When the Sun Goes Down

by Gwynne Forster

  The wind picked up, and Mirna tightened her jacket. “I wouldn’t a mentioned it, but she called here so fine and ladylike that I got excited thinking you’d found a nice girl. I feel she a good person, ’cause I got the right vibes from her, and my vibes don’t usually fool me. Still, you never can tell.”

  He also got the right vibes from Caroline, but he doubted that he judged his vibes on the same basis as Mirna judged hers. “She’s kind and generous,” he heard himself say. “She won’t pass a homeless person without giving something, and she doesn’t rush people. If they’re in her way, she waits until they move, or she says ‘excuse me.’ I like a lot of things about her.”

  “Why don’t you ask her to dinner when Ms. Shirley is here, and maybe Ms. Shirley can invite Mr. Montgomery. They been seeing each other how long now? Four, five, or so months? And she got yet to invite him for a meal here. A woman ought to see a man in her own space. See how he act. ’Course, if he was mine, I’d display him like he was the American flag. That chicken ’bout roasted now. I’ll sauté some spinach in five minutes, and dinner be ready.”

  He sat down to the beautifully set table, grateful that he could enjoy a meal in Mirna’s company. He needed a companion, and he was in a financial position at last to afford a family. But he didn’t want to rush into anything. Yet he also didn’t relish being sixty years old and crawling around his house with babies on his back, trying to be a playful dad.

  “This smells so good,” he said.

  “It gon’ taste good, too. I stuffed this chicken with rosemary and thyme, seasoned it and rubbed it good with butter, covered the roasting pan with those little crimini mushrooms and shallots, and seasoned them with butter, salt, and pepper. You can’t eat a thing better. Didn’t cost much either.”

  “It’s fantastic. So’s this jalapeño corn bread. Have some wine.”

  “Mr. G, you know I don’t drink nothing stronger than coffee. Thanks, though. If I drank a glass of that stuff, you or somebody’d have to carry me home.”

  He couldn’t help laughing at the mental picture he got of Mirna inebriated. “In that case, I’ll keep it out of your reach. This is a great meal. What would you cook if I invited Caroline to dinner?”

  “Nothing I cooked for you so far. I’d pull out the stops, and especially if Mr. Montgomery was here, too. That man loves to eat.”

  “You like him. Why?”

  “Mr. G, I know a man when I see one. It ain’t that he so good-looking, though he sure is that. Lots of hot-looking men in this town, and some of ’em ain’t worth a rat’s tutu. It’s ’cause he straight, Mr. G. Whatever a woman needs in a man, she can find right there. Trust me. He’s got it, and he solid as the United States mint. You oughta encourage your sister to tie things up with him.”

  “I’m not sure she needs any encouragement. Mind if I ask what happened to your marriage?”

  “No, I don’t. If he’d a been a man like you, I’d still be married to him, but he was a lot like Mr. Edgar. Me and gambling is like oil and water. I work for my few pennies, and I ain’t putting them on no horses and no numbers. He gambled the roof from over our heads, and I told the judge I deserved better than that. Her Honor agreed. The next man I marry gon’ be from Krypton.” Her laughter seemed to start in the pit of her belly before it rolled out in pure, ecstatic enjoyment.

  “Mr. G, that is really funny, and I mean every word of it.”

  “I imagine you do. If you try to befriend a gambler, you’ll soon be as broke as he. I’m thinking of having a guest for Thanksgiving—that is, unless you want to be with your family.” Caroline wouldn’t consider that exceptional, he thought, because one would expect them to be together on holidays.

  “I don’t have no kids, so that’s fine with me. You want a turkey or a goose?”

  He stared at her. There was more to Mirna than she’d made apparent. “Turkey. We could have a goose for Christmas. What did you do before you started housekeeping?”

  “I taught cooking at the Béchamel Institute, but I didn’t have no degree in home economics, just a GED and a certificate from a cooking school in Atlanta. So when the new manager took over the institute, he let me go. Restaurant cooking is too hard, and you often have to work a split shift. So I settled for housekeeping.”

  “That’s really too bad.” He got up from the table. “Thanks for a great dinner. I’ll let you know about Thanksgiving.”

  He went to his room, looked up the phone number for Shirley on the Utopia Girl, and dialed it. “Ms. Farrell’s office.” He identified himself and asked to speak with Shirley. “I don’t know where she is right now, but call this number and you’ll get her.”

  He thanked the woman and dialed the number. “Ms. Farrell speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Hi, Shirley. If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to ask you something.”

  “Sure. What’s up?”

  “I’m thinking of asking a friend to Thanksgiving dinner, but I don’t want it to seem like too big a deal. If you’re not planning something else, how about inviting Carson to have dinner with us—that is, unless he intends to be with his family.”

  “His brother is his only family, so ...”

  “Tell him to bring his brother and his date. We’ll have a big party.”

  “What’s this girl’s name?”

  “Caroline. She’s nice.”

  “She’d better be, ’cause I see you like her a lot. All right. I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of Carson.”

  Suddenly, for reasons he didn’t examine, laughter poured out of him. He sat on the edge of a chair, nearly missing it altogether, and rocked while he laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Shirley asked over and over.

  When he could control himself, he said, “I asked you. You have to ask Carson. Carson has to ask his brother, and his brother has to ask his girlfriend; then it has to come back up the chain. By the time it gets back to me, it’ll be Christmas.”

  “And that made you hysterical? You’ve been working too hard.”

  “Maybe, but my company has sold four million copies of one computer game that I designed and developed, and I’ve just released another one that’s jumping off the shelves.”

  “Get outta here!”

  “No kidding. Frieda was the inspiration for the first one, and when I get a full accounting, I’m going to give her something. It’s about a nurse and three little boys. I made if for kids, but adults seem to love it, too.”

  “Congratulations. It’s too bad that Father isn’t here to eat crow.”

  “Yeah. I think about that often. Wonder what he’d say.”

  “There’s no telling. You know how he loved money,” Shirley said. “I’ll call you tomorrow about Thanksgiving dinner.”

  He hung up and sat alone in the dark of his bedroom, trying to decide on his obligations to his siblings. He hadn’t adjusted to his sudden wealth; indeed, he hadn’t taken it into account. Did he put money in trust for them, especially for Edgar, who would dissipate whatever he got in a matter of days?

  “I’ll decide after I know what’s in that will,” he said to himself. “That may change all our lives.”

  Somewhere between La Barra and Bahia, Shirley locked her office, stopped by the frozen-yogurt machine, got a cone full of it, and headed to her stateroom. She kicked off her shoes, got comfortable, dialed Carson’s number, and after they greeted each other, she presented him with Gunther’s suggestion for Thanksgiving dinner.

  “What do you think?”

  “Ogden and I usually get together for Thanksgiving, but this is such a wonderful idea.... Look, I’ll tell him that if his girl can’t come, he should come alone. Be sure and thank Gunther for me. I love the idea. Have you met his girlfriend?”

  “No, and I suspect he’s killing several birds with one stone.”

  “I’ll call Ogden right now and get back to you.”

  She thought of Gunther’s laughing and worked hard at restraining her own laughter. “Okay, I’ll be ri
ght here.”

  “I miss you, sweetheart. I miss you one helluva lot.”

  “I miss you, too. I can hardly wait till we get to Ocho Rios.”

  “I’m counting the seconds. We’ll talk later.”

  By noon the next day, Gunther was able to tell Mirna that she would be having six for Thanksgiving dinner, seven with herself. “Pull out the stops,” he said. “You’ve been itching to do it, so here’s your chance. You’ll need some extra money, so let me know how much. By the way, I hope you weren’t out in that storm last night. I’d never heard such a strong wind.”

  “Me neither. I was home, but it scared me half to death. Over where I live, everything looked the same this morning, but they said on TV that the suburbs got hit pretty hard. I’ll make out a menu and see what I need. You can’t even guess how much I’m gon’ enjoy cooking this Thanksgiving dinner.”

  Feeling as if life was finally going to be what he’d always hoped for, he sat at the desk in his office, designing a puppy that was obviously a dog but that looked human. “I’ll never get away with this,” he said, laughing at the idea, when his receptionist buzzed him.

  “Gunther, Carson Montgomery is on the phone, and he sounds as if something’s amiss.” Gunther’s antenna shot up. Carson Montgomery was not a man to display emotion. If he did, something had to have gone wrong. Or was it the will?

  “Thanks. Put him through. Hi, Carson. What’s up, man?”

  “I’m at your father’s house.” Gunther could feel his blood rush. “No, I haven’t found the will. That storm last night did some damage to this house. I haven’t gone inside, and I don’t think I will. That big cottonwood tree near the garage is uprooted. It fell across the chimney, broke off half of the top, cracked panes in two windows, and buckled the garage door. Some other windows may need securing, and I haven’t seen how the back of the house looks. We’re speaking serious damage, Gunther.”

  “I’d better contact Riggs about repairs. Thank you for letting me know.”

  “I’ll get over there and assess the damage,” Riggs said when apprised of the situation. “It’s insured, because Edgar still lives there, but before the insurance company goes there, you’d better stock that refrigerator with ... you know ... basic food and some kind of leftovers. That insurance company doesn’t insure a house that no one lives in.”

  “I’ll get some stuff out of my kitchen.” He called Mirna and told her what he needed.

  “I’ll fix you a couple of bags full, but I tell you I don’t trust no man when it comes to a refrigerator. Put the vegetables—”

  He didn’t let her get any further. “Mirna, I kept house for years before I met you, and I know how to make a refrigerator look messy.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. G. I know you telling the truth ’bout that. It’ll be ready when you get here.”

  It wasn’t possible to get the last word with a woman, and especially not that one. “Thanks. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  Gunther met Donald Riggs at his father’s home, and together they made the kitchen look as if it were in daily use. Apart from a pair of detached window screens at the rear of the house, an examination of the property revealed no apparent damage other than that which Carson had reported.

  “This is going to be expensive,” Riggs said, “but the place is heavily insured, so we ought to be able to get it repaired right away.”

  “I suggest you get a good contractor.”

  “Don’t worry. I believe in spending money wisely. There’s the question of what we’ll do if Edgar comes back before we get the place repaired. I may be able to get the insurance company to rent an apartment for him.”

  Gunther didn’t know when he’d experienced such relief. A long sigh slid out of him. “I’m glad to know it. I won’t be comfortable having him at my place.” He made some notes on what he’d seen there, thanked Riggs, and went back to work.

  Looks as if fate is conspiring against me, Carson thought as he stood by the window in his office, looking down at the people rushing along like little ants racing toward sugar. He had promised himself that at the end of a week, he’d have that will or resign from the job. He harbored an intense dislike for Edgar, and he had to get him out of his hair. He also needed to do some serious work on his relationship with Shirley, and he couldn’t do that until he either found the will or quit the job. She’d respect him more if he found the will.

  I don’t dare work in that house until it’s been repaired. But I hate the thought of stopping the search right now when I think I’m on to something. Well, I’m not going to waste the time. I have a day and a half before flying to Ocho Rios to meet Shirley. At the thought of what awaited him, sweat poured down his shirt collar and his heartbeat thudded wildly. He admonished himself to get his act together and telephoned Rodney Falls.

  “This is Carson. I’ve got some hours I could use to acquaint myself with your reluctant bridegroom. I’ll be over in half an hour.”

  Later, after getting the gist of the story, he decided to take the case. But he made a note on the contract that his agreement to find the man was contingent upon his conversations with the jilted bride, who was in seclusion and refused to see anyone. Back at his office, he drew a diagram of Leon Farrell’s secret cabinet and began to study it. Could it be that the cabinet itself contained a hiding place and that he was wasting time looking into the different items on the shelves? He’d find it if he had to dismantle the entire cabinet.

  Thursday finally arrived, and Carson boarded a noon flight to Ocho Rios. After a smooth journey during which he slept, he took a limousine to the Utopia Girl and checked into his stateroom. When he had shoved his bag into the room, he rushed toward the window to see what kind of view he would have. But before he reached the window, his gaze took in a huge bouquet of lavender, white, pink, and red orchids, a bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne, and a large basket containing cookies, crackers, cheese, and tropical fruits. He forgot about the view from his window, dropped himself into a big chair, and dialed Shirley’s number.

  “Ms. Farrell speaking.”

  “This is Carson. What time do we sail?”

  “Carson! Where are you?” The excitement in her voice told him more than any words she could have uttered.

  “I’m in my stateroom. Thanks for this wonderful welcome.”

  “You’re already on this ship? Are you serious? I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “It’ll be the longest fifteen minutes I ever spent. Hurry.”

  After brushing her teeth, combing down her hair, and exchanging her pants for a skirt that flared around her knees, she stepped out of her office, where in anticipation of his arrival she had stashed a change of clothing, and took the elevator to the fourth deck. She reached his stateroom in precisely a quarter of an hour. He flung the door open after her first knock.

  “That was sixteen minutes,” he said, his face beaming in a wide grin. He picked her up, kicked the door shut, and wrapped her in his arms. “I’m starved for you. Woman, you’re even sweeter and more beautiful than I realized.” He stepped back, looked at her, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Do I act like a man who’s hooked? I must be, because being with you makes me so happy.”

  To her, his being there seemed like a mirage. She’d spent the past week thinking of the moment when she’d see him again and be with him in a different, fairy-tale environment, wondering how she’d relate to him and whether her feelings for him would have changed. The only difference was her far greater yearning to be a part of him. When his entire demeanor changed from one of a delighted lover to that of an almost predatory possessor, she knew that what she felt shone in her eyes.

  “Aren’t you ever going to kiss me?” she asked him.

  He stepped closer, bent to her and, with her body pressed tightly to his, he traced the seams of her lips with the tip of his tongue. Like a morning glory receiving the kiss of the sun on an early spring morning, she opened to him and took him in. The symbolism of her rare submissivenes
s wasn’t lost on either of them. She could feel him holding back, and, for once, she did the same.

  Still holding her, he asked, “Where is your stateroom?”

  “Next door. When you called, I was in my office on the second level.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Is there a connecting door between us?”

  “Uh ... yes, but it’s locked right now. Do you like your room?”

  “It’s elegant. I was about to check the view when I saw your hospitality gifts. You treated me royally.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You’re a king, at least to me.”

  “Woman, don’t say a thing like that to me unless you mean it. And another thing. You’re on duty, and I don’t want to compromise you in any way. What are your working hours?”

  “I’m on leave from ten tomorrow morning until the next trip, when I’ll be back on the Mercury, my regular ship assignment. But we can have dinner together at seven-thirty—cocktails, too, if you like. I’m not on night duty. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

  “I could use something light, some good fish.”

  She sat down and dialed the restaurant. “This is Ms. Farrell. Would you send broiled swordfish, potato puffs, and asparagus to 4116-A?” She turned to Carson. “What would you like for dessert?” Her eyes widened when he ran his tongue across his thin top lip. If he knew how sensuous he was, would he control the evidence of it? He could light up her libido without trying. “Three big scoops of cherry-vanilla ice cream, a half bottle of pinot grigio marguerita, and no soup or salad, thanks.”

  She completed the order. “They’ll put the wine on your tab. If you need anything else, you have my number.”

  “I’m glad to know it,” he said with a grin spread all over his face.

  “I mean my cell phone number, smarty,” she said, though she’d lie if she told him or anybody else that she wouldn’t dance to his tune.

  He shrouded himself in innocence. “Whatever else would I have been talking about?”