96 Hours

by Georgia Beers

  Erica stood for several seconds with her mouth hanging open in disbelief, the expression so comical it made Abby bark out a laugh.

  “Oh, please. Don’t look so shocked. You pinged my gaydar the second I saw you in the airport.”

  Still at a loss for words, Erica just shook her head.

  Abby rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. There are plenty of extra blankets in that drawer Corinne pointed out. You can have the bed. I’ll be just fine on the loveseat.”

  “What—” Erica cleared her throat. “What caused the pinging?” At Abby’s squint, she said, “I’m curious as to why you think you can label me so easily.”

  With a shrug—and trying hard to hide a smirk of victory—Abby explained her reasoning. “Straight women love their clothes and heels, their makeup and pretty hairstyles. Love them. You don’t. You like them okay, but you don’t love them. That was my first clue.”

  “Well, that’s a gross overgeneralization.”

  “And yet, totally true.”

  “Hey, I paid a lot of money for this suit and these shoes.” Erica pulled her heels out of her bag and held them up as if they were the key evidence in a murder trial. “And I look damn good in them.”

  “I didn’t say they weren’t nice, that they weren’t expensive. And I didn’t say you don’t look fabulous in them. I said you don’t love them. You’re a little uncomfortable in them and some of us can see that. It’s no big deal. I hate them, too.”

  “I don’t hate them.” Indignation crept into Erica’s voice, into her face, etching lines across her forehead.

  “Okay. Okay.” Abby held up her hands in surrender. “Whatever.”

  “What was the other one?”

  “What?”

  “You said my clothes were your first clue. What was the other one?”

  “In the airport, you never once checked out a guy. And there were a lot of them there, but you never showed even an ounce of interest. Not once.”

  “How would you know that? You were busy chatting up every person with a pulse.”

  “And that was my third clue.” Abby’s victorious grin spread into a full-blown smile. “While you were pinging my gaydar, I was pinging yours.”

  “You were not.” Erica grabbed her bags, stormed into the bathroom, and slammed the door. Hard.

  Abby flopped onto the bed and tucked her hands behind her head. “I notice you didn’t deny actually having gaydar,” she mumbled, still grinning.

  Half an hour later, Abby was dozing, her night of next to no sleep finally catching up with her. She jerked awake when the bathroom door opened, sending the scent of soap and citrus into the room, and tried not to let her jaw drop onto the floor.

  Rude or not, uptight or not, Erica’s beauty was not to be denied and the simplicity of her clothing made her look only more delectable. The Capri-length black workout pants looked made for her, snug against her body and accentuating what Abby was certain was one of her best features: her behind. The white T-shirt with cap sleeves was plain and understated and the red hair was still damp, wavy and falling to her shoulders. Bare feet with toes polished red topped off what was one of the sexiest visions Abby had ever seen. Not bad for Fashion by Walmart. Not bad at all. Erica glanced her way, drying the ends of her hair with a peach towel.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “Hey,” Abby replied as she sat up. “How was your shower?”

  “Heavenly.” Erica stood for a moment and nibbled the inside of her lip as if organizing her thoughts. “Listen, I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to be so snippy. I’m just tired and I’d like to go home, you know?”

  Abby nodded. “I get it. No big deal.”

  “Anyway. I tried not to use all the hot water. Better get to it before the guys do.”

  Keeping her shower considerably short was a difficult task for Abby; the hot water and soap felt divine on her body. She scrubbed her head viciously, loving every second of it while reminding herself that there were other people in the house who needed the plumbing. She was loathe to turn the water off, but forced herself to do so after only a few minutes.

  “My god, it’s amazing what a shower can do for your psyche, isn’t it?” she asked as she left the bathroom.

  Erica was sitting on the bed, looking over some sort of paperwork. Curled up by her bare feet was a gray and white cat purring so loudly Abby could feel it in the pit of her stomach.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “I have no idea,” Erica said with a shrug, not looking up. “He just hopped up onto the bed and scared the shit out of me.”

  “He obviously likes you.”

  Erica shrugged again. “I like him.”

  Abby came closer. She reached out to scratch the cat’s head, but he darted away. “Hey! Come back, kitty.” She pouted like a child and plopped down on the bed. “I like kitties, too.”

  Erica kept her eyes on the paper in her hand, but Abby saw the corner of her mouth lift in the slightest bit of amusement.

  “It’s going on three,” she said, glancing at her Mickey Mouse watch. “I’m going to run up and see if I can help Corinne with dinner.”

  “Tell her I’ll be up in a minute,” Erica replied with a nod. “I just need to finish this up.”

  “’Kay.”

  Only when Abby turned and headed upstairs did Erica pull her eyes from her paperwork and look at her “roomie.” She tried to avoid admitting to the fact that Abby was very attractive. After all, it didn’t matter. Abby didn’t really like her; she didn’t really care for Abby. They had nothing in common and if they had to live together for longer than a few days, they might very well kill each other.

  That didn’t mean she wasn’t fun to look at.

  Abby’s Walmart purchases had been much less extravagant than Erica’s—if there was such a thing as Walmart extravagance. She had extra clothes in her backpack, so she wasn’t as desperate as Erica. A pair of red gym shorts, a white T-shirt with a red maple leaf on the front, and clean socks and underwear. That’s all she’d purchased. Her legs were undeniably sexy, lean and toned, probably from all the hiking she talked about doing. Their builds were quite different; Abby was slightly taller, her frame trimmer. Erica bet she stayed long and lean when she worked out, whereas Erica packed on muscle easily, definition appearing almost immediately after she settled into any kind of regimen. Abby was longer, slighter. Her hair was still damp and hung barely past her shoulders, thick and dark. As she reached the top step, she quickly glanced back and winked one crystal blue eye at Erica, whose face heated into a bright red in a matter of a nanosecond at having been caught looking. Abby grinned and went on her way.

  “Damn it,” Erica muttered.

  The ability to focus on her paperwork fled and she ended up staring without seeing it. So much had happened over the past three days that she was surprised she was still functioning. The disaster in New York City had come along and taken her mind off the disaster in her job. But now, she realized she’d rather focus on the disaster in her job than try to fathom what had happened in the Big Apple. It was too much to comprehend, so she chose to simply tune it out. At that moment, her intention was to never watch another news report about it. She’d just have to learn to focus on something else.

  The cat came out of hiding and hopped silently up onto the bed, studied her with bright green eyes.

  “How come you seem to like me?” she asked it. “I’m not terribly likable.”

  It stared some more.

  “You got a name?”

  It blinked once, slowly, then curled up between her feet, and lay down. The purring started up within seconds. Erica sighed. “Okay, then.”

  Hearing laughter emanating from above her, she picked out the individual tones of Abby, Corinne, and Brian, and she found herself smiling at the sound. Thinking about how she’d ended up where she was, how they had ended up where they were—four total strangers together now—she just shook her head. So strange. So very strange.

  Wher
e on earth did people like Tim and Corinne MacDougal come from? They were like characters from a fairy tale. If somebody had asked Erica last week about these circumstances, about the possibility of somebody welcoming complete strangers into their home for showers, dinner, and rest—out of the blue with no background on any of them—she would have laughed at the naiveté, at the sheer stupidity of such people. They’d probably be killed in their sleep—or at least robbed—by the very people they tried to help and they would have deserved it for being so gullible. That’s what she’d have said.

  And now? Well, she still thought they were naïve. But she was also grateful.

  Another infectious burst of laughter came down the stairs—Abby’s—and Erica caught herself grinning. Instead of listening from afar, she wanted to be a part of it, a feeling unfamiliar feeling to her. She put her paperwork away and headed upstairs.

  Chapter 7

  Corinne’s dishes were white with bright red apples on them and reminded Erica of her grandmother’s set back in Illinois, and as she scraped pork bones into the garbage she was hit by a sudden pang of homesickness. She handed the plate over to Michael, who rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher. The six of them had stuffed themselves with pork and potatoes and salad and had shared a coconut cream pie Corinne had made herself just a few days prior. Erica hadn’t participated a lot in the conversation, but the evening had been pleasant enough and it certainly beat spending the time twiddling her thumbs, unshowered and stuck on an army-issue cot. She was thankful, that was for sure.

  “Dinner was fantastic, Corinne,” Abby said as she entered the kitchen, loaded up with dirty dishes, Corinne on her heels. “Thank you so much.”

  “Somebody’s waitressed to pay the bills,” Brian said as he gestured at the way Abby had plates lined up her arms, carrying several at once.

  “I believe that any town in the world has an opening for a decent waitress,” she replied. “It’s hard work, but if you’re good enough at it, the tips can be nice.”

  “I agree with you,” Corinne said. “That’s how I got through university.”

  “I tried waiting tables once,” Michael said, his voice soft and deep. “The floor had a wet spot and when I stepped in it, my foot slid.”

  “Uh-oh,” Abby said.

  “I was able to stop my foot from sliding farther along the floor, but I was unable to keep the eggs from sliding clean off the plate and into my customer’s lap.”

  “Oh no!” Corinne exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes. My last day as a waiter, needless to say.”

  “I bet.” Abby glanced at Corinne, who was cleaning things up. “Hey. No, no. We’ve got this. Shoo.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Please,” Brian insisted. “You fed us all. The least we can do is clean up.”

  “That’s very nice of you,” Corinne said, patting Brian on the arm.

  Tim entered and looked at his wife. “Ready?”

  “I’m going back to the Lions Club and Tim wants to help with some supply deliveries. You four are welcome to whatever you want or need. Food, television, whatever. Make yourselves at home, all right?”

  “Liquor cabinet’s in the dining room,” Tim said, his face serious. “I imagine some of you may feel like a stiff drink after all that’s happened. You go right ahead.”

  “I have no idea when we’ll be back—I may just grab a nap there—so you just help yourselves,” Corinne said.

  “You’re just going to leave four strangers in your house?” Brian asked.

  Tim shrugged. “Yep.” He winked. “Come on, love. We’ve got to get moving.” With a little wave and a “toodle-oo” from Corinne, they went on their way.

  “Unbelievable,” Brian said.

  “I think they’re the nicest people I’ve ever met,” said Abby.

  “I think they’re insane,” Erica countered. Michael snorted a laugh.

  “Why?” Abby asked, her face an expression of almost-hurt. “Because they’re too nice?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.” While Erica certainly appreciated the generosity of the MacDougals, she couldn’t see herself offering her house, her things, and all her private space to four complete unknowns. It would never happen.

  “Well, I find it refreshing.”

  “I’m not surprised.” Erica took a plate from her hands, scraped it, handed it to Michael.

  “Not everybody hates people, Erica.”

  “That’s true.” Erica purposely avoided taking the bait, sensing she was getting under Abby’s skin and enjoying the role reversal for a change.

  “Hey.” Brian stood in the doorway, unsmiling. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m totally down with what Tim said.” He held up a bottle of tequila in one hand and a stack of shot glasses in the other. “Did I see some lemons in a dish someplace?”

  Not taking her eyes off Erica, Abby nodded. “I’m in.” Then she grabbed a lemon out of Corinne’s fruit bowl on the counter and proceeded to slice it, bartender perfect, into small sections.

  “Me, too.” Michael tossed the dish towel onto the counter and headed toward the doorway.

  It was the only time in her life when Erica recalled a shot of tequila sounding like anything but dangerous. She wasn’t somebody who drank often; she didn’t like feeling out of control. But this was different somehow. She scooped up the salt shaker and followed the trio into the dining room.

  Like the kitchen, nothing in the dining room was obviously expensive, but it was all nice, neat, and coordinated. A hutch sat along the back wall and displayed a set of china with a subtle daylily design on it. The table was small, but they’d added a leaf and Tim had pulled extra chairs from someplace upstairs so there’d be room for all of them at dinner. They took the same seats they’d had then and looked at one another.

  None of them really wanted to talk about the towers, about the hijackings, about the loss of life and the blow to the confidence and safety of all Americans, but those were the elephants in the room and once addressed, the foursome couldn’t stop. And the more they talked, the angrier they became. And the angrier they became, the more they drank. By the third round of shots, Abby and Brian were both in tears. Erica was staring into her glass, wishing she were someplace else talking about anything else. Michael was just as horrified as the rest of them.

  “I fly to Texas for my job six, sometimes seven times a year. America is my home away from home. I cannot fathom somebody doing this. I just can’t. It’s appalling. Abhorrent. It makes me physically ill.”

  “Okay.” Brian took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ve had enough. Can we talk about something else? What about you guys? Tell me about all of you.” He looked around the table, his green eyes boring into each of them. “You’re the people I’m with at this moment. This is our JFK moment, you know? It’s like how everybody who was around in the ’60s can tell you exactly where they were and what they were doing when they heard that Kennedy was shot. This is our version of that. I will always remember where I was and what I was doing—and you. I will always remember you guys and I want to know more.” His words trailed off, frayed by alcohol and emotion.

  “I know! Hold that thought.” Abby jumped up and left the room abruptly.

  “I have no idea,” Erica said with a shrug when both men looked expectantly at her.

  They sat quietly, each lost in thought, looking around the dining room of the strangers who’d been so kind. Brian’s gaze fell on a small red book on an end table and he picked it up, began thumbing through the pages.

  Abby returned with a square blue box. “I saw this on one of the shelves downstairs.”

  “Yahtzee?” Erica asked. “Seriously?”

  A flash of hurt zipped across Abby’s face. “I thought it would help us bond. What’s more American than the game of Yahtzee?”

  Erica had no comeback for that. Instead, she helped open up the box. “If we’re playing Yahtzee, I’m going to need another shot,” she said to Brian, whose face was still in the book. �
��What’s that?” Craning her neck to see the cover, she read, “‘If. Five hundred questions for the game of life.’”

  Abby handed everybody a score sheet and explained the rules. Taking the dice out, she handed each person one and said, “Highest roll goes first.” She then proceeded to roll herself a six.

  “Of course,” Erica muttered.

  “Wait.” Brian looked at the dice, then at the book in his hand, then back at the dice, a smile forming on his lips. “I’ve got a better idea. A way we can get to know each other. And maybe take our minds off this shit for a little while.” He picked up two dice and rolled them. A four and a six. “Page forty-six.” He flipped to that page, and read. “If you could rid the earth of one thing, what would it be?”

  Erica hated this game already.

  “Well, hell,” Brian went on, answering his own question. “That’s easy. Fucking crazy Middle Eastern terrorists. Duh.” His smile was forced and the anger in his eyes was nearly palpable.

  “Not exactly taking my mind off it,” Michael stated. “I don’t know about the rest of you.”

  “No, if we’re going to do this,” Abby said, the wheels in her mind turning, “we have to do it in an organized manner. We can’t just be blurting out questions.” She grabbed the dice. “I’m one, Erica’s two, Michael is three, and Brian is four. We’ll roll one die to decide who gets to answer—just roll again if you get a five or six. We’ll roll both dice to choose the page number of the book, like Brian just did. The reader can choose any question on that page. Capisce?”

  Brian nodded. Michael and Erica just blinked.

  “I’ll start,” Abby replied, not waiting for a response and rolling a die. “Three. Michael.” She rolled for the page, studied the questions, and smiled. “Okay. If you had to choose the single most charming person you’ve ever met, who would it be?”

  Michael didn’t need to think long. “I’d say Corinne’s right up there at the top.”

  Nods surged around the table. “I’ll drink to that,” Brian said, lifting his glass. They cheered and downed the shooters.