Double Trouble (24 page)

There was a gleam of anticipation in his eye, and he rubbed his thumb across my bottom lip with a gesture that could only be called proprietary.

“Later. Count on it,” he murmured.

“It’s over, James. Cathartic sex has done its thing.”

He arched one brow unconvinced. “Then explain why there’s still a sizzle, Maralys,” he whispered, and kissed me again. Then he was gone, leaving me sizzling in the chilly solitude of my loft.

I closed my eyes and listened to the elevator descending, then the throaty purr of the bike’s engine. It revved in the street in front of the building, rose to crescendo, then began to fade away.

I stood there, tingly and took inventory. The incredible fact was that I was feeling reasonably good.

Somewhat against the odds, I would have thought. I opened my eyes and looked around, thought about it again, and came to the same remarkable conclusion.

I felt good. Without coffee. In the morning.

OTOH, I had just dumped a load of garbage that I’d been dragging around for an awfully long time. No wonder I felt a bit frisky. And finally, after many moons of yearning, I had gotten James Coxwell out of my system. I’d said all the things I’ve always wanted to say to him—and then some—and dragged the biggest nastiest truth right out into the sunshine so everyone could see it.

Huh. No surprise that I felt like Wonder Woman. I took a deep breath, ready for a new, unburdened, beginning to my life.

I threw on some sweats, made some coffee and watched the windows do their painterly thing with the first glimmers of light. Lo, it was good. My loft felt cozy with the smell of coffee brewing and the sight of the rumpled sheets on the futon—never mind the memories of what had happened there so very recently.

There’s something to Lydia’s theory of good sex being the perfect stress-buster. I was totally devoid of anxiety.

Well, except when I thought about my dad. I did myself a favor, reminded myself that all was good as long as he was in the hospital in capable care, and gave myself the morning as a gift. Besides, he’d sent me away, hadn’t he? Maybe it was time he had some time to miss the ol’ punching bag.

There’s also something therapeutic in surrendering secrets and letting a lot of old bitterness loose. The fury of injustice that had driven me for so long was diminished, as was my sense that I’d been dealt a lousy hand in the game of life. I’d made my choices, I’d borne my burdens, but I’d chosen to let my frustration fester.

Until now. And it wasn’t all bad to know that I’d thrown my anger at the one person most responsible for my unhappiness, however unwittingly he had done so. I sipped my coffee and eyed James’ note on the fridge, liking his resolute handwriting.

He was tough. I respected that.

I liked knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that James would not crumple into a sorry mess because I’d yelled at him. I liked knowing that he wouldn’t end up in counseling for the rest of his life because I’d dared to show him an ugly truth. And yes, I liked that he wasn’t afraid to tell me that I was wrong—whether I agreed with him or not. I liked that I didn’t have to protect him from me.

Hell, he kept coming back for more. I couldn’t be as bad as my PR maintained.

I could even deal with the fact that he was right in one thing. I
had
dated a lot of little boys. I’d even married one. But James gave as good as he got. He was willing to rumble, he was willing to go after the truth. He was willing to face the ugly stuff to get it out of the way. I liked that, I liked it a lot.

And I knew right then and right there that I would have a hard time scaring him off now. I was going to have to think about his defense for the past. Had I played such an active role in what happened? I hadn’t thought so, but maybe I had sat back like Penelope in Peril and waited to be rescued.

Hmm. It’s so much easier to point a finger than to take responsibility yourself, isn’t it? Maybe it isn’t so simple as this person’s fault or that one. Maybe we make up the dance together, as we go along, and no one knows what the result will be.

I was going to have to mull on that.

----

Subject
: a question

Dear Aunt Mary -

Is it true that you can find anyone on the Internet?

I miss my mom.

Calypso II

----

A
h, the reappearance of the small adults. Or at least one of them. Armed with a knife to jab in my heart.

Great way to start your day. That’s what I got for booting up.

----

I miss my mom too. Tough noogies.

----

T
hat was the first thing I typed, but then I erased it. The kid didn’t need to be having nightmares on my account about his mom being dead.

Maybe this was synchronicity. I needed a reminder that doing a repeat performance of last night with James would be complicated like I needed a hole in the head.

Not that I had any thoughts of going back for more. Nope. Not me. Let him keep his sizzle to himself.

The man had KIDS. Not just any kids, but kids that were the biological product of my sister’s womb. Major
ewwwww
factor there. Note the billboard coming up on the right:

Welcome to

BigMistake
.
com

Population
:
untold millions

OTOH, I had to feel sorry for Johnny. I remembered his concerns about his mom finding them after they moved. I knew what it was like to suddenly be without your mom. Of course, I had been older and theoretically wiser, but it had still stunk.

How could Marcia do this to the boys on a whim? Hadn’t she phoned them yet? The prospect that she hadn’t made me see red.

I wondered then whether Jimmy had just been acting tough when he didn’t seem to care about Marcia. Wouldn’t your mom skipping out on you give you and your whole life going to hell shortly thereafter potentially leave a chip on your shoulder?

Not that I could understand such his strategy, no sirree, not me.

Maybe Jimmy just shared his dad’s view that they were better off without someone who wasn’t going to really play on the team.

Ah, but Johnny was so much younger. Only two years, but it seemed like a thousand when you compared the two boys. He was quieter too, maybe more sensitive of a kid.

What was I going to say? I thought for a bit about my reply—there was no question of my leaving one—because the bulletin board is public, open to the view of many eyes. I knew that some spammers and opportunists snagged email addresses off the board, it’s inevitable, and job one was shielding Johnny from snake oil salesmen.

----

Subject
: re: a question

Dear Calypso II -

It might be true, but it’s certainly a fact that there are lots of scam artists who will promise to find someone, take your money and disappear into the ether.

Trust that your mom has a good reason for what she’s doing. I’m sure she’ll come back to you as soon as she can.

Aunt Mary

***

Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!

Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:

http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com

----

Lame, lame, lame. But the only other solution was to head out there and find Marcia. I wasn’t sure that it could be done and, okay, for purely selfish reasons, I wasn’t in a hurry to see her again.

All the same, I called Gwen. She greeted me with the cheerfulness that meant she was having a bite of a day at the phone company.

“How you doing?” she asked.

“Better than expected.” I gave her a moment to laugh, then cut to the chase. “Can you get me something on the QT?”

“Drugs, men, Viagra, what?”

“A phone number.”

“Boring, Maralys, really boring. I’m used to more interesting requests from you.”

“Yeah, well, I must be losing my touch. Someone called me Wednesday night, well, early Thursday morning.”

“Last night?”

“Yep. There should only be two calls incoming on my main line—one from my dad and then the one that I want to find out about.” I gave her my number and my dad’s number and heard her scribbling.

“Stalker?” she asked hopefully. Gwen has a theatrical frame of mind. She looks for high drama in all of life’s mundane corners.

“Sorry, not this time. Just my A.W.O.L. sister.”

“Kidnapped?”

“Avoiding kitchen duty.”

“Oh. All right.” I heard both the disappointment in her voice and the clatter of her keys. “I can do that right here.” She hummed as she scrolled and typed. She repeated my dad’s number. “That one was first, right?”

“Uh huh.” I was tapping my toe, impatient with the waiting.

“There’s only one more that night, you popular creature.” She gave me the number and I wrote it down. I didn’t recognize the area code.

“Any idea where that is?”

“Well, the area code is in New Mexico...”

“New Mexico! Are you sure?” For some reason, I hadn’t expected Marcia to go very far. I blinked a couple of times and considered that I had totally underestimated her sense of adventure.

“Computers don’t lie, my love.”

“Except when they’re given the wrong answers. Garbage in and garbage out, you know.”

“Whatever. These ones don’t lie. They don’t have time.”

New Mexico. Huh.

Gwen tapped and hummed, then clicked her teeth. “Sorry, Mar. It’s a phone booth.”

“Shit! Can you give me an intersection?”

“I’m sorry, Madam, but that information is not available to me at this time.” A supervisor had come by, right when things were getting good. Just what I needed.

“Oh, well, thanks a lot.”

“It’s our pleasure to serve you, Madam.” Gwen’s tone was dripping honey. “Have a nice day.”

“Right.”

“See you tonight,” she whispered before the line went dead.

I hung up without paying much attention, then sat and looked sourly at the screen, fixated upon the sister issue. Then I logged on to one of those reverse telephone look-up sites and punched in the phone number.

And thar she was, my maties, an intersection in Santa Fe. Of course, it was a piece of cake to come up with a map of the town and roughly locate the phone booth in question.

The issue was what to do with the information. A phone booth is hardly a final destination. Gwen had said the call came in at 5:03 local time, which was Eastern, which meant it was 3:03 Mountain time. I think.

I checked the map of time zones on the phone company page and drummed my fingers. Marcia could conceivably be staying near this phone booth, because I couldn’t imagine her just wandering around aimlessly in the middle of the night.

OTOH, she could have been just driving past it on her way to somewhere else. I idly called up the city maps and hotel guides and apartment listings and realized that there was a wealth of possibilities for accommodation in the vicinity.

Which meant that I had effectively found out nothing, beyond the fact that Marcia was in New Mexico on some wild adventure while I had been doing the wild thing with her husband.

Sordid, Maralys. Really sordid.

On the upside, I doubted that Marcia cared. I did wish, though—belatedly it’s true—that I had heard what James had said to her and what she said to him this morning.

The bell rang while I was musing, and some guy shouted up the elevator shaft that he was a courier running late. I went down and took the clipboard dutifully, not thinking twice about the box or what was in it.

I was too disappointed, if you must know, that it wasn’t a FedEx guy. Have you ever noticed that they hire all the hunks? I swear, it’s a marketing strategy.

Think about it, it’s brilliant. After all, women control the courier business. You think not? The vast majority of receptionists, personal assistants and shipping clerks are—you got it—women. Young women, too—these are, by and large, entry level positions.

Lotsa hormones on the loose.

Is it any surprise that those FedEx boys break out their shorts early? Some smart cookie in biz development came up with that strategy, you can bet your last buck on it. Every woman in America must have fantasies about her FedEx dude. We give them business just to see our friendly neighborhood Mr. Gorgeousity-and-Yum again and again. So, yes, I made it to the lobby in record time.

This guy was just your usual bike courier type, boo hoo, in need of a haircut, tattooed and enthusiastically pierced.

“How do you blow your nose?” I asked and he gave me a quizzical look. “I mean, if you have a cold, doesn’t the stud get in the way? Don’t things uh, cling to it?”

He grinned, a real charmer. “It’s not so bad.” He pulled back his nostril, more than ready to show-and-tell. “See? It has a flat back.”

“This is seriously more than I needed to know.”

Again with the smile. “Just think of me as an emissary from the land o’ stud.”

“Uh huh. Well, your work here is done, Mr. Ambassador,” I muttered and signed.

“Hey, anytime!” he shouted as I scurried back into the elevator and slammed the door. Talk about distracted—I didn’t even notice that the package didn’t have a return address, not until I was back upstairs. I opened the box, peered in with a certain measure of suspicion, and saw the seashell inside.

A huge seashell. Too weird.

I hauled it out, then peered into the box, unable to fathom why anyone would send me such a thing. There was just a small slip of yellow paper on the bottom, so I hauled it out. The handwriting there was the same as that on the note on my fridge.

Aha. Okay, I smiled. I’m a sucker for unpredictability.

“The Chambered Nautilus
Nautilus pompilius
(also known as the Pearly Nautilus) contains numerous successive chambers by which the nautilus controls its ascent and descent through deep tropical waters. The Nautilus is of the class Cephalopoda, the most highly developed mollusks.

Cephalopoda—which include octopus and squid—are distinguished by highly developed eyes, differentiated sexes, and the ability of the female to generate a shell as protection for her eggs. Unusual in the class, both male and female Nautilus create shells with multiple chambers.