Second Thoughts (19 page)

She picked up the phone on its fourth ring. “Yes?” Even her voice trembled.

“Hi,” Derek said.

She closed her eyes and started breathing again. She sat back down.

“Checking up on me?” Having got past her scare, her voice was lighter, but he was so good at reading her, she was glad the telephone line was between them.

“Uh-huh, just making sure you’re where you’re supposed to be.” He paused. “And wondering if you want company.”

Settling back, she propped her feet on top of the bed. “Yes, I do,” she answered honestly. “But if you show up, I won’t let you in.”

She could almost hear his answering smile, and then he said, “I believe you. On both counts.”

“You can read me as well over the phone as you can in person?”

“Always could.”

Well, in that case, hopefully Hayworth and his security system wouldn’t come up. “That you could,” she agreed. “Usually.”

“Usually?” She heard his aroused interest.

Don’t overdo it, she told herself. “Come on, Derek, you’ve got to leave me some mystique.”

“That’s what you call it?” His voice was smiling again. They allowed a comfortable silence, and then he asked, “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

She considered the question. The phone call to Hayworth weighed heavily and significantly, but she wasn’t committed to anything, neither in mind nor actions.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But once I figure it out, I’ll call you, as promised.”

“I’ll settle for that.”

“But I won’t be asking for your permission,” she added.

“Guess I’ll have to settle for that, too.”

One of the babies complained in the background, and Connie smiled at the familiar sound. “Someone’s unhappy.”

“It’s Abbie. That tooth just won’t let up. Andy and Chris are sound asleep, but she won’t cooperate with her mom or dad or me. The poor kid is miserable. Kristy just gave her a swig of liquid aspirin.”

Connie saw the house in her mind’s eye, the people in it, and she felt a strong flash of loneliness. She reconsidered inviting Derek to her room, but remained silent.

He asked quietly, “Are we still on for the charity benefit next month?”

She answered just as quietly, “Yes.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“So am I.” Her voice was a mere whisper, but she knew he heard her.

Another silence, and then he said, voice soft, appealing, and tempting…oh, so tempting, “Goodnight, Connie.”

“Goodnight,” she whispered back, replaced the phone receiver in its cradle and stared at it. Then, with a brisk shake of her head, she picked up the remote and clicked the television on.

As she surfed channels, she caught the end of
Planet of the Apes
, the original. The movie was older than she was, but she loved the classic ending. Horse and riders traversed the surf and then the horse pulled up. The camera panned the crown’s spikes before settling on the buried statue. Charlton Heston beat the sand with his fists, damned his countrymen, the screen grew black and the credits rolled.

Connie wished she’d found the movie in an earlier stage. She continued surfing, found news and talk shows, and more news and more talk. She watched a weather channel, comparing the announcer to Derek, but became annoyed with herself. So she clicked off the set, pushed the slipper off each foot with the other one and shrugged out of the robe. Once she’d crawled into the big bed, she wished she’d requested two doubles. The huge king seemed even emptier and lonelier than the room was.

* * *

Next morning, with the clear light of dawn, also came the cold light of reason. Connie lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, glad no one besides herself knew she’d made a call to Hayworth last night. So what difference did it make if he was covered by a security system or not?

She rolled out of bed, showered and dressed, and as she ate breakfast in the hotel’s coffee shop, she couldn’t help wishing she were eating breakfast with Derek. She’d lived without him for two years. It had now only been—she paused and counted—eight days, and she couldn’t think about anything but him.

Surprise, surprise.

Feeling dreamy, she drained her coffee cup. When she set it down, her pragmatic side intruded and warned her to be careful. Sure, they were still attracted to each other, but a second try could so easily become double disaster. She paid with a credit card—she still needed to hit an ATM—and while waiting for the transaction to be concluded she worked on finding a balance between bewitchment and caution. Which was a delicate and evasive state that didn’t seem to exist.

Once she’d returned to her room, she headed for the phone. He’d be relieved to know she was going home and turning her back on whatever unlawful inclinations might’ve occurred to her. But then another thought struck, and she held the phone receiver in midair before hanging it up unused.

What harm could there be in telling Hayworth that others knew how sadly lacking his scruples were? He had no sense of fair play, but he was a businessman and should have a sense of self-preservation. She could threaten to write a letter to the local newspaper editor, explaining in detail how he’d acquired a particular comic book. And it wasn’t an idle threat. She was already writing the letter in her mind.

She picked up the phone, then impatiently replaced it. She’d neglected to write the number down last night. Grabbing the phone book, she rifled its pages.

A woman answered. Was he married?

“Julian Hayworth, please,” Connie said, forcing patience and pleasantness into her voice.

“He’s away on business. He’ll be returning Friday.”

That took the wind out of her sails. “Is this Mrs. Hayworth?”

“No. I’m the maid. I come in on Tuesdays. Do you want to leave a message?”

“Is there a Mrs. Hayworth I could speak to?”

“He’s not married. Do you want to leave a message?”

“No, thanks. I’ll call back.”

Connie hung up. Her mind was racing even before the phone receiver settled in its cradle.

To her credit, she tried to concentrate on packing, the new school year starting in the fall, the budding relationship with her ex-husband, but nothing worked.

Giving up, she again consulted the telephone directory, this time for the yellow pages. There was at least one question mark she could answer. But her fingers were as distracted as her mind was. The first number she jabbed into the phone was the wrong one; a doctor’s exchange answered. She apologized, rechecked the number, and took more care punching it in the second time.

“Collectible Comics. Bob speaking.” The voice was brusque. Either the place was busy, or Bob had no telephone manners.

“Hi. I’m hoping you can help me.”

“I’ll try to, lady, if you’ll tell me what you want.”

His rudeness grated on her. Connie considered hanging up, but she wanted the information. “I need to know how much a comic book is worth.”

“You buying one or selling one?”

“Neither. I want to know how much it’s worth.”

A long pause, and then he said, “Okay.” He sounded resigned, but at least he was humoring her. “What kind of book?”

“Kind?”

“Yeah. Spiderman? Batman? Wonder Woman?”

“Oh. SteelMan.”

“Okay. Now what about SteelMan? Is a new character introduced? When was it first published? What kind of condition is it in? Can you tell me anything at all here to make my job a little easier?”

Connie drew in a deep, controlled breath and answered the only question she knew the answer to. “I understand it was published before the war.”

“Before the war?” The tone of his voice changed.

“That’s what he said.”

“Which war?”

“Which war?” She frowned. Yes, there’d been multiple wars throughout the last century. And this one. “He said 1940. It’d have to be the Second World War.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, lady. Sure.” The phone clicked in her ear.

Connie remained motionless for several seconds, then slammed the phone receiver into its cradle. “Were you born with that personality, Bob? Or did you have to work to acquire it?”

She took a deep breath. There were other places to try, but she was turned off and running short on time. The bedside clock told her she had a half-hour in which to check out of the hotel or request a stay over. She used the phone again to hold the room for another night, then grabbed her purse and left to walk the two blocks to Raymond Tidwell’s bank.

He didn’t appear pleased when he saw her. Darlene, dressed in a power-red pantsuit that looked sharp on her, was on her way back to her desk. She didn’t appear happy at seeing Connie either but covered it up and turned her attention to her computer screen.

Connie walked to Moose’s desk. Today’s suit was brown tweed with a hint of gold thread running through it, the shirt was butter yellow
, and the tie had tiny gold checks in it.

“Nice suit,” she said. “But you need more color in the tie.”

He stared at her.

“Buy you a cup of coffee,” she offered.

His stare didn’t change.

She sat down. “Or we can talk here.”

He stood and led the way out of the bank’s back entrance to where there was a small patio, complete with a shady tree with benches built around its base. They sat there.

“Okay. What is it.” His voice didn’t end on a questioning note. He sounded fed up and had the look of one long suffering from trials and tribulations.

“Hear me out, Moose. Don’t get up and walk away. Please hear me out.”

He said nothing. He stared at the water fountain next to the bank’s back door.

Now that she was here and had his attention, unwilling attention or not, she wasn’t sure how to proceed. “I called Hayworth,” she said, uncomfortably aware of how tentative her voice sounded.

No reaction.

“Last night. He doesn’t have a security system.” She’d expected him to react to this news as if she’d tossed him a live grenade, but he continued to stare at the water fountain, not even asking how she’d arrived at that conclusion.

“Then I called again this morning. He’s away on business and isn’t expected home until Friday.”

Silence. Connie felt like she was talking to the air. She probably was. “The house is empty,” she spelled out for him. “Until Friday.”

Still nothing. She also stared at the water fountain. “Will you tell me how to listen to that dialing combination thing?”

That was the live grenade. He got to his feet and pulled her up with him. “Home,” he said, his voice sounding carefully controlled. “Go home. Do not come back here again. I do not want to see you again. Go…home!”

He shook her as if she were a child, but used no more power than what was necessary to hold her in place. “Do you understand me, Aunt Connie?”

She didn’t respond. His fingers tightened, and he shook her again. “Do you understand me?”

Still she said nothing. He let his air out forcefully, holding her gaze. Then he released her and stepped back. His expression was hard enough to scare a more timid soul. He stared at her for a long moment, then turned his back and stalked into the bank.

Connie was more unnerved than she wanted to admit. She sat back down and tried to look at the situation with a fresh eye. She couldn’t do anything without Moose’s help—if not his help, at least his input. But he was both adamant and formidable. She was out of her league.

Then she got to her feet, straightened her spine, raised her chin and reentered the bank.

No way Jose was she giving up.

A middle-aged couple sat at Moose’s desk, so she took a seat in the waiting area
. A collection of magazines were spread across a table. Darlene darted several looks between her coworker and Connie. Connie was also dressed in red: culottes, a simple cotton top, and sandals. But Darlene was taller, wore heels and a more striking outfit, and outshone Connie. Connie wished there was some way she could let the woman know that.

The couple at Moose’s desk concluded their business and left. Their chairs remained empty, but Connie stayed where she was. Moose looked up once and caught her eye. She stared steadily back.

Passive resistance. Passive aggression. Whatever one wanted to call it, the message should be clear that she wasn’t backing off.

Connie chose a magazine and thumbed pages without even attempting to read anything. An hour
passed. Connie slowed down on page turning; those magazines had to last her for a while yet. Darlene continued to direct glances her way, looking both concerned and puzzled, but Moose ignored Connie after that one look. He used the telephone, interviewed clients, got back on the phone, worked on the computer. Connie’s rump got tired and she crossed her legs the other way.

When Derek walked through the front door, Connie wasn’t surprised, but she did wonder how Moose had managed to procure the unlisted home phone number of the chief of police so quickly. Despite her preoccupation, Connie took a moment to check out her ex-husband. Neatly dressed in navy slacks and a casual open-necked shirt, he’d probably caught the eye of every other woman in the bank as well.