by Jodi Thomas
Blaine got to work early the next afternoon. Tuesday was already there, baking up a new brand of muffin she claimed would be the “signature” Midnight Muffin.
They heard Miller stomping around upstairs, but neither had bothered to ask if he was moving in or simply dusting out the place. Since opening the café, Blaine noticed that his clothes were cleaner, and he’d even managed to find a barber who’d trimmed a few inches off the bush of hair he lived in. He hadn’t changed his gruff attitude, though most of the regulars simply thought of him as part of the atmosphere of a café open so late.
Cleaning the tables, Blaine made a mental note of supplies needed, then counted out the cash for the register. The late sun sparkled through the windows when the first group of customers walked in.
Looking up, Blaine watched three women she had known for years. She had chaired several committees with Phyliss, and Alice worked with her on library fund-raisers. The third was one of the partners’ wives from Mark’s firm. Though Jillian Winslow was probably twenty years older than Blaine, they’d shared many an evening while their husbands talked business. Jillian had been the one who’d introduced her to the world of volunteering. They usually worked on different projects, but ran into one another at the same places. Blaine preferred the hands-on work, Jillian the fund-raising.
“Oh, miss.” Jillian looked straight at Blaine. “Do we sit anywhere?” There was a note of impatience about her as though she expected to be waited on immediately.
Blaine watched for the shock to move across their faces when they recognized her. It would only be a moment, she told herself, before all three rushed toward her, crying and shouting about how they all thought she was dead.
She could have been no more than a fixture for all the attention they paid her as they sized up the tiny café with its old furnishings and hand-painted signs.
“Oh, well,” Alice said. “It smells good anyway. We need a break.”
“Sit anywhere, ladies.” Tuesday bumped Blaine with her hip as she passed. “I just finished writing the muffin choices on the board. While you decide, do you all want coffee? We make a mighty fine cup here.”
“Decaf for me.” Jillian moved from table to table as if looking for one clean enough to sit at.
Phyliss put on her glasses so she could see the list posted behind the counter. “Just water for me,” she said to Tuesday. “With extra lemon.”
“I’ll have the same,” Alice added. “It’s far too hot for coffee.”
Tuesday glanced over at Blaine. “Have you got it, Mary?” she mumbled. “I need to pull out the last batch of muffins.”
Blaine nodded and began serving the table. She carefully put the drinks in front of the women, waiting for them to recognize her. Jillian and Phyliss acted as if she wasn’t there and Alice moved her purse from the back of her chair to her lap, keeping her hand atop it.
“Would you like cream?” Blaine asked Jillian twice before the law partner’s wife looked up.
“Heavens no,” Jillian answered without smiling.
For a second their gazes locked. The older woman looked away first, drawn back into conversation with her friends.
Blaine played the same game with the others. Asking them direct questions until they looked up at her. Waiting for someone to recognize her. How could they look at her and not see her? The sun shone on her face. She hadn’t gained that much weight. Surely makeup didn’t change her completely.
They said nothing to her. Phyliss even looked around her to follow what Jillian said more closely.
Blaine almost forgave Mark for not knowing her the moment he saw her. The café was shadowy after dark and the porch light at Dr. Early’s even worse, but these women were looking at her in broad daylight. She wasn’t going to keep her head down and speak softly, she would face each one. Surely, with one glance, they could see her. They had all spent hours talking to her over the years.
But none did. If anything, they seemed annoyed that she continued to interrupt their conversation. Blaine finally moved back to the counter to watch them. A month ago she had been one of them and now they didn’t even know her. She’d worn the clothes, the expensive haircut, the makeup, the tan. She had talked of the next fund-raiser, the next party, the new restaurants in town. But no more. She was no longer a part of them and she knew deep down that she never would be again. Maybe she never had been, maybe she’d only pretended.
The knowledge freed more than saddened her. In a way, she’d been wearing a mask with them and suddenly it felt good to breathe.
They chatted, lost in their own world with nothing around them of any importance. They asked for things, an extra plate, a bag to take half a muffin home, more water with extra lemon, but they didn’t see Blaine as she waited on them.
It wasn’t just the hair, clothes and makeup that had changed, Blaine realized. She had. Since that day in the clinic when she’d thought her world would end if she got bad news she’d grown and, more importantly, she’d survived.
“Will that be all?” Blaine placed the bill on the table.
“Yes,” Alice said with a half smile as she reached for her purse. “Thank you, miss.”
“You are welcome.” Blaine returned her smile to the top of Alice’s head. “Come again.”
She held the door and they each walked past her and out of her life.
Blaine went back inside, cleaned the table and stuffed the dollar tip in her pocket. Tuesday spread out sandwiches and milk on the counter and waited. It had become a habit late in the day to eat a quick supper together. Mrs. Bailey always sent a meal to work with Blaine, afraid her youngest daughter wouldn’t be eating right, now that she was out on her own.
Tuesday took a bite of her sandwich and mumbled. “How’d you like to be one of those rich ladies with nothing better to do in this world than shop?”
Blaine shrugged. “Seems like a nice life.”
“Maybe. I haven’t been able to shop in regular sizes since grade school. Kind of takes the fun out of going to the mall when all you can look for is purses and shoes.”
Blaine nodded as she sampled one of the sandwiches.
“They’re white bread though. Everything’s all taken out of them. It must take generations of boring people breeding with even more boring people to make a woman like that. Give me whole-wheat, or banana-nut, anything but white-bread people.” She giggled. “I like folks yelling, and feeling, and sometimes even messing it up. At least you know you’re alive when you’re hurting, or hungry, or lonely. Those women haven’t felt anything in years.”
Blaine didn’t argue. Tuesday wouldn’t believe her if she told her how easy it had been to slip into that lifestyle. More than just the money or education, there was something else. The fear of feeling drives people to eliminate all possibility of connecting with another. It’s like thinking, “If I don’t know you, you can’t hurt me. If I don’t step out of my safe little circle, no one can touch me.”
Blaine fought to swallow around the lump in her throat. She couldn’t go back to the nothingness of her life, no matter how much she loved Mark. She’d stepped too far out of the circle of safety.
The sadness in Mark’s eyes came to mind. Maybe so had he. He didn’t seem to be living the life he’d lived before she left. Even with all his worries last night, he’d remembered to get Miss Lilly’s muffins, something he never would have thought about before. Maybe he’d changed.
Tuesday leaned back in her chair. “I love this job,” she said honestly.
“You’re good at it.” Blaine pushed her thoughts aside. “What’s your favorite part?”
Tuesday blushed. “When that detective comes in. Seems like I have to wait most of the evening before he comes blowing in, but it’s worth the wait. He calls me hon, like he means it. He’s not married or anything, I’ve asked him. When I suggested he might be late picking up his date last Friday, he laughed like I was making some kind of joke. He said he doesn’t date much. Can you believe that?”
Bl
aine almost said yes before she realized she’d be hurting Tuesday’s feelings.
“You think I should ask him over to my apartment and cook him a meal?”
Blaine smiled. “Definitely.”
“What if he turns me down?”
“Then he’s a fool,” Blaine answered. “But you’re out there living, loving, fighting, mixing it up.” Blaine turned Tuesday’s words on her. “You’re living and who knows, maybe even loving.”
Tuesday reddened even more at the compliment.
Glancing past the girl, Blaine watched the street. For once she thought about other things. The man in the blue hat was almost at the door before it registered in her mind that she was staring at the bomber.
He came in, his head low, his left arm loaded down with a grocery bag. He took the first seat near the window.
Blaine could see the black oil on his hands from across the room. She swore she could smell it. He didn’t look up, but she knew when he did she’d be staring into gray eyes.
Blaine dropped her sandwich and whispered to Tuesday. “Get Miller!”
Tuesday opened her mouth to ask a question, then reconsidered and slipped off the seat. She hurried to the back.
Blaine was alone with the killer. She stared as he slowly raised his head and turned toward her.
Gray eyes looked at her as if she were already dead.
Thirty-Three
Mark never walked the streets until long after sunset. The heat and the constant crowds around the capitol made it impractical. But when he left work a little after five his only destination was the café. He needed to see Blaine. All day he’d been pretending in the office that nothing was wrong.
He’d even passed Winslow in the hall and talked of nothing as they always did. As if he didn’t know the partner would be arrested soon. As if he’d been able to sleep from worry. What if the paid killer got to Blaine before the police rounded him up? What if Winslow’s “friend in the department” passed on news about the file? Winslow would have an easy guess as to who had turned him in, and Mark would be out in the open, a sitting duck. But, he reasoned, going into hiding would only cause questions. He didn’t want Winslow to suspect a thing until the police walked in the door.
At this rate, Mark figured he might get in the Guinness Book of World Records for lack of sleep.
Mark walked to his car removing his tie and jacket and wishing Randell had called. Something must be going on. The wait was killing him.
A woman pushing a stroller walked past him.
Mark realized he’d had so much on his mind he hadn’t given much thought to Blaine’s pregnancy. Now a hundred questions formed. Was she sure? Did she want the baby? Did the thought of it frighten her half as much as it did him? He wasn’t sure about how he felt about becoming a father, but he knew how he felt about Blaine, and nothing, not ten children, would stop him from needing her.
He glanced back at the stroller. The baby might as well have been an alien for all he knew of children. He had barely figured out how to keep the cat from starving, what luck would he have with a kid? A child would change them, change their marriage. Was it strong enough to survive?
The traffic fought his progress, but Mark finally managed to slide into a parking spot directly across the street from Midnight Muffins. The afternoon sun reflected off the glass, but he could see inside. Blaine stood by the counter and one man sat at a table near the door. Tuesday, the cook, and the guard dog Miller were nowhere in sight.
Crowds of people hurried down the street blocking his view again and again. Downtown Austin was a beehive about this time of day. Everyone hurried to get somewhere other than here, and the traffic crawled along bumper to bumper.
Mark watched Blaine work. For a few minutes he just enjoyed knowing that she was close. He’d always enjoyed watching her move and a change in hair color didn’t alter his pleasure.
He couldn’t see her very well through the glass, but he decided she wasn’t any less beautiful than before. There was a grace about her movements and a glow in her cheeks that no amount of makeup could change.
Then he noticed she brushed her hand across her abdomen and then glanced toward the back door.
Nothing happened. She moved her hand once more over her middle, protectively this time, then looked from the one customer to the kitchen door as though waiting, or hoping, for something.
She was nervous, Mark thought. But why? There was only one man in the café, a thin guy with a blue cap on. Surely she didn’t think it was too busy for her to handle the place alone.
A thin guy in a blue cap!
Even in the heat of the car, Mark felt a chill. A blue cap.
He tried to see the man’s hands, but he was too far away. Mark told himself that a hundred people were probably walking the city wearing blue baseball-style hats, but it didn’t stop the panic. He could be the one Randell and the police were searching for.
The only customer, alone with Blaine, could be the bomber.
Mark watched her move behind the counter. She felt uneasy, he decided, for except when she glanced quickly toward the back, she kept her eyes on the one stranger. She was in danger and no one stood near to help.
Climbing from the car, Mark waited for traffic to break enough for him to run across the street. He needed to get a closer look at the man. If his hands were oily, Mark would be on the phone to Randell within seconds. This could be the break everyone had been waiting for.
The two old bag ladies he’d seen at the bus stop neared the café. Chocolate Anna watched traffic, but the one called Vanilla Anna talked to the people passing by, wiggling her finger at first one and then another. Telling them to wait until the Walk sign before crossing or she would put them in the corner to think about their crimes.
Mark swore at the traffic that kept him from the café. He didn’t want to take the time to cross at the light. Blaine might need him now. She must be near panic. There was a phone in the kitchen she could use to call the cops, but to do so, she’d have to leave the stranger alone.
The constant flow of steel stopped his progress halfway across the street. Mark stood, cars passing on both sides of him, but all he could see was Blaine backed into a corner.
The Annas entered Midnight Muffins waving their hellos. They sat down at a table next to the man in the blue cap. Each arranged her bags around her legs so all would be in easy reach.
To Mark’s horror, Blaine placed herself between the two old ladies and the man in the cap. As he darted across the street, he saw Miller storm from the kitchen with Tuesday a step behind.
The stranger grabbed the bag beside his chair and ran through the door before Miller rounded the corner of the counter. Mark was within five feet of the passageway only to have to weave through a crowd of grade-school children monopolizing the sidewalk. When he reached the entrance to the passageway, the bomber was gone, vanished.
“Did you see a man in a…” Miller shouted as he banged from the café.
“I saw him.”
“Which way…”
“I don’t know.” The man had disappeared on the streets, too short to stand out in the horde of people.
Miller looked angry enough to beat the information out of Mark and frankly, if that would have helped, Mark wouldn’t have minded.
“You go left, I’ll go right,” Miller ordered.
“If I spot him, I’ll call Randell.”
“You do that,” Miller mumbled as he turned.
Mark turned to his left wishing he had on his running shoes or even more comfortable clothes. He didn’t fit in as well in the crowd in a starched white shirt and custom-made trousers. Darting between the people, he fought his way as fast as he could, trying to look at every person on the street as he passed. He searched block after block, doubling back and taking a different path again and again. He walked into restaurants, hotels, bars, scanning every place for the sight of one man.
Shadows lengthened. Several times Mark thought he saw the cap only to find he�
��d followed the wrong person for a block. In the back of his mind he kept the hope that Miller was having better luck. They couldn’t let the guy slip away. The thought that he’d been so close made Mark angry. The memory of him being almost within reach of Blaine made Mark sick to his stomach.
When he turned down the streets where bars lined both sides, he knew he’d gone too far, but he pushed on to the underpasses beneath Interstate 35. The sky was draped with heavy clouds, making it seem darker and later in the day. He walked past businesses with boarded-up windows and colored lights beckoning from shadowy doorways. Empty beer bottles clambered into the gutter as he stepped around a line of young people dressed in black waiting for one of the bars to open.
It was too late, Mark realized. The bomber could be standing ten feet away and he wouldn’t be able to see the man. It was too dark. He’d let the man who tried to kill Blaine get away. Mark felt as if he’d failed her once again.
“You lost, Mr. Businessman?”
Several of the thugs he’d seen the other night had fallen into step at his side. They bothered him more than frightened him, but he remembered one had knifed Miller that night the old man had tried to protect the bag ladies. Talking to them was like poking at a beehive. Mark reminded himself to take care.
“Look, fellows, I’m not hunting trouble. I’m just looking for someone.” Mark walked faster, but they stayed right with him.
“Fellows!” one yelled and they all laughed. “He’s just one of us fellows.”
“We’re his buddies,” another one added. “His pals.”
The thug closest to Mark held out his palm. “How about loaning me some money, pal?”
Mark moved faster, his runner’s muscles responding to the challenge, but the boys stayed right in step.
“I could use a loan.”
“Me too,” another echoed.
Mark stopped and faced them, unable to see their faces clearly in the night. “Why don’t you boys go away. I’m not going to give you any money and I’ve more important things to do than visit with you.”
“Boys?” One giggled. “How you like this, old man?” He swung as if to land a blow on Mark’s jaw.