by Mary McBride
"Hush. It works, doesn't it? You're still alive."
"Barely," he mumbled.
He probably ought to be glad the son of a bitch in the park hadn't had a gun, Sonny thought. If he'd had his own, the guy would be in the emergency room now if not in the morgue. But he'd wanted to be truly off duty at tonight's party in hopes of convincing Mel that he wasn't a cop 24/7, that he could put the job aside and enjoy life's pleasures.
"This one isn't too deep," she said, tending the slash on his biceps now.
The stuff she used to clean it hurt worse than the wound itself. Sonny leaned his head back and closed his eyes. This wasn't going the way he'd planned.
Being in Melanie's house stripped to his skivvies was definitely on the evening's agenda, but not bleeding all over the place or feeling her light touch on his arm and his leg while knowing it was purely medicinal.
He heard himself swallow and realized he was still thirsty. He'd gone into the kitchen to get something to drink while Melanie was upstairs, but after he'd opened the refrigerator, looking for orange juice, he'd just stood there staring at the appliance's showroom-clean interior and its neatly arranged contents.
The ketchup bottle was wiped clean, without a trace of red residue around its cap. Same for the mustard. There was a howl of glistening grapes. Nearby, the yogurts were lined up like little soldiers, and Sonny hadn't a doubt in the world that they were ranked by expiration date. All of the small plastic boxes on the top shelf were neatly aligned and labeled in Mel's tiny, tidy print.
Sometimes he missed her so much he couldn't even breathe.
"Do you think I'll live, doc?" he asked her as she pressed a bandage to his arm.
"This time," she said.
When she began gathering up the first aid stuff, Sonny stopped her with a hand on her back. "Sit here a minute. Talk to me."
She sighed. "What about? Because if…"
"Anything," he said. "The weather. Politics. Tell me what's going on at city hall."
She relaxed a little, leaning back, her arm just brushing his. "Just the same old Byzantine wheeling and dealing. The Board of Aldermen approved my program last week by a fairly stunning majority. But then you already know that."
His eyes were closed again. He was merely enjoying the sound of her voice. Deep for a woman. Sexy. Seriously sexy.
"It's a good program," he said. "You worked hard putting it together and getting everybody on board."
"I just hope it'll have some kind of effect on the crime rate. I don't know. Maybe I was overly optimistic when I projected that ten percent reduction. Maybe it's ludicrous to think that a few scattered off-duty cops can make such a difference."
"Well, it worked tonight. It didn't prevent the crime, but it sure as hell got one criminal off the streets."
She murmured in agreement, then they were both quiet for a minute. Sonny reached for her hand and was surprised she allowed him to clasp it in his. It surprised him, too, that that was all he wanted physically at the moment. Just to hold her hand. It was like coming in from the cold to sit in front of a warm fire.
After a moment she asked, "You're not really serious about this house business, are you?"
He turned his head toward her and opened his eyes. "You think I took out a thirty-year mortgage just for fun?"
"Well, no, but…"
"I'm serious, Mel. You just watch."
"You don't know the first thing about rehabing a house. It's a huge undertaking."
"I'll learn."
"It takes time, Sonny. Hundreds, even thousands of man hours. Your job barely even allows you to have a weekend off."
"I'm going to make some changes. Who knows? I might even put in for a desk job. There are a couple openings right now."
She rolled her eyes. "I'd like to have an oil portrait of you sitting at a desk for longer than six minutes."
"I might surprise you," he said.
"Well, go ahead. Do what you want. It really doesn't have anything to do with me anymore."
"It has everything to do with you." He brought her hand to his lips for a soft kiss. Sensing her resistance, he decided it was time to change the subject. Telling her he had changed really didn't count for squat. He was going to have to show her.
"How's your headache, babe?" he asked. "Want me to massage your neck?"
For just a second her gaze softened, then she shook her head. "No, thanks. I think I'll just go up to bed. I've got a big day tomorrow."
He tightened his grasp on her hand. "Mel…"
"It's late, Sonny." She pulled her hand away. "Please go."
* * *
One of the distinct disadvantages of being an organized person was that there was nothing to scrub or to wash or to rearrange in the wee small hours of the morning when, to keep from going totally nuts, a person really needed an all-consuming distraction. So, at two-thirty in the morning, Melanie was in the nursery and up to her elbows in baby-duck yellow.
Maybe if Sonny had put up more of a fight when she'd told him to go, she could have worked up some righteous indignation that would have made it easier for her to fall asleep. Maybe if he'd tried to kiss her while they'd been sitting on the sofa or when she'd walked him to the door, she could have slugged him and worked off some of her physical frustrations.
But she'd told him to go and he'd put on his clothes and gone home. Just like that.
God. Maybe he had changed. Maybe…
No.
Melanie slogged the roller through the tray again and swiped another wide swath of color on the drywall, trying to not remember that it was Sonny she had to thank for the perfect shade. She was also making a valiant effort to not remember the sight of his long, lean body clad in only a couple of Band-Aids and a few ounces of spun black silk.
It didn't strike her as very appropriate for a mother-to-be to be entertaining the lurid thoughts that kept popping up in her head. And it miffed her no end that while she'd sat there salivating tonight, Sonny hadn't reacted to her at all. For all the revealing silk revealed, she might as well have been his kindergarten teacher or just another needlepoint pillow on the sofa.
He'd certainly changed in that respect. During their courtship and marriage, they'd never sat side-by-side on the sofa for any length of time without winding up horizontal someplace—either there on the sofa itself, or on the floor beside it. She wasn't at all sure what she would have done tonight if the opportunity, or Sonny, had arisen.
She stopped still with the roller halfway through its pass over the wall. Was he sick? Was there something physically wrong with him that he hadn't been able to tell her? Why else would he even contemplate taking a desk job unless he was no longer up to the rigors of being on the street?
He'd been hit by a bullet in that drug lab bust, but he'd been wearing a vest. From even the little she had read about the incident, he hadn't been seriously injured. And she'd seen enough of his bare skin tonight to know that, other than the new knife cuts, there were only the usual complement of scars.
Besides, if Sonny were seriously ill, she was sure he wouldn't hide it from her. What better ploy for getting her back than appealing to her conscience and her natural care-taking instincts?
She was the one who was going to be seriously ill if she didn't stop letting him upset her. She'd planned to get a good night's sleep before her appointment tomorrow, and here she was up painting at almost three o'clock.
My God. The appointment wasn't tomorrow anymore. Tomorrow was here already. It was today!
* * *
Sonny pitched another armload of trash into the Dumpster at the rear of his driveway. He'd been hauling garbage and warped linoleum and broken glass and God only knew what else for more than three straight hours, and he'd barely made a dent in the mess inside the big house. Whoever came up with the term "sweat equity" was right on the mark. He was soaked. Good thing they were turning on the water today. At least he'd be able to wash up in his kitchen sink.
Yesterday he'd driven to the precinct
to take a shower, but he couldn't do that today because, during a break from hauling trash, he'd sold his car. As it turned out, Patrolman Timothy Moore's wife had capitulated and given him permission to buy his dream car. The kid hadn't even taken it on a test drive.
"If it's good enough for you, Lieutenant," he'd said, "I know it's good enough for me."
"Well, if you have any problems, let me know," Sonny had told him, trying to sound macho and unsentimental. John Wayne saying so long to ol' Paint. Bogey dumping Bacall. "Go on. Get going. Thanks for the cash."
It was just a car, for God's sake, he'd kept telling himself when Moore drove away and that metallic purr dwindled in the distance. What would he rather have, Melanie or the 'Vette? Both, actually, but that wasn't the right answer, dammit.
After the car was gone, he worked even harder. Every time he walked outside with another load, he looked for Mel, but there were still no signs of life at 1222. It wasn't like her to sleep late any day, but especially not on one for which she had special plans. Of course, it wasn't like her to stay up until all hours the night before a special day, either. He'd watched the lights come on in the nursery last night and, when he'd finally dozed off around three, they were still blazing.
Her appointment was at eleven. It was written in big glossy red letters on her calendar in the kitchen. He saw it last night. Baby: 11:00.
Baby. The word broke from Sonny's lips like a curse.
He looked at his watch. It was ten-thirty now. Her gynecologist's office was all the way across town, which meant if she left right this minute, she'd have to race across the parking lot and take an express elevator to be in his waiting room at eleven, which meant that by Melanie's standards she was already fifteen minutes late.
Unless she'd changed her mind.
Unless she'd canceled the appointment.
He didn't realize he was holding his breath until he had to drag in a chestful of air. Just as he did, Mel came barreling out her back door.
"I am so late," she said to no one in particular as she sprinted for the Miata.
"Morning, Mel," he called, enjoying the way her black slacks molded to her legs as she moved, to say nothing of the white top that hugged her lovely, high-riding breasts. God, he loved looking at her.
"I'm late," she called back.
"Well, that's a first."
She had time enough to pitch him a murderous look before she slid behind the wheel and stabbed the key into the ignition. The switch ground but the engine didn't turn over. She turned the key again, this time making the ignition nearly scream. Still, the engine didn't respond. After her third try, Sonny sauntered over before she wreaked permanent damage to the vehicle.
He tapped on the driver's window. "Car won't start, huh?"
Even before the glass descended he could hear her blistering string of curses. Sad to say, she'd probably learned the worst of them during their time together.
"I can't believe this! Why won't it start?" She slapped her open palms on the steering wheel.
"Dunno. Pop the hood and I'll take a look."
She scanned the dashboard, then swore again. "I don't know where the… Oh, wait. Here."
The gas cap popped open. Sonny pressed it shut. "It's by your knee, Mel."
"Which knee? I have two."
"Your left."
She reached down. A second later the latch on the hood released with a little thunk.
"That's it," Sonny said. He checked the oil, mostly to look busy, then stood staring thoughtfully into the engine compartment when Melanie joined him.
"Can you tell what's wrong?" she asked.
He shook his head, then leaned forward to jiggle a wire. "Everything looks okay to me."
"Maybe it's the battery," she said as if she even knew where it was.
"Nope. I don't think so."
"Well, what is it?"
He shrugged. "Dunno."
She treated him to a whole new vocabulary of curses then, and kicked the front tire while she was at it. "I have an appointment at eleven o'clock," she wailed. "What am I going to do?"
Helpful neighbor that he was, he shrugged again.
"I know. I'll take the Corvette. Could I borrow it, Sonny? Just for an hour or two? I can have it back by one, I'm sure."
"Sorry, babe. It's gone."
"What do you mean, it's gone?"
"I sold it. The guy came by at eight this morning, took one look at it, and handed me a fistful of cash." He pulled the wad from his pocket as proof. "I was going to ask if I could borrow the Miata to take this to the bank."
"Oh, great." She threw up her hands. "This is just great."
"You could call Stover's Garage. Of course, they probably couldn't get anybody over here till this afternoon."
"Great," she snarled.
"Sorry."
"Well, okay. This isn't a disaster. It's not the end of the world," she said as if she were trying to convince herself of it. "I'll just have to shift my appointment. That's all. I'm going in right now and call. Thanks for the help, Sonny."
"Sure. No problem."
* * *
"Would you like to reschedule for next week?" the nasal voice on the phone asked.
"No, you don't understand," Melanie said. Good Lord, how many times did she have to explain to this woman. "This is for artificial insemination. It has to be today or tomorrow. I can call a cab and be there by eleven forty-five, I'm sure. Twelve at the latest."
"No," the woman said through her nose. It came out sounding like new. "I'm afraid that's not possible. Doctor is leaving on vacation at noon today. His last appointment was at eleven."
"That's my appointment," Melanie shrieked.
"Would you like to reschedule for next week? Doctor will be back in the office Thursday."
"Listen to me, you…" Melanie clenched her teeth. "I'll have to call you back. I really can't even speak right now." Other than to curse.
Melanie slammed the receiver back in its cradle. During the conversation, she'd been pacing from one end of the kitchen to the other, but now she pulled out a chair and sat before she keeled over from blood pressure that must have been over the moon. Okay. It wasn't the end of the world. She'd be fertile in another twenty-eight days. What was the worst that could happen? She'd have an Aquarius instead of a Capricorn. She'd adjust. Everything was the same—just one month off.
It was tempting to blame this on Sonny, but it was her own fault for staying up so late painting and then forgetting to set her alarm. Of course, even if she hadn't been running late, the car still wouldn't have started and there wouldn't have been time enough for a cab.
Maybe she just wasn't meant to get pregnant today. She didn't really put much faith in astrology or other woo-woo things, but maybe in this case fate simply had other plans. Maybe it was for the best. Worst case she was going to have an extra month to get the nursery and the playroom ready. How bad was that?
Having talked herself out of a thoroughly rotten mood and lowered her blood pressure in the process, she went to the sink to get a glass of water and was just in time to see Sonny hoist another box of trash into the Dumpster. His denim shirt was dark with perspiration and his hair was falling over his forehead until he reached up to rake it back with his fingers.
He sold his car! She'd been so upset about her own car earlier that she hadn't even reacted to his astonishing news. Sonny sold the sleek, black, bad-ass, love-of-his-life Corvette. Good God. She didn't believe he'd actually do it.
She leaned closer to the window to peer down the driveway just in case he was lying and the Corvette was actually parked back there, hidden under a tarp or something. She looked back at Sonny, who was now standing with his arms crossed, gazing at the back of his house like a proud homeowner.
The world as she knew it seemed to have strayed drastically off course. Melanie went back to bed.
* * *
Sonny took a break at one o'clock. Lunch was a warm beer and a couple of granola bars. Sitting on his front porch, he
gazed idly at the park across the street where several women were laughing and chatting as they pushed strollers along the perimeter path. They looked so happy, as if there were no better place in the world to be than Channing Park, and nothing better to be doing than pushing a kid ahead of them into a bright spring day.
He ticked off nine months on his fingertips. Mel planned her baby for January. He couldn't even begin to fathom all the reasons for that, but he knew she had them. She'd missed today's appointment, but she could still make her baby deadline. He'd be only too happy to oblige.
Before he approached her with a proposition, however, he was going to have to sneak the spark plug back under the hood of the Miata. If she caught him, and assuming she didn't kill him, she'd probably have him arrested for malicious mischief. That was okay. He was ready to go as far as kidnapping.
While he was watching the young mothers turn east on the path, an unmarked department car pulled up at the curb. Mike Kaczinski got out and ambled up the broken concrete of the sidewalk.
"Lunch?" he asked, eyeing the beer can and the granola bar wrappers.
Sonny aimed a thumb in the direction of the front door. "The beer's in the kitchen. Help yourself."
"I'll take a rain check. Thanks."
Mike was in street clothes, but it was obvious he was on duty. For a minute, Sonny felt like an unemployed bum trying to corrupt an officer of the law.
"How are things going down at the shop?" he asked. "Anybody miss me?"
Shaking his head, Mike edged a hip onto the porch wall. "Nah. We're all enjoying the quiet. The captain can't find anybody to yell at."
Sonny laughed.
"How's it going?" Mike's gaze slid toward the house next door.
"She missed her appointment this morning. Damned car wouldn't start."
"Shame," Mike murmured.
"Yeah." Sonny took a swig of beer. "Damned shame."
"Just don't step over the line, Son. You know what I mean?"
"I know what I'm doing, Mikey. Don't worry about it."
They'd been friends long enough to know that this particular discussion was temporarily closed.
"I heard you sold you car," Mike said, changing the subject to one almost as unpleasant. "What are you going to get to replace it?"