The Unquiet

by J. D. Robb; Mary Blayney

  They began to walk around the empty ball field, past deserted playground equipment and soggy picnic tables. “You’re sensitive about your work,” she noted, for something to say.

  “Am I?”

  “You make fun of it before anyone else can. ‘Blowing up scenic mountaintops,’ you called it.”

  “Lobbying’s a misunderstood occupation. Add ‘energy industry,’ and people assume I melt the polar ice cap for a living.”

  “It’s true,” she realized, abashed. “Well, what do you do?”

  Hands in his pockets, he stared down at the path his expensive shoes were cutting through the wet turf. “Talk, mostly. Try to get somebody’s point of view across to somebody else.”

  “For lots and lots of money.”

  He slanted her a look.

  “I’m sorry, that was incredibly rude. Money’s a—sore subject these days. Sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  “So you’re a professional persuader.”

  “There you go.”

  She stopped in her tracks.

  He noticed; stopped, too. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He’d sounded so much like Shorty! There you go. It was uncanny.

  They resumed their walk. Talked about the weather for a while, the likelihood of more rain, the imminence of summer. “How old is your dog?” Oliver asked.

  Pancho had abandoned the tennis ball to chase after the low-flying barn swallows crisscrossing the field. “Two, I think. He’s not mine, I’m just walking him for . . . somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh . . . somebody.” She blanked. Physical therapists probably didn’t do part-time dog-sitting. Oliver was scowling at her. “A friend,” she said shortly. “Who do you think?”

  “I really have no idea.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Were they fighting? What about?

  Next he asked, “So you live around here,” but in such a flat way, every word in the question implied disbelief.

  “Yes, I’ve told you. I have a house in Kensington.”

  “Mm hm. How come you’re not in the phone book?”

  “I am.” Oops. “I mean, I was.” Krystal Smith-Jones was definitely not in the phone book. “I—now I’m unlisted, that’s all. I just—decided to be.”

  “Mm hm.”

  “What is wrong with you?” They’d completed their circuit of the ball field and were back at the parking lot. “I don’t see how you persuade anybody to do anything when you go around with an attitude like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “What is it exactly that you dislike about me, Oliver? I would really like to know.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “It’s more than that. You said you wanted to talk about Charlie—okay, what about him?”

  It started to rain.

  “All right.” Oliver wiped a drop of water off his nose and took an offensive stance. “For one thing, there’s nothing the matter with his spine. Lumbar or cervical.”

  She blushed. Couldn’t think of a response. Her hair was getting wet.

  “For another, he’s an old man, he’s lonely. He lost his wife two years ago—”

  “I know all that.”

  “He’s trusting, vulnerable. And let’s face it, not exactly rocksteady in his judgment sometimes. I’m not accusing you of anything—”

  “Aren’t you?” The soaked dog sidled over and leaned against her thigh.

  “I’m just saying it would be easy to take advantage of him.”

  “I’m not taking advantage of Charlie.”

  The heavens opened up. Oliver swore out loud, Molly to herself. “In the car,” he ordered, and started for the Pontiac, Pancho trotting behind him.

  “What’s wrong with yours?” A joke, and it worked—Oliver’s look of horror made her laugh. They all climbed into her car, where Pancho immediately gave a vigorous full-body shake. Muddy water everywhere.

  High humidity, smell of dog, and relative quiet, just the drum of rain on the roof. Within seconds, the windows steamed up.

  “Here,” Molly said, leaning over to pull tissues from the glove compartment. She and Oliver dried their faces. His clothes were stuck to him, hers to her. The situation was anything but romantic, but—she was steaming up, too. She could feel her body changing. The physical pull was so strong, she was almost trembling. What was this? She didn’t like Oliver—she wanted to touch him everywhere. “Chilly,” she mumbled, to mask the cause of the shivering. And then she blurted out, “Okay, all right. I’m not exactly a physical therapist.” Lust, apparently, was like truth serum.

  “Except in a very broad sense.” Oliver’s sensuous lips sneered a little, but she didn’t think his heart was in the insult. The look in his eyes made her feel completely naked. Completely willing. “What exactly are you?”

  “None of your business,” she decided. Charlie would kill her if she told him the truth.

  Oliver’s hungry stare didn’t waver.

  “Okay, I’m a student.” What the hell.

  “Of human behavior.”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “Human needs and wants.”

  “You could say that.”

  They had a staring contest.

  She gave in at the moment he reached for her, so technically it was a mutual kiss. But rough, an artless coming together that felt inevitable and overdue. Teeth clashed, hands grabbed. They made rash, automatic adjustments to get closer, feel more skin. She loved his open mouth on her neck, but it made her want more. She found his bare back under his clothes and pressed, stroked. Groans of pleasure and frustration, his, hers, were like music, but they couldn’t say each other’s name. Hers was fake anyway. “Let’s . . .” “Can’t we . . .” “God, you’re . . .” The longer it went on, the more unbearable it became. She felt wound up tight, unable to think of anything but one thing. “How can we . . .” came out unintelligible, mashed against the heat of his delicious mouth. Oliver pulled away to look around, look behind them, find a way. “Is there a—thing, a—lever, we could . . .” He went still.

  She thought it was Pancho, sprawled out and making juicy sounds as he licked mud from his paws, that cooled Oliver’s passion. Had to happen, she thought, shaking again—with regret; this was crazy, plus the logistics were never going to work. But he wasn’t looking at the dog.

  He was looking at her bowling bag, lodged in the crack between the door and the seat. His face, before her eyes, changed from intense and aroused to hard and suspicious.

  “So,” he said in a winded voice, as if he’d been doing sprints. “You’re a bowler.”

  She was too dazed to respond.

  “That’s funny, so am I. What kind of ball do you use?”

  “What? What?”

  “Tenpin or duckpin?” He reached over the seat back and grabbed the bag. “Duckpin,” he guessed, hefting it in one hand. “Let’s see.”

  “Give me that,” she snapped, breathless, but he pulled the bag out of her reach.

  “Can’t I see your bowling ball?”

  “No!”

  “Come on,” and before she could react, he had the bag unzipped, the vinyl sides pulled apart.

  Even in the gray aquatic light, the crystal ball sparkled. Oliver stared at it in unblinking astonishment. Whatever he’d been expecting, this wasn’t it.

  “Give me that,” she said, snatching the bag from his limp grip. “You know what your problem is? You’re insane.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a bowling ball! A—a joke gift, from girlfriends. You wouldn’t understand.” She had an uncharacteristic urge to burst into tears. “Would you please get out of my car?”

  “I—I—”

  “Out, out, out, out—”

  “Listen, I’m sorry, I thought, I mean—”

  But whatever he thought he meant, he couldn’t put it int
o words, and his inarticulateness enraged her so much she wanted to punch him. But she couldn’t put her fury into words either, so she reached across him and shoved open the door on his side. “Out!”

  He got out.

  “Go blow up another oil rig in the Gulf!” were her parting words.

  For once the Pontiac started up on the first try. It was a small, mean pleasure to see that Oliver was completely soaked again before he could get into his stupid car. Hers sent gravel flying as she peeled out of the parking lot.

  TWELVE

  “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks, Grandfather. I was expecting ‘happy birthday.’ May I come in?”

  “Oh yeah. Happy birthday.” Charlie stepped back and opened the door wide. “Seriously, you don’t look so good.”

  The first thing Oliver noticed was that the mustangs were still missing from their place on the shelf in the foyer. The second thing he noticed was the napkin tucked into Charlie’s shirt collar. They went into the living room, where the TV was tuned, full blast, to Entertainment Tonight. “I’m sorry—you’re still eating. I thought you said you were finished.” That’s what Charlie had told him when Oliver had phoned from the car, asking if he could come over.

  “I’m finished. I never eat the cooked apples.”

  He looked more closely at Charlie’s tray, congealing on the flat arm of his easy chair. “A TV dinner? This is what you eat? Grandfather—”

  “Sometimes. So what? Siddown, I got something for you. Thought I’d have to wait till the weekend to give it to you.” He disappeared into the bedroom, but kept talking. “How come you didn’t go to that party thing at the office? If I’d known you were coming over, I’da baked you a cake.” He came back into the living room. “Ha-ha, okay, not baked, bought, but I’da put candles on it. Not every day a guy turns thirty-five.”

  “It wasn’t a party, just some friends from work. We were going to meet up at a club and have a few drinks. Nothing special.”

  “Yeah?” Charlie set a large, rectangular package on the coffee table, then collapsed on the couch. “So what happened?”

  “Nothing, I just . . . We weren’t in the mood for it after . . .”

  “Hah?” He cupped his ear. “Siddown, siddown. And speak up, I can’t hear you.”

  Oliver found the remote and clicked off the TV. He sat down in deference to his grandfather, but he wasn’t in the mood for this either. He wasn’t in the mood for much of anything. Hadn’t been for days.

  “I said, nobody felt like partying very much after I told Sharon I was quitting.”

  “Quitting? Did you say quitting?”

  “I gave them two months’ notice.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” Charlie slapped his knee. “Congratulations ! That’s great!”

  “Why is it great?”

  His delighted look faltered. “ Aren’t you glad?”

  “Sure.” Glad? He supposed. After all the fretting, soulsearching, and list-making he’d done to make the decision, he ought to feel elated, if only to have it over with. Something was dulling his emotions lately. What he mostly felt was numb.

  “So what’re you gonna do now?” Charlie asked. “Something big, I bet.”

  “Start my own firm—try to. Small, much smaller than Cullen Pratt. I’ll focus on alternative energies—”

  “Windmills,” Charlie guessed. “I always liked windmills.”

  “Wind, solar, hydropower, geothermal, biofuels. It’s what I’ve been doing, but I think I can do it better on my own. I hope.”

  “Oh, you will,” Charlie said with confidence.

  “Or I could lose my shirt.”

  “Nah, you’ll do great.”

  “You think so?” A wave of affection welled up unexpectedly.

  “Sure, absolutely. Anything you really wanna do, you’re gonna be good at it. That’s the way you are.”

  “Thanks, Grandfather.”

  “Don’t mention it. Open your present.”

  “I wasn’t miserable at Cullen Pratt, you know. It’s a good firm, good people, but if I’m ever going to accomplish something on my own—”

  “Right. You’re not getting any younger.”

  “You put it so gently.”

  Charlie nudged the package closer. “Open your present.”

  “You didn’t have to get me anything.” The serious weight of the box surprised him; he had to get a better grip just to lift it. A hazy inkling awoke. He tore off the festive ribbon and paper with a curious, rising anxiety.

  Inside the oblong box was exactly what he’d hoped for. Or feared. “The mustangs.”

  Charlie was rubbing his hands together with excitement. “I got that before you were born, y’know, a little store in New York, I was up there on a buying trip, paid diddly, and guess what it’s worth now. Guess. Two thousand bucks! I know, I shouldn’t say, it’s a gift, but I wanted you to know, I’m not just unloading some old crap on your birthday.”

  “I always liked it,” Oliver managed.

  “I know! That’s why I picked it, it was your fave. This appraiser guy—there’s a card in there, explains everything—he says it’s ‘museum quality.’ Eighteen hundreds, limited edition. Hundred percent bronze, special casting process. Who knew? I’m gonna get more horses appraised—I could have a gold mine here! So, you really like it?”

  “I love it. Thank you, Grandfather, it means a lot. But I don’t want to break up your collection—”

  “Collection, schmolection, take it home, put it someplace you’ll see it. I want you to have it.”

  Oliver leaned over and gave Charlie a wordless hug that left both of them a little misty-eyed. Charlie said this called for a drink and poured them brandies from a bottle he found at the back of a kitchen cabinet. Maybe that was what gave Oliver the courage to finally say what was on his mind.

  “You and, uh, Ms. Smith-Jones . . .”

  “Who?”

  “Krystal.”

  “Who?”

  “Your physical therapist, Grandfather. Except she isn’t, is she?”

  “Hm?” Charlie stuck his nose in his brandy glass.

  “Don’t you think it’s time to level with me?”

  “About what?”

  “Krystal! I’d like to know exactly what your relationship to her is.”

  “Why?”

  Oliver pressed all his fingers against his forehead. “I want to know. I just would like to know. Is it a secret?”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, Charlie was trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay, okay. What she is, is she’s my advisor.”

  “Your advisor.”

  “Spiritual advisor, you could say. In a way. Spiritual and emotional. Also social.”

  “Social?”

  “You’re a direct kinda guy—so’m I. I’ll sum Krystal up in one word for you, Oliver. She’s my friend.”

  Maybe, maybe not. One thing Oliver now knew she wasn’t: a horse thief. If he’d been wrong about that, what else had he been wrong about?

  Only one way to find out.

  “Krystal? It’s Oliver Worth. I need to speak to you. Would you call me when you get this message?” He thought of adding something softer, something placating. Hope you’re well, or Sorry about our last meeting. Or Boy, was I a jerk. But, no; he didn’t really know anything for certain. This was an exploratory call, not an apology. Yet.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised, then, when she didn’t call back.

  THIRTEEN

  Nine hundred and twenty, twenty-five, twenty-six, twentyseven, twenty-eight. Nine hundred and twenty-eight dollars and . . . a lot of change.

  Was that good? It didn’t seem like that much. Molly surveyed the odds and ends left over from her yard sale in the dwindling light of late afternoon. There was hardly anything left, which was good—less to donate or throw away—but if she’d known the detritus of her whole life was going to sell so quickly, she might’ve raised her prices.

  Nobody had bought the crystal ball, she saw as she haul
ed the scanty leftovers onto the front porch; not even for a measly five bucks. She’d give it back to Aunt Kit, except Aunt Kit was so mad at her she probably wouldn’t take it. (“Why didn’t you tell me you were losing your house? Why?” Excessive embarrassment didn’t seem like a good enough reason, so Molly had no answer.) She guessed she’d keep it, then, find room for it somewhere in the tiny efficiency on Colesville Road she’d be moving into tomorrow. Right after the sheriff auctioned off her house.

  Oh, her sweet little house. Almost bare now, between the yard sale and Craigslist, and yet it still felt like home to her. Walking through the echoing rooms to the kitchen, she vowed not to cry—she’d done some of that, not much, yesterday, and it hadn’t helped. “Bricks and wood and glass”—it was practically a chant now. It didn’t help either.

  The phone in her pocket rang. The psychic line—good; someone else she could deliver the news to personally.

  “Hi,” said Donette, the woman with the cheating husband. She had a new story of suspicion and treachery; Molly listened to it with the phone propped to her ear with her shoulder while she heated a piece of pizza in the oven and drank milk from the carton—she’d packed all the glasses.

  “Donette,” she said at the end of the familiar monologue and her own customary advice (leave him), “I am glad you called this evening, because it gives me the chance to tell you—I will not be able to speak to you again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She had different stories depending on the client. Some people wanted to hear she was going on to bigger and better things, some people wanted to hear just the opposite. She used her intuition. For Donette, she said, “I am starting a brand-new life. Scary, yes, but also quite exciting, I think. Freeing. But I will miss you—you are one of the ones I will truly miss.” Strange, but true.

  “But you can’t quit. Madame Romanescu—what’ll I do without you?”

  “You will listen to the words I have said,” so many, many times, “and you will put them into action, dear one. Bravely. You will lose all your fear. I see it so clearly: Like me, you are going on an adventure.”