The Secrets of Rosa Lee (11 page)

M
icah swept the pizza crusts off the table and into the trash can while he downed his first cup of coffee and tried to wake up. Logan, Mrs. Mac and he had eaten themselves into a stupor last night. When they'd finally made it home with Logan's extra-large pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza, they'd found Mrs. Mac sitting in front of her TV with the kitten, Baptist, in her lap. Apparently, she'd heard him crying and barged through the connecting door to investigate. She'd told Micah that at first she was determined to have him get rid of the thing. But as the day passed, the worthless cat snuggled into her heart. She even swore they liked to watch the same soaps.

Starting Logan's breakfast, Micah realized he'd lost custody of the kitten. Baptist now belonged to Mrs. Mac. He and Logan had visiting rights whenever they liked. It seemed an ideal solution.

“Morning,” Logan mumbled through a yawn.

Micah turned to look at his son. He swore sometimes the boy grew an inch overnight. Logan still wore the old T-shirt he always slept in. Micah had made a trip to Wal-Mart and bought pajamas a few times over the past three years, but his son liked to sleep in the shirt. “You're up early.” Micah patted down one section of Logan's hair that was determined to look like the world's longest crew cut.

“I want to play with Baptist before I go to school.”

Micah touched his finger to his lips, then pointed to the basket that now sat in the open pass-through door to Mrs. Mac's duplex. “He's still asleep. Why don't I help you get dressed and we'll make breakfast. By then, he's bound to be up.”

Logan nodded and raised his arms. Micah lifted his son and carried him back into the bedroom. It wouldn't be long before the boy would think he was too big to be carried, but for now it felt good to hold him close. After Amy had died, Micah had walked the floor endless nights with Logan in his arms. Logan would wake if Micah tried to put him down. He seemed to fear he'd lose Micah too if he let go. During those months, Micah had almost learned to sleep standing. But slowly the pain of Amy's loss had turned to memory and the boy slept through the night.

He glanced at Amy's picture on the nightstand as he tossed Logan a pair of socks. She'd been Micah's partner and best buddy from the time they'd walked home from middle school together. He couldn't remember a time without loving her. Amy saw only the good in people. He fought back the lump in his throat. She saw only the good in him.

The words the professor had read from Rosa Lee's old book drifted into his mind.
Promise to love no other in this lifetime,
it said. He and Amy might have never said those exact words to each other, but he knew they'd felt them. So, Micah wondered, why hadn't Rosa Lee left with Fuller that night? If she'd loved him so dearly, how could she not have gone with Fuller? He'd probably never know.

Ten minutes later, Logan was dressed and had picked out his cereal. Baptist stretched and tried to climb out of the basket. As he played with the kitten, Logan said, “I
got to have lunch money and an empty bleach bottle for school.”

Micah fought down a groan. He thought of telling Logan to inform the teacher that his father wasn't allowed to handle bleach so they didn't have any bottle, empty or full in the house. All true. Micah had ruined half his clothes his freshman year of college and decided stains were better than white spots on his jeans. Somehow, he doubted the teacher would understand.

“I'll ask Mrs. Mac,” he said, thinking he'd never make it through the next thirteen years of public school at this rate. The teacher had already asked for baby-food jars, seashells, empty toilet-paper rolls, scraps of felt and glitter. None of which he had lying around.

By the time Jimmy's mother honked, Micah had managed to borrow a half-full container of bleach, pour the contents down the sink and wash out the bottle. He handed it to Logan as his son ran out the door, still chewing his last bite of cereal.

Mrs. Mac smiled from the doorway, the kitten riding in the pocket of her huge robe. “I can't wait to see what they ask for when Christmas rolls around. That's when crafts kick into full gear.”

“I'll pick up more bleach for you when I go to the store.”

“Don't worry about it. A little hint though. When you talk with that teacher at back-to-school night this evening, ask her to give you a list of what she'll be asking the kids to bring. A few days notice can save lots of panic.”

“Back-to-school night is tonight?”

Mrs. Mac laughed. “Logan's been talking about it for a week. If my arthritis would let me go, I would. I always thought those were great fun when my Charlie was growing up.”

Micah smiled at the old landlady who somehow had
become part of his family. Her Charlie called every Sunday and, thanks to the fruit-of-the-month club, a basket of goodies came like clockwork with his name typed on the card. But he lived in New York and never visited. He didn't allow his mom into his life. He didn't need her. “You do so much.” Micah touched her shoulder. “I don't know what Logan and I would do without you.” Finding the other half of her duplex to rent had been a blessing to them both.

She waved his praise aside. “That ain't true. If it weren't for you and the boy…” She stopped and played tug-of-war with the kitten for her handkerchief. “I'll add the bleach to my grocery order when I call it in. They'll have it ready for you by five.”

“I won't forget.” Every Thursday, he picked up her groceries, medicine and dry cleaning, and she cooked supper for them all. Usually, spaghetti with the sauce separate for Logan's sake, or fish sticks she'd pulled from the freezer and toasted to a crisp.

It seemed to Micah that she never started the meal until they arrived, then while she cooked, he did all the things on her
these stiff bones won't let me do
list. Mrs. Mac decorated for every holiday, so Micah spent many a night hauling Christmas trees, blow-up Easter bunnies and flags up and down from the basement. Tonight would probably be the three-foot haunted house she put up in her front window for Halloween.

“We'll eat a little early so you'll have time to make it to the school by seven. Wouldn't want to be late.”

Micah thought of asking why, but decided he didn't want to know. He'd just wait and be surprised.

That night at exactly seven Micah was surprised. He'd expected the classroom to look like a classroom. When
he'd registered Logan in August, he'd seen lines of desks, clean windows and a Welcome sign on the door.

Since then, the room had been taken over by arts-and-crafts elves. When he glanced at another parent at the door, she said simply, “This is Miss Karen's classroom,” as if that explained everything.

Children's colorful work covered the walls. In one corner stood a papier-mâché tree with books dangling off the branches. All the light fixtures had mobiles hanging from them and the windows were lined with brightly painted bird feeders that might have been bleach bottles in a former life.

For a kid it must look like a wonderland, but for Micah at six foot, it was more like an obstacle course. He dodged and ducked his way to the front.

The moment he saw Miss Karen, he understood. With heels, she'd be lucky to measure five feet. A rounded bundle of energy, she greeted him with a smile. “Good evening. You must be Logan's father.”

Micah took her hand. “Miss Karen.”

She didn't give him time to say more. “I'm glad you came tonight. This is my first year to teach, and I'm excited to have Logan in my class. He's a very bright little boy.” The next parent closed in behind Micah and, in mid-handshake, Miss Karen began to pull him along. “Please help yourself to the cake the kids made today. I'm sure we'll have time to talk later.”

Micah nodded and started to say something, but she'd already grabbed the next parent. Logan took his hand and directed him toward the refreshment table. It crossed Micah's mind that he'd need to take speed-hearing to understand Miss Karen.

Logan handed him a piece of cake. “Miss Karen said it's all right to eat it, Pop, even if we don't eat sweets at
home. She says it's a special occasion and special occasions are for doing special things.”

Micah nodded as he shoved a bite into his mouth and realized he was losing control of his son. After seven years of parenting, it didn't matter what he said. Miss Karen was now the expert.

Two hours later when he carried Logan, fast asleep, from the car to bed, he smiled down at the icing still on the boy's cheek.

“Was it fun?” Mrs. Mac whispered from the doorway.

“Great fun,” he admitted.

“I have coffee on if you want some.”

Micah tugged at his tie. “No, thanks. I feel like running.”

She nodded and said good-night, leaving the connecting door open. On the few occasions Logan awoke, he knew to grab his pillow and head for her couch if his father wasn't in the bed across the hall. To the boy, Mrs. Mac's quarters were an extension of his home.

Fifteen minutes later, Micah ran with the wind. He took the back path down Second Street all the way to Cemetery Road, ran the square around the cemetery, then turned and headed toward Main. As always, he passed the bar bearing Randi's name. Only now there was a face with the name. He guessed Randi would be inside serving drinks behind the bar. He could hear the music as he passed.

He wouldn't stop, he told himself. His day had been too full of Amy. There was no room in his heart for anyone else. He had her memory and their son to raise. That was enough. He didn't need to complicate things.

He made it home without taking time to walk and cool down. He hit the shower, his muscles tired and aching. Bracing himself under the spray, he let the water run across his back until it turned cold. Half-asleep, he fell
into bed without bothering to turn on the TV. The pounding of blood still ran in his brain, but his body relaxed.

The wind made a whistling sound where he'd left the window open a few inches. The cold air warned of a freeze, but Micah didn't get up and latch the window. He rolled up in his blanket and told himself to go to sleep as if the demand would make it so.

He lay awake all alone in his bed listening to the clock tick away the minutes. Unbeckoned, Randi filled his thoughts. He wondered what she was doing. Did they close up early some nights? How many nights would she wait up a few minutes after closing to see if he'd stop by?

With determination, he could keep her out of his life. But how could he keep her out of his mind?

S
idney organized papers on her desk. After being out three days, nothing remained in order. She had notes covering the tiny message board by her door and campus mail that would have to wait until Monday to be opened. Thank goodness it was Friday and she didn't have a class scheduled.

A note, obviously torn from a yellow legal pad, slipped from among the others and drifted to the floor. Sidney leaned and picked it up, frustrated because she'd missed it among the others on the more common office-memo stationery. She unfolded the long slip of paper, expecting to see a student's reason for not turning in an assignment or a phone number to call to give homework to someone who'd been absent.

All she found was four printed words.
Let the house fall.

She looked up half expecting it to be a joke someone was playing on her. A cruel joke.

No one waited at her door. No one watched. It hadn't been a joke.

Sitting down in her chair behind her desk, she tried to decide whether or not to call the sheriff. Someone had used the same wording on the note found inside the drill bit. Someone wanted to let her know that he knew where
she worked. That he could get to her should an
accident
like the shattered window need to happen again.

She tucked the note into her pocket, telling herself she would not be frightened again. She would not be controlled by fear. She'd always believed she had a strength inside her. A strength she could call on if times got hard. It had helped her get through the deaths of her mother and grandmother. It had shown itself when she'd moved far away from all she'd known. The same strength would help her now. She was not a coward.

Part of her wanted to open the window and yell, “Bring it on,” to the world. No one had ever tried to bully her in her life and she decided no one would start now. With determination, Sidney returned to work, shoving the note to the back of her mind.

After scheduling the Altman house committee meeting for three o'clock that afternoon, she asked the department's secretary to call everyone as a reminder. The building would be quiet at that time of day so they should be able to meet undisturbed. On Fridays the whole campus looked like a ghost town. Clifton was a suitcase college, with students swarming in on Monday morning and driving off on Friday. Ninety percent of the student body lived within a hundred miles of campus, so they returned home or to part-time jobs on the weekends.

A door closed several offices down. Sidney glanced at the clock—twelve forty-five. So much for her lunch date. She really hadn't expected Sloan McCormick to show up. He probably found a way around the committee and therefore had no use for her. But, he did have a nice voice. The kind that would have fit a midnight caller. And he had been honest about who he was, or at least she hoped so.

She glanced down at her best wool suit, feeling foolish for taking extra care in dressing for a meeting she wouldn't
have. She'd worn her church shoes that were already hurting her feet, and her white blouse with the touch of lace on the collar.

Straightening her glasses, she reminded herself she would be forty in a few days. She should always wear comfortable shoes, her skirts below the knee and little makeup. She was long past waiting for a knight in shining armor to ride up, and she'd never been one to go looking. She may have given up on finding Mr. Right, but she wasn't ready to settle for Mr. Right-Now as some of her friends had.

Swiveling her chair toward the window, she stared out at the campus outfitted in fall. The leaves on the eighty-year-old elms were just beginning to turn. The colors of autumn shone warm and magnificent. Sidney closed her eyes remembering each detail. She took a deep breath and relaxed her mind. All morning she'd been worried about the lunch with McCormick and now it was time to forget about him and think of more important things. She had always been able to organize her mind, set her goals, concentrate on what needed to be done.

“Sorry I'm late.” A low voice shattered her meditation.

Sidney swung around and studied the man before her. Sloan McCormick looked familiar, but she couldn't place him. Tall, well over six foot. Hair a bit too long, with a touch of gray at the temples. A Western-cut suit with boots. Like his name, he was every inch the Texas businessman. He looked as if he belonged to his voice.

She stood and offered her hand, trying, as always, to be sensible. “Mr. McCormick, I presume.”

His fingers closed around hers in a familiar touch. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Won't you have a seat?” It crossed her mind that he might have been the one who left the note pinned to the board outside her door. He knew where her office was. He
had an interest in seeing the house fall. After all, his oil company only wanted the land, not the house.

“I thought we were having lunch.” He shuffled his hat between large hands.

Sidney waved toward the extra chair in front of her desk. “Thank you for your offer, Mr. McCormick, but that won't be necessary. I'm sure we can complete our business in a few minutes.”

She watched him closely as if dishonesty might slip out and be noticeable.

He didn't even look at the chair. “It may not be necessary for you, Professor, but I've been on the road to and from Wichita Falls most of the morning. I'd be thankful if you'd take pity on me and allow us to talk while we eat.”

Sidney had every intention of standing firm on her choice of meeting location, but she could hardly turn him down when he sounded so sincere. “All right. I'll meet you somewhere.”

“I've got my truck parked illegally out front, if you don't mind riding with me.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he added, “We could save time by talking on the way.”

Sidney realized she would be climbing into a truck with a complete stranger and she should be alarmed. She'd been raised never to take chances but, at her age, maybe it was time to take a small one. Surely serial killers didn't make lunch dates with dowdy professors before they murdered them. “That would be fine,” she said. “Only, I have to be back before three.”

He held the door open for her as she lifted her jacket and purse from the hook beside her desk. “I'll have you back by then, Professor,” he said with almost a bow.

They walked down the hall without a word. His height made her feel small and the way he opened the doors for
her surprised her. In today's world with men worrying about always treating women as equals, it was rare to find a man who showed such simple politeness.

He opened the passenger door of his truck and held her arm as she stepped into the cab. Sidney had seen a great many pickups, but none like this. The seats were leather, the floorboard muddy, and the back bench seat covered in rolled-up tubes that looked as if they could be maps. A small laptop rested between them, along with folders and notepads stuffed into what had to be a tailor-made traveling desk between the seats. She didn't miss the fact that one tablet was yellow, just like the note she'd seen earlier that ordered her to let the house fall.

He slid his Stetson into a hat rack behind his head that already held a hard hat and two baseball caps. “The truck stop out by the interstate all right?” he asked. “I hear their Mexican food is good.”

“Fine.” She'd lived here a year and never gone there. Once in a while, when she forgot her lunch, she'd eat at the snack bar next to the bookstore. When she didn't feel like cooking she'd stop by the grocery and buy one of the box meals, or spoon up a salad from what the grocer called a salad bar, even though it looked more like a salad barrel.

“I'm surprised you don't have a stove and refrigerator in this thing.”

He glanced at her a moment as if trying to figure out if she was kidding. “I pretty much live in my truck. It's part of the job. I do have a cooler in the back under the seat, but there's nothing but beer. With some folks, when you're talking oil, you're drinking. My father used to roughneck when he was young. He said since coats could be dangerous around a rig, the colder it got, the more they drank in the early days.”

Sidney nodded as though what he said sounded logical.

For a man who insisted on a meeting, Sloan didn't have much to say. He backed out of the loading-zone slot and turned toward the interstate. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. Every movement he made appeared easy and relaxed, but he was nervous. His hand, too tight on the wheel, gave him away. He must be about forty, a man in his prime. A man strong enough to throw a drill bit into a window.

“I've been here almost a week,” he said without looking at her. “I feel like I've eaten at every place in town twice, but the truck stop was too packed the first time I drove out there.”

She looked again, but saw no deceit in his manner. His direct way of glancing at her told her he was either an honest man, or a man very good at lying.

“It's a popular place.” Sidney frowned, hoping she followed the conversation. She had no idea what she was talking about, but she had to say something. “I like to cook; however, I've never quite gotten the hang of Mexican food.”

He spread his hand out along the back of the seat, almost touching her shoulder. Was he relaxing or trying to look as if he were? “I grew up cooking it. My mom had a housekeeper who could make the best enchiladas in town. By the time I was eight I was helping her.”

“Really?” She found it hard to see him as a boy or a cook. He looked like a businessman, but looks could fool people. She couldn't forget the fact that he was in the oil business and it had been a drilling bit that flew through the window.

He turned in her direction and smiled. “If I had a kitchen, I'd cook you the best chili
rellenos
you've ever tasted.”

“Since I've never had chili
rellenos,
that wouldn't be hard.”

He raised one dark eyebrow as if he didn't believe her.

“I promise. My mother's idea of Mexican-food night was a TV dinner.”

Sloan laughed and turned into the truck stop. When he cut the engine, he said, “Wait for me to get the door, Sidney. This wind has a hell of a way of ripping it right out of your hand.”

She waited as he shoved on his hat and rounded the cab. He'd called her Sidney, this man she hardly knew. Somehow it sounded natural. Despite trying to remain distant, she found herself liking Sloan McCormick.

When she stepped down, the wind almost whirled her around. Out in the open land like this nothing slowed the wind as it blew sandy dirt so hard she felt the sting on her skin.

Sloan put his arm over her shoulder and guided her toward the café side of the truck stop while Sidney tried to hold both her hair and skirt in place.

They stepped out of the wind into a tiny waiting area. Sloan turned to put his hat on a rack with several others. Sidney looked around. The place had been busy, most of the tables were dirty, but the lunch run must be over.

“Welcome,” a girl behind a counter said. “Two for lunch?”

Sloan glanced at Sidney. “Yes. Nonsmoking?”

She nodded slightly.

They followed the girl to one of the few clean tables. She handed them menus and disappeared.

“How'd you know I didn't smoke?”

He smiled. “You don't look like a woman who smokes. No ashtrays in your office. No smell of stale tobacco hanging around. It was an easy guess.”

She made a mental note. Sloan McCormick was a man of details. Sidney thought of asking him about the reason he wanted the meeting, but she found herself enjoying this time before they had to get down to the reason he'd come to see her. For a few minutes, she felt like they were almost on a date. Almost friends.

If someone she knew from the college walked by, she'd introduce him as a friend. Let them think what they wanted to. She felt reckless today.

“What do you think is good here?” The menu made little sense to her. Each dinner was a mixture of words she'd heard, but had no idea if she liked, and items she couldn't pronounce.

He lowered his menu. “I'm sorry. You really don't eat Mexican food, do you? We should have gone somewhere else.”

He did it again, reading her too easily. “No, it's not that. I'm just not familiar with all the lunch specials.”

She straightened, expecting McCormick to say something about how she must be one of those people who never liked to try anything new. The one man she'd dated seriously ten years ago had constantly teased her about not having an ounce of adventure in her soul. But, if he'd stayed around, she could have fooled him. She'd packed up everything she owned and moved to Clifton Creek because of a note on a recipe card.

“If you'd allow me, Professor, I'd be happy to order for you. Nothing too hot or spicy, of course.”

She nodded.

When the waitress returned, Sloan told her what they both wanted, adding sopaipillas with the meals and
queso
for an appetizer.

“With or without onions on the lady's?” the waitress asked.

“Without,” Sloan said not even looking at Sidney.

“And to drink?”

He hesitated.

“Tea,” she answered, surprised he didn't know that about her, too. “With extra lemon, please.”

As the waitress left, Sloan smiled. “If it were evening and you didn't have a meeting, I'd teach you to drink tequila with salt and lime.”

“Why do you think I don't already know how?”

His eyebrows shot up and she knew she'd surprised him. “I don't,” she admitted slowly.

Sidney unfolded her napkin and wiped her silverware with it.

“You don't?” he asked.

“I don't,” she admitted.

The waitress brought the
con queso
and chips. When she was out of hearing distance, Sloan leaned across the table and whispered, “Professor Dickerson, you are a fascinating woman.”

Sidney felt herself blush, something she hadn't done in years. She knew he probably only put on an act because he wanted something from her and the committee, but she couldn't help being flattered. It took a few minutes for reason to win out. “I don't believe we're here to talk about me, Mr. McCormick. You said you had information about the Altman house.”