Blowout (41 page)

CALLIE MARKHAM’S APARTMENT*

GEORGETOWN

THAT SAME EVENING

B
EN RANG
the doorbell.

A good three minutes later the front door opened and Callie stood there, wearing old sweats and thick socks on her feet. Her hair was uncombed, and her face was scrubbed clean. She squeaked. “I should have known you’d catch me looking like the rag queen. You’re early. I haven’t put on the little black dress yet.”

He stepped in, pulled her against him, and kissed her. “I don’t care. I wrapped up a case early and I wanted to see you, maybe celebrate with a good-quality beer.”

“I’ve got some Coors stashed in the fridge for our Super Bowl party.”

As he followed her through the living room and into the kitchen, he was struck, as he usually was, by the number of books. They were everywhere, on every surface, overflowing every bookshelf, even though three entire walls of the living room were covered with built-ins. And there were flowers, three vases of them, Christmas cacti blooming wildly, and at least half a dozen different kinds of ivy, all trailing happily over surfaces to the floor. A good dozen bright pillows were tossed on every chair and sofa. Even the rugs that covered the wooden floor were bright, each a different style. It was warm and inviting. He liked being in the room, watching TV, reading, making love with Callie. It felt like home. He lightly touched his hand to her shoulder. “Have I told you how much I like your apartment?”

“Sounds to me like you’re laying down some pretty broad hints here, Ben.”

“It’s bigger than my place. You’ve got a guestroom, and your office is really too big for you. You need another body in there to make it feel like home.”

“You mean like Dillon and Sherlock’s?”

“Something like that. Remember you told me I was a natural?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“What did you mean by that?”

She looked at the white curtains splotched with red poppies covering the kitchen windows that Janette had sewn for her. She closed her eyes a moment, drew a deep breath, and looked down at her nails. She needed a manicure.

“Well? What do you say? You want to marry me?”

Very slowly, she turned back and stepped against him, wrapped her arms around his back. She said against his neck, “For such a guy, that wasn’t a bad proposal at all. I’ll think about it.”

“Fair enough. Then I’ll tell you I love you if you’ll say it at the same time. On three?”

“I’m counting,” she said, and clicked off her fingers. They were both laughing when they shouted out at the same time, “I love you!”

Later, when they were sitting on the sofa, Callie on his lap, leaning against his shoulder, Ben said, “I know you’re grieving for your stepfather, but I was wondering if there was something else, Callie.”

“What do you mean—?”

He talked right over her. “Sometimes you look a million miles away, like you’re thinking about something that’s taking you elsewhere.”

She was silent.

“I hope you feel you can tell me anything, Callie.”

She raised her head and looked him squarely in the eyes. “What happened, Ben—Günter dying like he did—it was for the best. I know that.”

He nodded, waited.

“I guess I mean that it’s over. All of it, and there’s only the aftermath to deal with and I’m doing that.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Did I tell you that I am very happy you’re in my life?”

She watched his expression lighten, saw humor come back into his eyes. He was grinning as he said, “Tell me every day, okay. You want to know something?”

“Since I’m maybe even practically engaged to you, I guess I can handle anything you want to tell me.”

“I think you’re a natural too.”