Fast & Loose (17 page)

That seemed to mollify her some. “You think it’s nice?”

“I think it’s great,” he said sincerely. “I like how you use color.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s a very inviting space.”

“That’s nice of you to say that.”

It occurred to him that they had just slipped from stalker/stalkee accusations into an interview from HGTV rather effortlessly, but decided not to dwell on why. It was enough that the pinched, uneasy look had been erased from her face, and that she was talking to him now the way people did who were making each other’s acquaintance for the first time. And he decided not to dwell, too, on why that made him feel better.

“And you have great taste in art, too,” he told her, because…Well, just because, that was why. And it was a damned good reason.

She actually blushed at that. “Some of it’s mine.”

“The glass, right?” he said, already having figured that out.

She nodded. “And some of the paintings, as well.”

“No kidding?” he asked, genuinely impressed.

“Glass is definitely my first love,” she said, “but oil on canvas is my second favorite medium. And I love sketching, too.”

“Really. You know, I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like, and—”

She laughed at that, halting his words. Not that she sounded scornful or anything. She just had a really nice laugh.

“What?” he asked.

“That’s such a cliché, you know.” She deepened her voice in a fair mimic of his as she continued, “‘I don’t know anything about art, but I know what I like.’” She went back to her regular voice as she added, “That’s what people say when they’re trying to impress someone but don’t have a clue what the art means.”

And her point was? He shook the thought off. “Anyway, I like your house and I wouldn’t wreck it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Cole?”

“Yeah?”

“Would you let me up now?”

Only then did he realize he was still sitting astride her in her hallway, holding her arms over her head. Strangely, though, instead of immediately releasing her, which was what any decent guy would do, he discovered he kind of wanted to keep her there for a while longer.

He was
so
going to hell.

His hesitation must have made her think he still didn’t believe her, because she added, “Look, if you let me up, I’ll prove to you that I’m Lulu Flannery and that this is my house.”

Although he was still reluctant to let go of her—and that reluctance, he had to admit, had nothing to do with any potential mistrust of her intentions—he released her wrists and levered himself off of her. She immediately wrapped her left hand around her right wrist and rubbed it gently, then mimicked the gesture with the opposite hand. Something chilly and unpleasant nicked his insides at seeing it.

“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he said.

Her reply was what seemed like an unconcerned shake of her head, but whether that meant she was saying that it was okay, it was nothing, or that he hadn’t hurt her, or that she was blowing off his apology altogether, he wasn’t sure.

“I left my purse out in the car,” she said as she scrambled up from the floor, “so I don’t have my driver’s license on me.”

He started to tell her that it was okay, that he believed her, but she hurried on before he had a chance, chattering as she pushed past him and she made her way toward the door at the end of the hall.

“But I have some things upstairs in my bedroom that will prove I’m telling the truth.”

She was halfway up the stairs and rounding the landing before she finished talking, so Cole gave up and followed her. She strode easily into the room, which made him forget, again, that he needed to duck or else he’d bump his head on the ceiling, again, which he did, again. When he muttered a ripe oath at having done so, again, she spun around to look at him. When she saw him rubbing his forehead, she must have realized what had happened, again, and she bit back a smile.

“Guess it’s not exactly built to your specifications, is it?” she asked.

“Usually I remember to duck,” he lied.

“Mm,” she said, the sound telling him nothing of what she might be thinking.

He was about to say something else, but she chose that moment to drop to her knees by the side of the bed and pull up the spread, then lean forward even more to look for something underneath it. Cole’s mouth went dry at the sight, because her T-shirt rode up and her already low-riding jeans rode lower, giving him an incredible glimpse of twin dimples at the base of her spine and the top of her rump. He’d noticed that first day what a nice ass she had. Seeing her in this position…

Well, it wasn’t just the reaffirmation of what a nice ass she had going through his head just then. Her position just brought forth all kinds of intriguing possibilities. Starting with how much he wanted to flick the tip of his tongue against each of those dimples, then trace the line of her spine upward, pushing her shirt higher as he went, until he could—

“Here it is,” she said, scattering what had promised to be a really nice little fantasy. Too nice, he thought, when he realized his brain wasn’t the only organ her position had stimulated.

He gave his head a good shake, as if that might physically dislodge the errant—and none too appropriate—thoughts from his mind, and tried to focus on what Lulu was doing instead. She withdrew a flat metal box with a combination lock on it that she proceeded to twist first right, then left, then right again. With a final click of the dial, she folded the lid back to reveal a stack of manila folders inside. She dug down to the bottom of them and pulled out a passport, which she then handed to Cole.

“Proof of my identity,” she said.

He opened it to find the requisite lousy photograph, but it was good enough that it resembled her perfectly. He flipped a page to read her personal information and found that her name was indeed Lulu Flannery and that she did indeed live at this address. Then he flipped some more pages and noticed a few other things.

“It’s expired,” he said.

“It still proves I’m who I say I am.”

“There are no stamps in it,” he pointed out.

In response to that, she covered the short distance between them on her knees and snatched it out of his hand. “I just never got around to using it, that’s all,” she said. Then she kneed her way back to the metal box and dropped it inside, slamming the lid shut and giving the combination a good spin.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she told him. “Everything in here is just personal fluff. There’s nothing valuable or anything.”

“I wouldn’t dream of intruding,” he replied. Since, hey, he’d found way more interesting stuff on her computer than he’d ever find in that box.

Then another thought hit him. The journal. It was
Lulu’s
journal he’d been reading all this time? All that passionate rambling and all those erotic fantasies…They’d been
Lulu’s
? The woman he’d once dubbed Craggedy Ann was the same woman who’d written about making love on the Tilt-a-Whirl at the Kentucky State Fair? The woman who’d blushed at the merest contact of her body with his was the same woman who’d written about petting herself to multiple orgasms while listening to Barry White’s “Love’s Theme”? Parts one
and
two? The woman who wore Birkenstocks and blue jeans was the same woman whose lingerie drawer was filled with lacy confections in dreamy colors, some of them seeming too small to even cover what they were supposed to cover? That was Lulu? Lulu?

Lulu?

Holy cow.

He watched as she bent over again to push the box back under the bed, trying to jibe the flesh-and-blood Lulu with his fantasy Delilah. There was no way. There was just no way the two women could be the same person. He’d never seen Lulu in anything but jeans, T-shirts, and ugly shoes. No way was she the owner of the rich colors and textures hanging in the closet, and no way was there pale lace or dark silk under such practical, no-frills clothes. She’d been uptight about something every time he encountered her. No way could she write about sensual and sexual pleasures with such a massive lack of inhibition.

Everything in this house pointed to someone who was vivacious, effervescent, and unreserved. Someone who enjoyed every moment of life and never sweated the small stuff. Someone who raced headlong into whatever came her way and relished it. Not…

Not Lulu.

“Look, I’m sorry I bothered you,” she said as she pushed herself up from the floor and rose to standing.

Cole studied her for a long time in silence, taking in her face, her clothes, her posture, herself, looking for something—
anything
—that might hint at the fun-loving, self-indulgent hedonist who called this house home. But all he saw was a wholesome, responsible, serious-minded woman. A woman who could never in a million years be his Delilah.

The realization of that hit him harder than he would have thought it would. It was almost as if something inside of him that had been full and content a moment ago was suddenly empty and alone. As if someone who’d become very special to him was now lost to him forever. As if he’d finally met a woman who could distract him in a way that he liked, a woman with whom he could share a part of himself he’d never shared, a woman with whom he might possibly even fall in lo…

Well. It just felt like he’d lost something wonderful, that was all.

He was struggling to find something to say that would ease the awkward moment that had risen between them when Lulu lifted her hand to the back of her head and ruffled her hair, a gesture clearly born of nervousness from his silent study of her. And that was when Cole saw it. Riding just above the waistband of her low-slung jeans, to the left of the button—her left, not his—where her shirt rode up when she lifted her hand.

A tattoo.

Small, but still noticeable. A Chinese character he recognized from a framed ink sketch that was hanging in her kitchen. The symbol for chaos. The caption under the print had been something from the
I Ching.
Something about chaos being where dreams are born. And how before there could be something brilliant, there must first be chaos.

Lulu Flannery, wholesome, responsible, serious woman had a tattoo on her torso of chaos. And from that chaos, Cole realized, something brilliant and dreamy truly was born. A woman who decorated her body with something more permanent than a Sharpie must be capable of decorating its trappings and its environment in excessive ways, too. This was Lulu’s home. It was her bedroom. Her dresser drawer. Her lingerie. And it was her computer and her journal he had been reading, too. Delilah was in there. She must be buried deeply for Lulu to be able to hide her so well, but Delilah
was
inside her. Somewhere.

All Cole had to do was figure out how to set her free.

“Ummm,” Lulu began again when he said nothing in response to her statement.

But what was he supposed to say? Other than,
Would you mind lifting your shirt again so I could see your tattoo?

“I guess I should get going,” she added uncomfortably.

She took a few cautious steps forward, then one to the side, then a few more that carried her past him in as wide an arc as she could manage in the small room. And with every step she took, Cole told himself to say something that would keep her from leaving. But his brain was too full of questions and riddles and puzzle pieces to be able to get any of them out of his mouth. He watched in strange detachment as Lulu lifted a hand in farewell, registered, somehow, the distant sound of her voice as she bid him good-bye, saw her retreating shape disappear through the bedroom door. Then he heard the scuff of her shoes as she went down the stairs, and then the creaking of the floor as she strode through the kitchen, and finally the latch of the back door as it closed behind her.

That last sound finally snapped him out of the stupor into which he had fallen. He raced down the stairs and into the kitchen, yanked open the back door, and nearly stumbled down the back steps in his effort to reach the street. But the street was empty when he got to it. He looked left, then right. Stepped left, then right. Stopped and listened for the sound of a car motor. But where he’d been able to register every tiny sound a few moments ago, suddenly Cole could hear nothing. Nothing but a voice at the very back of his brain telling him he might have just blown the best chance he ever had.

No, he immediately told himself. He really did know her name now. And he knew how to find her again. Even better, he knew what kind of woman she really was, even if she didn’t know that herself. Best of all, he had a plan for helping her find that woman. All he had to do was locate Lulu Flannery. And then, when he found Lulu, he could start looking for Delilah, too.

THE NURSING HOME BREE’S MOTHER HAD CHOSEN
for herself when she still had the presence of mind to do so was the best Rosie Calhoun had been able to afford. It was pretty no-frills, but it was clean, and the nursing staff were as attentive and caring as they could be for people who were underpaid and overworked. One of the nurse’s aides had gone to high school with Bree, and she relied on her former classmate to report anything that might cause concern. After nine months in the place, though, Rosie Calhoun was reasonably happy.

Of course, after nine months in the place, Rosie Calhoun’s already meager savings were about half what they used to be. At this rate, in less than a year, Bree was going to have to find another home for her mother. One that cost a lot less and was a lot more no-frills. One that had a staff even more overworked and underpaid. One where Bree didn’t know a soul who could keep an eye on her mom when she couldn’t be here. And at that point, her mom was going to need even more care and attention than she required now.

Bree waved to a handful of patients and staff she recognized as she strode down the no-frills corridor toward her mother’s no-frills room. Sundays were actually pretty lively at the home, but most visitors came during the day, not just past dinnertime, like Bree, since she’d worked the day shift at the bar. Whoever had decorated the place had strived for a spa atmosphere with the pale green walls and faux marble flooring, but Bree wasn’t fooled. She doubted the inmates were, either. At least until they hit stage four or five. When she walked under an air vent, she was grateful for the denim jacket she’d pulled on over her jeans and purple T-shirt. Old, infirm people must stay unusually warm for the place to keep the AC turned down so low. Or maybe it was the overworked, underpaid staff who preferred the thermostat set at subarctic.

Her mother was sitting in a chair by the window when Bree entered her room. Although the sun wouldn’t set for a couple of hours, it was cloudy outside, so not much light was filtering in. Even without it, though, Bree could see that her mother’s skin looked even more delicate and thin than usual, that her eyes were a little more vacant than the last time she’d seen her, and that her hair, which she’d once taken such pains to keep tidy, was even messier than it had been before. She was dressed, though, which was reassuring. Even if her sleeveless, lightweight dress
was
a bit inappropriate for the coolness of the facility, and even if her shoes didn’t match. The pale blue color of the garment complemented Rosie’s eyes and gave them a little more life.

Bree scooped up a hairbrush from the dresser as she passed it, took a moment to put her happy, carefree face in place, then greeted her mother with a breezy hello and bent to kiss her cheek.

Rosie Calhoun smiled when she saw her, but it wasn’t a smile of recognition. Some days, her mother recognized her just fine and the two of them could carry on conversations about things that stretched back to before Bree was born. But other days, like today, she had no clue who the woman was she’d raised for more than a quarter of a century. Sometimes, she thought Bree was one of the nurses. On especially bad days, when she didn’t even recognize her surroundings, she thought Bree was a waitress. Or a hairstylist. Or a bus driver. Or any number of other people she’d encountered in her life.

“How are you feeling today, Mom?” she asked in an effort to jog what she could of her mother’s memory.

Her mother frowned at the question, obviously confused about the Mom part. But she said nothing to reveal her confusion, still in that stage of Alzheimer’s where she often recognized that something was wrong, but was too embarrassed to let anyone think she didn’t know what was going on.

Bree attended occasional meetings of a support group for the families of Alzheimer’s victims. The woman running it had told them that the best way to describe Alzheimer’s to someone who didn’t have it was to think about what it was like to start a new job without the benefit of orientation. You went into a place you’d never seen before, knowing you had something to do. But no one had told you what your job involved, and they hadn’t told you where to find the tools you needed to perform that job, and they hadn’t told you any of your coworkers’ names or titles or how you were supposed to interact with them.

It was like one of those anxiety dreams Bree had from time to time where she was thrust into a situation for which she was completely unprepared and panicked when she didn’t know what to do. But where she eventually woke up from her nightmare and was relieved to realize it was all a dream, Rosie Calhoun lived it every single day. And every day, her plight got just a little worse.

“I’m fine,” she said now. “Never better.”

Although Bree knew that wasn’t true, she was glad to see that her mother was at least in a place today where she could have a conversation. Some of the other patients here never left their beds. Others sat in near catatonia in front of the TV in the common room or gazing out the window. Still others wandered up and down the hallways looking for a way to get out. Bree honestly wasn’t sure which state was worst. And knowing she would have to sit by helpless and watch her mother go through all of them was almost more than she could bear. Especially since most victims of Alzheimer’s didn’t suffer its onset until much later in life than Rosie Calhoun’s fifty-five. Physically, her mother was one of the healthiest people Bree knew. She could potentially linger with the disease for decades. And once her mother’s money ran out…

But that was still a ways off, Bree told herself as she always did when her thoughts began to venture down that path. She still had plenty of time to find herself a rich benefactor to take care of her and her mother. With any luck at all, she might even be able to give her mother in-home care and get her out of her bleak little room here. Bree had kept a few of her mother’s favorite things after Rosie sold off everything else to help pay for the nursing home. And she’d put those few favorite things in her mother’s room here, in the hope that it would make the tiny space a little more familiar, and a little more comfortable. But there was only so much comfort one could get from a flowered chair and hand-crocheted throw and milk-glass floor lamp.
Bleak
was a hard thing to disguise.

“Hey, how about we go for a walk?” Bree said brightly. “It’s cloudy, but it’s not raining. There’s a nice breeze. You want to go out to the courtyard for some fresh air?”

The courtyard was actually more of a patio on one side of the facility that abutted the parking lot, and not the most scenic place in the world. But there were two broad maples that canopied it, and someone had planted a few flowers in terra-cotta pots along one side. There were a couple of wooden park benches to sit on, birds to listen to, and clouds and some lingering spastic sunlight to enjoy. It would be better than sitting in here.

“That would be nice, dear,” her mother said, standing.

Bree went to the closet for a sweater and arranged it over her mother’s shoulders and, together, the Calhoun women strode down the hall to the courtyard at the end. They sat on one of the benches, and Bree did what she could to elicit memories from her mother’s murky thoughts. Mostly, they talked about what Rosie had had for lunch, and about the nice woman who had brought her a book to read, and who Rosie liked better in the upcoming presidential election, Reagan or Mondale. Bree sighed and said she was thinking about voting for the Independent candidate herself.

RUFUS LEANED AGAINST THE SIDE OF THE CRESTVIEW
Nursing Home that faced the parking lot, and watched the two women sitting on the bench with their backs to him. He was close enough to hear their murmuring speech, but not so close that he could make out what they were saying. He knew one was Bree, and that the woman with her bore enough of a physical resemblance that she was almost certainly a relative. He hadn’t meant to intrude on something private, something that Bree didn’t want to share with anyone. The only reason he’d followed her home after her shift was to make sure she made it home. He’d been worried that her car might break down again somewhere along the way and leave her stranded. He’d been puzzled when she didn’t follow her usual route and confused when she’d pulled in here. Initially, he’d kept on driving and told himself to keep going, that Bree’s car seemed to be running just fine. But something had made him turn around and come back. Visits to nursing homes were almost never fun. And he’d thought maybe…

Well. He’d just felt like maybe he should be sure Bree was okay.

The woman she was talking to didn’t look old enough—or sick enough—to be in a nursing home. From where he stood, she looked to be maybe fifty or sixty, and she chattered with animation and smiled often. Bree, on the other hand, didn’t look nearly as happy. She smiled, too, but it wasn’t her usual smile, and there was a strain around her eyes that Rufus had never seen before. Whoever the woman was, Bree was worried about her.

He told himself to go, that he’d invaded Bree’s privacy long enough, that he never should have followed her, that doing something like this was skirting stalker territory, and God knew he wasn’t one of those. He loved Bree Calhoun, sure. But he didn’t want to be in her life where he didn’t belong. Certainly not where he hadn’t been invited.

When he pushed himself away from the wall and began to turn toward the parking lot, the motion, however small, must have been just enough to catch Bree’s eye. Before he was fully around, she was staring right at him, her mouth partially opened in surprise, her brows arrowed downward in what was obvious distress.

“Rufus?” she called out. And there was more than a hint of accusation in the word.

Lamely, he lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, Bree.” Immediately, he launched into an apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I was afraid you wouldn’t make it home with your car being in the shape it is, so I followed you. I’m sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t have any right. I’m a jerk. I know you can take care of yourself. I was just worried about you. I’m really, really sorry.”

She’d lifted a hand at the second apology, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He really did feel like a jerk.

“It’s okay,” she said, sounding very, very tired.

“I’m sorry,” he said again as he took a few tentative steps forward.

“Who’s this, dear? A friend of yours?”

It was the woman with her who’d spoken, and Bree’s shoulders slumped in defeat at hearing it. “This is Rufus, Mom.”

Mom?
But Bree had told him her mother lived in Florida.

“He and I work together,” she added.

“Oh, at the copy shop?”

Bree shook her head. “No, Mom, I haven’t worked at the copy shop for almost ten years. I tend bar now.”

The woman, Bree’s mother, threw Rufus a rueful glance and blushed. “Of course,” she said a little unsteadily. “I knew that. You’ve been doing that since…Well, for some time now.” Then, very uncertainly, she looked at her daughter and said, “Right?”

And in that moment, Rufus knew the woman, Bree’s mother, had no idea who her daughter was. The bottom fell out of his stomach at the realization. Bree had never really talked much about her family in the past, even when Rufus had tried to pass slow shifts at the bar with her by asking the kind of bland getting-to-know-you questions people asked when they were trying to do things like pass slow shifts at the bar. She’d said something about being an only child and her mother living in Florida, and the way she’d said it, he’d gotten the impression the two of them didn’t get along. Nothing wrong with that. A lot of people didn’t get along with their folks. But he’d made a mental note to never ask her about it again.

“Rufus, this is my mom,” she said now. “Rosie Calhoun. Mom, this is Rufus Detweiler.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, dear,” Ms. Calhoun said.

A million thoughts were zinging around in Rufus’s brain, but he managed to cover the few steps left between them, take her hand, and shake it gently. She laughed at the gesture, clearly thinking it funny, and he supposed women of that generation probably hadn’t done a lot of handshaking in their time.

“He’s charming…” she started to say to Bree. Then she must have realized she couldn’t remember the name of the woman to whom she was speaking, and both her smile and her hand fell. She regrouped quickly, but the sparkle was gone from her expression. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said to Bree, “but I’m terribly tired. Would you mind walking me back to my room? I think I need to rest.”

She turned to say good-bye to Rufus, but something in her eyes told him she’d already forgotten who he was. He smiled and told her it had been nice to meet her, then turned to Bree to give her a reassuring look. But Bree wouldn’t meet his eyes, and instead focused all her attention on her mother. He watched the two women go back into the building, then watched through the panorama window as they walked down the hall not saying a word to each other. Then he strode slowly back to where he’d parked the Wagoneer next to Bree’s Honda.

And he debated whether or not to drive away.

Bree hadn’t seemed to want to say anything more to him. On the other hand, she hadn’t told him to take a hike. Going with his gut, he decided to wait for her. After about twenty minutes, she emerged from the main entrance of the nursing home, her head down as she looked for something in her purse.

She looked up again as she fished out her keys, and when she saw Rufus leaning against his truck, she halted in her tracks. For a moment, she only looked at him, then she began to make her way slowly forward again. He said nothing as she drew nearer, waited to see if she would get in her car and drive away, or if she would say something. For a minute, he thought it would be that first. She unlocked the driver’s side door of her car and stepped behind it, never saying a word.

Then she looked at him from over the car’s roof and said, “She was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s a little over two years ago. She was okay living by herself until about nine months ago. That was when she started showing bad judgment in things—let some guy in the house for a”—she made quotation marks with her fingers—“carpet cleaning estimate, and he stole her wallet and checkbook while he was there. Then, in one day, she bought about two grand worth of jewelry she couldn’t afford from one of the shopping channels. Then she ran a red light and got broadsided by another car. Everyone was okay,” she hastened to add, “but it was strike three. I had to find a place where someone could watch her, because I can’t be there for her all the time.”