He saved the carton, noticing the holes poked in its top. “Uh-oh, George, what’s in here?”
She closed the door behind her, and opened the flaps of the box. Kittens. There were six to be exact. Two yellow tabbies, two black, two black-and-white. They scrambled to freedom, instantly scurrying to explore their environment.
Rockford was aware that he had developed a headache. “George?” he asked, rubbing his temples. “What are we doing with them?”
“Somebody was going to drown them, do you believe it? I can’t stand by and have them drown. We’ll have to find homes, that’s all. Kinda cute, aren’t they?” One was climbing the curtains, and one had already knocked over his stack of books.
“Adorable. Can we stuff them?”
“A wise guy. Now tell me what’s wrong. You look like you lost your best friend.”
Now that was a true thought. “She was here, she left. I think it was your underwear.”
Georgina sized up the information in a flash. “Your girlfriend thought you were cohabiting, eh?”
“You know, for a nun, you are pretty obnoxious.” He smiled at his sister, glad to see that she instantly understood.
“Well, she’ll get over it. You just should have told her about me. It’s the tall blond, right? The realtor? Willow Blake?”
“You know about her?”
“I know about everything. When are you going to learn that? But she’s a quality person, so it’ll take care of itself. Give her time. Now tell me about what’s going on with you two. I can see she means something to you. She must be something special to have conquered the ‘Knight of the Nightclub,’ Mr. Rockford Farquahar Harrison III.”
“I’ve changed, Georgina. You know that.”
He sat in his chair, and she stepped behind him, her strong and compact hands kneading his tight shoulders as he talked. He told her about meeting Willow, about the real estate deal, the Burdetts, Charley Morse, the car, the farm, and his love for Willow. She listened patiently.
“Well, it’s clear what you have to do.”
He stared at her for a minute. “What? It’s sure not clear to me.”
“We have to go country line dancing.”
His eyes opened wider. Was his sister losing it?
“What are you talking about, Georgina? This is serious.”
“Don’t challenge a nun. It isn’t the least bit polite. Now listen, you big brute. What you need is a way to show Willow that you care about what she cares about, that you are willing to prove it to her. She likes country music and dancing. You have two left feet. Imagine her surprise if you learned to do a dance or two for her. And besides, I think there are more answers to be found at that club.
“You have to wait for her to calm down anyway. Why waste the time? She’d be tickled pink at the effort, I can assure you. I’ll teach you to dance, and we can look over Dancin’ Joe’s one more time. Trust me.”
“Well, your harebrained schemes often work out, I’ll grant you that. Are you sure you know how to do country line dances?”
“Of course. I’m as good as Reba McEntire, didn’t you know? I told you, I know everything!”
Within minutes, they had both changed into jeans, and were driving determinedly on the highway out of town, heading for Dancin’ Joe’s.
“I’m not sure this is such a hot idea, George. Last time I was here with Willow, some guys gave us a really hard time.”
Georgina laughed, filling the car with the tinkling, happy sound. “Don’t worry, Rockford. You have God on your side here. I’ve never met a cowboy I couldn’t convert!”
Since it was the middle of the week, Dancin’ Joe’s wasn’t nearly as crowded as he remembered. Braced with a beer or two, he chanced the dance floor with Georgina. She did know how to dance. She also knew how to teach. Before he knew it, he had forgotten he had two left feet, and he was following her directions determinedly.
And no one bothered him. In fact, by the time they were into his lesson, several more patrons had joined in, and Georgina was conducting a class on country dancing. Everyone was loving it. She was hysterically funny, had the patience of a saint, and had a charming and sneaky way of instilling self-esteem into the most negative of characters.
The crowd loved her. In her jeans, plaid shirt, and sneakers, she looked a little like a country-style cheerleader. She even had the band in the palm of her hand, making them stop and repeat and start again, as her avid learners conquered each section of the dance.
When they took a break, George headed to the ladies’ room. On her way back, a youngish man stopped her in the dark corridor. “Hey, honey, how about you and me blowing this joint, and going for a ride in my pickup truck?”
“I don’t think so, dear, but thanks for the offer.”
“I can promise you a more exciting time than you’ll have here, baby.”
Her eyes softened. “Well, maybe . . . but I’m still declining. I’m kinda . . . involved.”
He grunted and moved away.
By the end of the evening, Rockford could confidently do the steps to three songs, and felt an inordinate sense of accomplishment.
“Feels even better than passing the bar, eh cowboy?” Georgina joked. The funny thing was, it was true.
George was always surprising him. That was almost a lifelong thing. Even as a tiny child, she had been one to question and to attack problems that others would rather avoid. She was never afraid of risk, and had driven their parents crazy with her inability (or unwillingness) to accept the social rules of the wealthy world she lived in. At the age of five, she had practically created a riot at the Harrison mansion. In the midst of a formal ball being given in honor of the governor, she had made a dramatic entrance by dancing like a tightrope walker on the well-polished bannister of the grand stairway.
When their father had bellowed his disapproval, she had put her hands on her hips, standing on the newel post at the end of the bannister, and facing him squarely. “I just wanted to be taller,” she had stated with dignity, before turning and gracefully walking back up the bannister, without even a wobble. The society pages had had fun with that one. Their mother had had palpitations.
Everyone had been amazed when Georgina Harrison had entered the convent, but in truth, their parents had probably been relieved. She could just as well have been an international terrorist, fighting for the rights of the oppressed! But seriously, he had come to understand and respect his tiny but impressive sibling in her light for mankind.
As they drove back into town, he thanked her, both for the dance lesson, and for the wisdom of keeping him busy on this night of disappointment and pain. She smiled gently at her giant big brother. “It’ll work out with Willow, you’ll see.”
And she meant it. She’d come up with a plan. . . .
Rockford had been immediately recognized when he had appeared at Dancin’ Joe’s.
“The uncoordinated cowboy is back, sir,” a man reported to Charley Morse at his back table.
“With the blond realtor?”
“No, sir. He’s with a small woman, dark hair. Not as much of a looker as the blond, but with enough energy to power an entire town. She’s giving dance lessons.”
“The blond dumped him, I bet. She’s a sassy thing. Had car trouble, I hear.”
The first man smirked. “That’s what I hear. Hope it don’t rain tonight.”
“Is he driving the same bomb as before?”
“The same.”
“Well, he’s probably nothing to worry about, but keep an eye out. Let me know if there’s any problems.”
“Yeah, well, I’m gonna go get a free dance lesson.”
“You need it.” Charley Morse had laughed.
But he had had people keep an eye on the cowboy and the dance teacher, because he was nervous about this whole deal. And he didn’t like being nervous, especially when there was so much at stake.
But they hadn’t bothered anybody, and finally they had left, which should have helped the nervousness Charley Morse f
elt. But it didn’t. He was still nervous, and the deal still stunk. He couldn’t wait to accomplish what he had been told to do, to get it over with. He didn’t like problems.
So he’d better check out the cowboy, one way or another. He wrote a note on a piece of paper, and motioned to one of his men, who came quickly.
“Call St. Francis Parish, and leave this message for that nun, Sister George.”
The man dutifully disappeared, and went to make his call from the office.
“Let me find out why there’s a nun who lets a cowboy drive around a car she rented. I gotta find out who that joker is. Then I’ll decide what to do about him.”
Willow had been at home, and had heard the phone ring when Rockford had called. She had known that he would call. She had also known that emotionally she couldn’t afford to talk to him.
But she had smiled when she had heard his message. A lawyer, that’s for sure. And he had made his case. She had sat and thought about his words, replaying them many times as she thought, loving the timbre of his voice.
Was there a simple explanation? Had she jumped to conclusions? Or would he just try to convince her of that, knowing that there was another woman in the picture? Could she trust him? Trust. It burned like a hot poker in her heart.
She thought of his face. An honorable face. A strong face. She should listen. She would listen. She could almost feel his hands on her face, his lips . . . she wanted to trust, to believe. Could she?
By the time she got the courage to call him, there was no answer. It felt like a fist had tightened over her heart. Rockford, where are you?
“I’m not here right now, please leave a message.” She waited for the beep. “This is Willow, counselor. Call me to schedule a hearing. Never let it be said that I didn’t believe in the American way. I’ll listen.”
She curled up on the couch after hanging up the phone, pulling a comforter over her. She was exhausted. It had been a day of highs and lows, and it had taken its toll. The feelings came charging at her, as soon as she got still. She couldn’t believe it, but she couldn’t stop it. Before she knew it, Wilhemina Blake began to cry. She sobbed and sobbed, curled up in a ball, and clutched the comforter tightly to her, as if it was a security blanket. And in a way, it was. Finally, unbelievably, the tears ceased, just as they had begun, and Willow fell asleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Willow felt groggy when she arrived at the office the next morning. She had driven the Miata to be repaired, and had gotten a ride to work from one of the repairmen. He promised to deliver the car by noon.
Whenever she greeted a day feeling tired and low, she always chose flamboyant clothes to perk up her mood. Today was a good example. The polished cotton material of her fitted waist jacket boasted a brilliant print of bright pink and green flowers. A pleated miniskirt of matching pink left her long legs exposed. Her stockings were hot pink. So were her shoes.
Coming in the door, she looked like a flash of color, a rainbow streak of brightness.
Mildred sat at her desk by the wall, and gave a shy smile.
“Looking bright today, Willow. But the face doesn’t match. Is everything okay?”
Willow laughed. “I can tell you know me, Mildred. I’m pushing the worries away.”
Mildred nodded, understanding. She felt she was the extreme opposite of Willow in style, sitting in her prim gray cotton shirtwaist dress with its white Peter Pan collar. But she could see and identify with the myriad of emotions her coworker displayed, and she both respected her, and held her in awe.
She appreciated Willow’s courage, her forthright way of stating her case and making her opinion known. She loved the creativity and daring she showed in her dress and sales style, and many times had wished she could do the same.
She also sensed the scars that Willow had from her past, and identified with those, too. They had never really talked about their childhoods; they had never socialized beyond their jobs. But there was a bond there, and Mildred cherished it.
“Anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
Willow smiled. “Thanks! Let’s see what today brings.”
But there wasn’t time for conversation after that, because the phones started ringing, Gail arrived, and Reynolds Realty was in full swing.
The call from the police came in late morning. The Harris farmhouse had been broken into and vandalized. The floorboards on the first floor had all been ripped up. Police had no clues. They were still looking for Charley Morse for questioning.
Sister George was worried. She sat in her small office at the back of the rectory, chewing her thumbnail, and wondering what to do. The telephone message she had received was sitting before her on the much used teacher’s desk that the pastor had confiscated for her when she had arrived to handle the parish social needs several years before.
It wasn’t the message itself that had her worried. Georgina got similar messages every day of the week. “Sister George, please return this call. The man wants to talk to you confidentially about a family problem.”
Confidential family problems were her job. Messages could mean a difficult divorce, or an addiction problem. It could be a difficult relative, decisions about the elderly, financial crisis, abuse. She had heard it all before.
So she had dialed the number, speaking with “Joe,” as instructed. And Joe had been very elusive. He wouldn’t say a word about the problem on the phone. He had wanted her to meet with him, and she had accepted. The meeting had been set for early afternoon, at a small sandwich shop in town.
The situation wasn’t extremely unusual, but a few small things had upset her unerring sense of radar. There had been country music in the background. Joe was calling from a public place, yet he had answered the phone himself. He had just not seemed to her like a man who was truly concerned about one of the human crises that would lead one to seek help from the church. To be honest, he didn’t seem like a Joe at all. An assumed name? A phony problem? Why would anyone want to meet with a nun under false pretense? But these were small concerns, and not enough to cause true doubt.
It was her ears that got her into trouble. At the end of the conversation, while she was writing the time and location in her small diary, her ears had picked up on the background noise on the phone line, and what she had heard had made her stomach roll.
Through the faint sound of country music, and the occasional clink of glasses, the words of a background voice reverberated in her ear. “. . . Slergetti’s order,” the distant voice had said to someone. But then “Joe’’ had confirmed the meeting time, and had hung up the phone, leaving her sitting in dismay and shock.
Her first thought was that the call had come from Dancin’ Joe’s. Somehow, this call was related to the Charley Morse thing that Rockford and Willow had gotten involved in. Rockford and Willow. She thought of Peter, his violent death, his funeral. And his unpunished killer. Marco Slergetti.
What had Willow and Rockford stumbled into? She was absolutely sure that her headstrong brother had no glimmer of suspicion that his life was entwined again with Slergetti’s in any way. She was also absolutely sure what he would do when he found out. No amount of logic or reason or restraint would hold him back. He would go after the mobster with every ounce of energy he could muster. And Rockford might end up dead. Like Peter.
Her small hands, usually so calm and competent, were shaking violently. She crumpled the message into a ball, and stuffed it into her pocket. Slergetti in Pennsylvania? There was only one tie that she could think of, and that was Rockford Farquahar Harrision III. He was after her brother. She swallowed hard. She needed help. The police? Probably, but not yet. First, she needed to talk to the only person she knew of who had the strength to keep her brother from getting killed. She went to find Willow.
George arrived at Willow’s office just as the repaired car was being delivered. “Thanks, Benny!” she hollered as he pulled away, patting her Miata lovingly. “You look good, car!”
“Back to norma
l, Willow?” George asked.
“Don’t know the meaning of the word, Sister. How are you today? Any problems with the home? I hear the fund is going well.”
“It’s great, Willow, but that’s not why I’m here. I need to talk to you about something. . . important. Really important.”
Willow froze as she looked into the small nun’s face. She had never seen her look so serious, so scared.
“Come into the office, George. We’ll talk.”
She led her into the back room, asking Mildred to hold all her calls.
“It’s about Rockford,” the little nun began, her voice quaking. “I have a terrible fear that he’s in trouble.”
“I got a phone call today, Willow.” She explained about the phone call, and her suspicions that it was tied into Dancin’ Joe’s and Marco Slergetti and Rockford.
“But what could you possibly have to do with Dancin’ Joe’s, Sister? I don’t understand.”
“We went there, Rockford and I, when I came home and found him last night. Maybe someone recognized me, and wants to use me to get to him.” She hung her head. “I just don’t know. I only know I’m afraid.”
“You went to Dancin’ Joe’s with Rockford Harrison?” Willow’s eyes were round with surprise. “When you came home and found him? You live with Rockford?” It was incredible. A nun.
But George laughed. “Ah, yes, I almost forgot we hadn’t straightened that part out. It was my underwear in the bathroom.”
It took a lot to shock Willow Blake. She was shocked.
“But you’re a nun! He lives with a sister?”
Now George laughed out loud. “Yes, I guess you could say that. Now shut your mouth; you rather resemble a fish. Talk about thinking the worst of people! Yes, I’m a sister. I’m his sister. Formerly Miss Georgina Harrison, now Sister George. Nice to meet you.” She stuck out her hand.
Willow plopped into a chair, letting out all her breath. “Boy, George, I have a great imagination, but I wouldn’t have thought that one up in all the world.”
“Well, getting back to what’s more important than whose’s underwear is whose, I’m really scared to death. You see, I was supposed to meet with Joe at Midway Diner at 4:00 P.M. today. But while I was writing that down, I heard voices in the background say ‘Slergetti’s orders.’ That’s what the voice said. Marco Slergetti. The disgusting mobster that has been able to escape capture all this time. Peter’s killer. And now he’s after Rockford.”
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