here, a long scratch there. Although Drake and I are fairly caring about our vehicles, dogs are less cautious and the interior had definitely seen better days, I thought, as I tossed the file of tax papers onto the front passenger seat after letting Freckles into the back. Still, I love the old girl. I slid into my well-worn seat and started the engine.
The afternoon air held a hint of the chill that would descend when the sun went down, but for now it was lovely out—a deep blue sky, abundant sunshine and barely a breeze. I powered all four windows partway down and let the dog stick her nose out to enjoy whatever array of scents she could pick up.
We covered the few miles home in under ten minutes, while I thought ahead to dinner. Drake had taken steaks out of the freezer this morning, which meant baked potatoes and a salad to go along. He’s a master at salads and at the grill, so it left me with only one duty: placing two potatoes in the microwave and pressing the button. I can handle that.
I turned onto our quiet residential street, my Jeep knowing the turns all on its own. Ahead, a flash of red caught my eye, a Corvette in a driveway across the street. One of the Delaney twins was walking toward it and she must have hit her key fob button to unlock the car. She didn’t look up, concentrating on something in her hands—a smartphone, no doubt.
Another blast from the past hit me then, memories of my irritation with Elsa’s having only one telephone in her house. Even in our own home, there were several extensions; none of us had cell phones in those days. The idea of a teenager with a telephone she could carry absolutely anywhere might have intrigued my father but would have scared my mother to pieces.
I chuckled at the thought as I pulled into my driveway and parked beside Drake’s truck. Behind me, the red Corvette roared past. I let Freckles out of the back seat and put a protective hand on her, although the sports car had now turned at the corner. I wondered if I should say something to the girls, warn them about driving so fast on a quiet street where pets and kids could dash out. Sheesh—maybe I was becoming my father.
In the kitchen, Drake was already working his magic with salad ingredients at the cutting board.
“Hey you,” he said, leaning backward to accept the kiss I delivered. “I thought I’d get an early start on this, so we’ll have time to sit out under the gazebo a little while before it turns too chilly.”
A bottle of merlot already sat open at the end of the counter and two filets were seasoned and waiting in the fridge.
“Did I ever tell you, you’re the best?”
“You could say it again if you want.”
Instead, I kissed the back of his neck.
“You brought work home?” he asked, with a nod toward the folder in my hand.
“Ugh, tax stuff. I only have a couple more days to finish this. I’ll take a look at it after I’m filled with a fabulous dinner, although I’ll feel too wiped out to think about details.”
“Makes perfect sense to me,” he said with a laugh.
The mention of work reminded me of Ron’s newest case.
“Have you ever heard of a company called Innocent Times?” I asked as I took two potatoes from the wire basket in the pantry.
“I haven’t, but the name makes it sound like something not quite so innocent.”
“Funny you should pick up on that. Ron says it’s what is known as an alibi company. They’re in business to provide alibis for people who don’t want someone to know where they’ve really been and what they’ve really been doing.”
“Or who they’ve really been doing?” He teased with the lightheartedness of someone with a clear conscience. “I’m only guessing … your brother seems to catch a lot of those cases.”
“That’s what it is, and the current one involves somebody with quite a pile of money.”
“Do we know this horrible cad?”
This time I laughed. “Well, we don’t know he’s a horrible cad, not yet. It’s Bob Lorrento’s wife who hired us.”
“NFL Bobby Lorrento?”
“Yeah, but you cannot say anything, okay? We don’t know for sure.”
“It won’t take long to find out,” Drake said. “He’s got a reputation as a womanizer. I doubt the news would surprise anyone.”
“You do know that I would murder you if you ever did that,” I said with a wink.
“And I would deserve it.”
He put the salad bowl into the fridge, pressed the microwave button for the potatoes, and turned to take me into his arms. Nuzzling my neck, he murmured, “I will never, ever, ever hurt you, Charlie. You are the most important person in the world to me.”
Somehow, we forgot about the wine and the gazebo after that, and it was nearly eight p.m. before the steaks went on the grill and we sat down to a very, very satisfying dinner.
Chapter 5
Two days later, I dropped three fat envelopes through the mail slot at the main post office and walked out of there, carefree as a three-year-old. Tax season—done. Yeah, I know, it’s a weird kind of euphoria, something only an accountant can appreciate. I felt like celebrating.
Drake had rushed to the airport this morning to meet with some people from National Geographic about a photo shoot. I supposed I would get the details when the meeting was finished. Ron had said he was going to call Innocent Times and pretend to be a potential client to find out how their services worked. I promised to tell Victoria what he was up to and he threw a pad of sticky-notes at me.
Now, I stood beside my Jeep in the post office parking lot trying to decide what to do with my newfound freedom. The choices were many: I could go to the office and catch up on RJP billing and other tasks I’d not done in weeks; at home the roses still needed pruning and the lawn should be fertilized. Elsa’s busyness in her own yard reminded me I’d left several things half-finished in ours. A car waiting for a parking slot tooted at me, bringing me back to the fact I was uselessly taking up space woolgathering. I got in the Jeep, started the engine and backed out.
A block away, before I had to make the choice to turn left or right at Central, my phone chimed. Drake. I swung into a gas station lot and picked it up.
“Hey,” he said, “you in the middle of anything?”
“Happily, I’m not.”
“If you want to fly along, I’m taking a photo
grapher for a little jaunt over the mountains. He claims there’s an old mining camp up there and he’s doing a story on such things.”
Mining camps in the mountains reminded me of the job we’d taken last summer in Alaska, one that unearthed some tragic old secrets, and I almost declined. But here I sat with a beautiful spring day at my disposal and my husband inviting me to spend it with him.
“We’ll pull pitch in about twenty minutes, and you can ride along if you’re here,” he said.
My decision was made. I told him I’d come, then took the on-ramp to I-40 and raced westward toward Double Eagle airport as fast as my Jeep and the moderate traffic allowed. Precisely nineteen minutes later I whipped into a parking spot and waved at him through the mesh fence. His blue and white helicopter sat on the skirt outside one of the maintenance hangars.
Watching Drake in his khaki green flight suit and leather bomber jacket, I was struck with a hundred memories of days like this—my handsome pilot doing the thing he did so proficiently. Love welled up in my heart. My favorite times were when it was just the two of us, on our way to or from a job, sometimes he would be at the controls, sometimes I took them. The presence of a man with a large camera bag slung over his shoulder reminded me we had company today.
I walked through the fixed base operator’s office, said hi to Jimmy at the counter and joined Drake as he was helping his customer with the seatbelt on the passenger side. A quick introduction—the guy’s name was Michael-something. I hopped into the back and settled in. While the rotors spun up, Drake gave the standard safety briefing, the stuff about doors and windows and not touching anything. Within a few minutes we were skirting the northern edge of the city toward the Sandia Mountains.
I hiked these mountains a lot in my teens and early twenties, but there are still a zillion places I’ve never seen. For our purposes today, Michael wanted a general view of the area. I supposed his photographer eye would know what he wanted when he saw it. Drake and I chatted as we crossed I-25, skirted a couple of the Indian pueblos and followed Highway 14 past the tiny town of Los Cerrillos.
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