Kitabı oku: «The Christmas Strike», sayfa 3

I assured him it was, told him to hang in there and hung up.

“Mother!”

It was uncanny how Gwen always knew the minute I hung up the phone. I ran up the stairs and arrived at her room, breathless.

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him to give up for the day.”

She sat up straighter in bed. “What? You mean you told him to stop calling?”

I leaned against the door jam. “Basically, yeah. I mean, you don’t want to speak to him anyway. So what’s the point in his continuing to call?”

“But how can I make him suffer if he doesn’t keep calling so I can refuse to speak to him?”

“Gwen, he’s suffering enough already. And if that’s what this is about—”

She shrank back into the covers and got a pouty look on her face. “No—of course not. I’m just not happy with him. Not like I thought I’d be.”

“Life sucks sometimes, baby. What can I say?”

She slid her gaze in my direction, then immediately looked away. “You could say that I deserve to be happy.”

I walked from the door frame to sit at the foot of the bed, patting her ankle over the covers. “Of course you deserve to be happy, Gwen. But maybe you need to adjust what your idea of happiness is.”

“Oh, I should have known you’d take his side,” she said, rolling so that her back was to me.

I raised my eyes to the ceiling and asked the floral wallpaper border to give me the strength to resist the urge to tell her she was acting like a baby. The room was still decorated with the blue-and-white striped wallpaper I’d hung when Charlie and I had taken over the room after my mother’s death. The same white tieback curtains hung at the windows.

“I’m not taking sides,” I said. “But I think taking David’s calls would be the…ah…mature thing to do, don’t you?”

Her back still to me, she shook her head. “Why should I be mature when he’s not living up to his promises?”

“But he made promises to clients, too, Gwen. Maybe it’d be easier for you to understand if you went back to work.”

She sat up straight in bed. “Has David said anything? Did he tell you that he thinks I quit my job too soon?”

“No, of course not. It’s just that, if you don’t have enough to do, maybe—”

“But I’d have enough to do if David had time for me!”

“Baby, it’s hard to build up a business and a reputation. You’ve got to try to be understanding—to think of what it will mean for your future.”

“Oh—so when I’m too old to look fabulous in a bikini that’s when he’ll have the time to take me on a cruise?”

Yes, Nat had been the rebellious one, but Gwen had been the demanding one. The one who wanted everything right now. She seemed only capable of seeing any situation for how it affected her. I shook my head. How could I have raised two such different daughters?

I sighed. “Are you coming down for dinner?”

“I’d rather just have a tray in my room if you don’t mind.”

I decided the extra trips up and down the stairs were worth not having her at the same table with Natalie. I wasn’t sure there were enough antacids in the entire town to take care of the indigestion that might cause.

By Monday I couldn’t wait to take Ivan Mueller’s ledgers back to him. After which I planned to drive out to the discount store on the highway and get some Christmas shopping done. It was the last thing I felt like doing. My holiday spirit was still limping along like a wounded animal. But it would keep me out of the house long enough for Gwen to maybe answer one of David’s calls herself. Maybe if they talked—really talked—David would get through to her. I certainly hadn’t had any luck so far.

Ivan was his usual affable self.

“There’s my beauty of a bookkeeper,” he said when he looked up at the sound of the bell above the door. “And how was your weekend?”

“I’ve had better,” I answered ruefully.

He put his palm to his chest. “No! You are unhappy about something during this happy time of year?”

Ivan had come to the United States in the late forties. He didn’t really have an accent, but he had a courtly way of speaking that was very old world. He was short and still wore suits he’d probably had custom made in the early fifties—pin-stripes and lapels a little too wide, but the fabric excellent. He wore rimless glasses and kept his thinning hair in place with something oily. Probably the same product he’d used when he bought the suits.

He had exquisite taste in jewelry, much of it he’d designed himself. Most Willow Creek couples had exchanged their vows over Ivan’s rings. I couldn’t really afford to be a customer but he regularly gave me earrings for Christmas. And I treasured every pair.

“My kids are going through a rough time, Ivan. Things ain’t pretty at my house.”

“I am sorry to hear this. I have just the thing that will cheer you up,” he said. “Made for a special customer. Wait until you see.”

I watched him toddle off to the back room then started to gaze at the cases of jewelry. Maybe I’d skip the discount store and just get each of the girls a pendant or something this year. Ivan had some beautiful ones. But Gwen already had better than anything I could afford and Natalie wasn’t much into jewelry. Not the real thing, anyway. She’d find the cash more useful.

Ivan returned shuffling along, with a long, narrow black velvet case in his hand. He motioned me over to the counter and opened the case. I’ve never considered myself a diamond kind of gal. They didn’t fit into my lifestyle, nor could I afford them. But when Ivan revealed the gorgeous diamond-and-gold bracelet reclining inside, I experienced the same feeling I had when I’d heard that song on the jukebox. Possibilities or maybe dreams that hadn’t quite died—something that had only been a shadow of a notion up until now—still trying to break free inside of me.

“You like?” Ivan asked.

“It’s—well, it’s just the most beautiful bracelet I’ve ever seen.”

“Here. You try it on,” he said.

“No, I couldn’t—well, maybe—”

He was already clipping it around my wrist.

“Those are perfectly matched brilliant-cut rounds. Oh—” he shook his head slowly, importantly “—very, very difficult to find stones that match so perfectly at this size. Set in eighteen karat gold. And you see how the clasp is made up of rubies and sapphires? The very best of everything.”

The best of everything. What would that be like, I wondered. To have the best of everything?

There was a time when I thought I’d had it all. A husband I loved who adored me. Two beautiful, healthy little girls. A life as shiny as the diamonds twinkling on my wrist. This would have been our thirty-second Christmas together. I smiled softly—and a little sadly. By now, Charlie would have been able to afford to buy me something from Ivan for Christmas. Something I’d wear when we went out on New Year’s Eve.

I held my arm out. The bracelet draped just right. But my nails—what a mess. It would be a travesty for a woman like me to own a bracelet like this. There was a time I’d taken better care of my hands—when Charlie had been here to hold them.

I took off the bracelet and handed it back to Ivan. “I’m sure your customer’s wife will be very happy with it.”

When I left the jewelry store I kept thinking about the shape my cuticles were in. How shameful they’d looked next to that bracelet. Iris’s House of Beauty was across the street. It had been years since I’d had a manicure.

“Hey, kid,” Iris said. “Did you come in here to sell raffle tickets or something?”

I laughed. “No—I actually thought about treating myself to a manicure.”

Her eyes widened. “What’s the occasion?”

“I was feeling nostalgic.”

Iris looked puzzled. “Nostalgic for a manicure?”

“Something like that. Can you fit me in?”

“You better believe it. I’ve been trying to get my hands on your cuticles for years. Why don’t you let me highlight your hair today, too? And maybe shape your brows.”

“Don’t push it. Just be happy I’m getting a manicure.”

“Honey, I’d jump for joy if these boots weren’t killing my feet.”

The place was buzzing with gossip, as usual. Iris had three stylists and a manicurist working for her and they relished regaling the customers with details about their various love lives, diets and favorite soap operas. If anyone had gained weight in town, was on the verge of bankruptcy or divorce, this was the place you heard about it first.

It was, “Girl, did you see those hips in those boot-cut leggings?” or “They say the balance on her MasterCard has more digits than her phone number.” I’d always felt a tiny bit uncomfortable with it all. Probably another reason I tended to avoid the place. Plus, I wasn’t fond of having so many mirror images of myself to look at and be judged. I didn’t need any reminders that my chin was getting slacker and my laugh lines were turning into crow’s feet.

Sally, the manicurist, had graduated a year ahead of me so we knew each other only slightly. Still, I got every detail about her brilliant grandchildren.

“I told my son, you’d better start saving your money. The oldest is going to wind up in one of those expensive Ivy League schools out east—you mark my words.”

I assured her I would.

She leaned closer. “Say, is it true what they say about Mary Stillman?”

I had no idea who Mary Stillman was, but Sally gave me the complete picture on what was being said about her, anyway.

An hour and a few dozen confidential tidbits later, I walked out with a set of fake nail tips elongating my fingers. I’d given in to Sally’s choice of polish—a purplish red that looked even more garish out in the cold afternoon. And now I was really running late. I had two more clients to drop in on and I still wanted to start my Christmas shopping.

As did everyone else in the county, apparently. When I finally got there, the discount store was packed. I lost a fingernail nabbing the last of the most popular video game of the year off the shelf for Matt and I’d hovered near a woman who was deciding over a sweater that I knew would be perfect for Natalie. When she put it back down and looked away, I swooped in like a hawk on a field mouse. Before I got into line at the checkout counter, on impulse I turned down the music aisle and started to search. There it was—our prom theme—on a compilation disk of seventies soft rock. I dropped it into my cart.

The checkout lines were long. By the time I made it back to the car, I was exhausted, but I wrestled with the frustrating CD packaging anyway, losing another nail tip in the process. I wanted to hear that song again. Now.

I sat in the parking lot, puffs of my warm breath visible in the cold car, and listened to the song. Twice. I felt like I wanted to cry. Was it for the loss of the girl who’d danced with such hope in her heart? Was it for the woman who I was supposed to have become who’d never quite materialized?

God, this was insane, I thought. Sitting in a cold car—a rusty station wagon no less—listening to love songs from my high school years.

I popped the CD out of the player. It immediately switched to a radio station playing all Christmas music. I bit the bottom of my lip and shook my head. “Abby,” I whispered into the icy air, “you picked a great time to have a midlife crisis.”

I drove home, hauled the packages into the house, stowed them in the front hall closet and went into the living room.

“Well, it’s about time,” Gwen said from the sofa. “I’m starving.”

Natalie looked up from her magazine. “I’m starving, too. And, Ma, the kids keep asking me when you’re going to decorate for Christmas.”

“Yeah, don’t you usually have a tree by now, Mother? By the way,” Gwen added, a secret little smile on her face, “David called seven times today. I think your answering machine is almost full.”

The kids suddenly ran down the stairs, squealing, and Nat shushed them. “Daddy’s napping.”

You know that saying I saw red? Well, it’s true. I saw red. And we’re not talking festive lights here. I think it was the red of my blood boiling up to my eyeballs.

“What does Daddy have to nap for?” I asked testily. “He’s not working. And he’s certainly not doing anything around here.”

Natalie got up and quickly glanced at the stairs. “Ma—shh, he’ll hear you.”

“Nat, I think Jeremy already knows he’s not working. And he sure as hell knows he’s not doing anything around here.”

She cocked her hip. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“That’s another thing. Will you please watch your mouth? You gripe if anyone else uses bad language in front of the kids but you’re the worst of all.”

Gwen, wearing yet another expensive nightgown and robe ensemble, snickered from the sofa.

I swung around to face her. “And you. You’re a grown woman. Isn’t it time you got dressed and started doing something around here, too? Like maybe, for instance, making dinner?”

From the look on her face you’d think I’d asked her to sign up for boot camp.

Nat gave a short laugh. “Princess Gwen doesn’t cook, Ma. She orders.”

“Then what about you? You can’t make a damn box of macaroni and cheese for your kids?”

As if they’d been cued from offstage, the kids came running through the living room again.

“Grandma! When can we get a Christmas tree?”

“Do you know where my skates are?”

“Can I have a sleepover this weekend?”

“Aren’t you going to put stuff up outside this year, Grandma?”

“You know what,” I said as I eyed the other adults in the room, “I think you’d better start asking your parents those questions—or Auntie Gwen—because as of right now, Grandma is on strike.”

“What?” Both Nat and Gwen asked in unison.

“I am going on strike,” I enunciated clearly. It wasn’t something I’d planned to say. But while my blood boiled, the story Mike had told us on Friday at the diner bubbled up with it. If a man could go on strike against his wife for lack of affection, why couldn’t a woman go on strike against her family for lack of cooperation? “As of this moment, all of you are on your own. For meals. For laundry. For Christmas.”

There was a collective gasp.

“That’s right,” I reiterated. “No tree. No decorations. No cookies. I. Am. On. Strike.”

I crossed the hall, passed through the dining room, went through to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, poured cereal into a bowl, added milk, grabbed a spoon and took it into the maid’s room where I sat in my mother’s old rocking chair and dined on Special K and silence.

Except the cereal lasted longer than the silence. Soon the kitchen just outside my door erupted into the noise of six hungry people who weren’t even sure where the butter was kept. I listened to them as I crunched, willing myself not to go to their rescue. One question kept running over and over again in my brain. When a woman finally decides that her time has come, where the hell is she supposed to spend it?

CHAPTER 3

By the second day of my strike I knew I was in trouble. It was going to be impossible to keep from crossing the picket line if I stayed under the same roof as the rest of my family. For one thing, the maid’s room was far from soundproof. I could hear the chaos going on around me as I rocked in my mother’s old rocking chair, trying to talk myself into staying put.

Mealtimes were the worst. I tried to secrete myself in my office before anyone showed up looking for food. But I was forced to be an auditory witness to breakfast for two days in a row now because I’d overslept. It was like listening to a bad sitcom without the picture. I kept wondering why I didn’t just go out there and make them all some damned eggs. Although maybe Natalie got some of her defiance from me because, ultimately, I refused to budge, unpleasant as it was.

My family needed to learn a lesson and I needed—what did I need? Space, certainly. Although the confines of the tiny room weren’t exactly what I had in mind. I needed to not be taken for granted. And, above all, I needed to not be needed for a change. To just be. Peace and quiet. Ah, what a luxury that would be I thought just as the doorbell rang.

I was on strike so I didn’t make a move to answer it.

It kept ringing.

I kept rocking.

Finally, whoever it was started to bang on the front door. Where was everybody? I looked at the alarm clock on the small table next to the bed. It was already after nine in the morning so the kids were probably in school. Nat was probably working an early shift or running to the store for a few more gallons of peanut butter. That still left Jeremy and Gwen. Gwen was undoubtedly up in her room waiting for me to come to my senses and show up with a tray of food and some sympathy. And if Jeremy wasn’t slumped on the sofa, he had his head in the refrigerator. One of them would eventually act, wouldn’t they?

The pounding went on.

“All right, all right,” I yelled. “I’m coming!”

I didn’t run into anyone while I made my way to the front hall. Someone could be upstairs yet I’d never know it because of the racket our visitor was making on the front porch.

I flung the front door open, but when I saw who was standing on the other side of it I wished I’d stayed in the maid’s room where I belonged.

“Where the hell is my daughter-in-law?” Cole Hudson demanded as he swept past me without waiting to be asked in.

“Beats me,” I said, as I waved at Ernie, the cab driver, waiting in the town’s only cab idling at the curb. “Did you ask Ernie to wait?” I asked as I shut the door. “Because he’s the only cab in town and—”

“Good God, how can anyone live somewhere that has only one taxi? And the closest damn airport is two towns away.”

“For some reason, inexplicable as it may seem, Mr. Hudson, Willow Creek doesn’t attract a lot of men who fly their own jets,” I said, then turned to head back to my room.

He stepped in front of me before I made it halfway through the dining room.

“You don’t know where your own daughter is?” he demanded.

I’d forgotten how hard his face could look. All etched lines and sharp angles. He had silver hair that fell to nearly his shoulders and light gray eyes beneath uncannily black eyebrows. He was taller than me, but not by much. He probably stood six feet or so. I could practically look right into those stormy eyes.

“She’s a grown woman, Mr. Hudson. She comes and goes as she pleases. Besides, I’m on strike. I’m no longer responsible for knowing where anyone in this family is.”

His frown grew even deeper. “On strike?” His voice rumbled with incredulity. “I thought you were self-employed.”

“Oh, it’s not my clients I’m striking against. It’s my family.”

His gray eyes shot to the ceiling. “Heaven help me, I’m dealing with another one of the Blake women.” He looked me in the eye. “Tell me, are you all crazy?”

I felt my natural instinct to protect start to rev up but I eased off the pedal. I wasn’t going to get in the middle of this. I was on strike.

“My daughter’s room is upstairs. First door on the right. You might find her there.” I shrugged. “You might not.”

I stepped neatly around him and passed through the dining room and kitchen then went into the maid’s room and shut the door. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and I peered up at the ceiling. I won’t say I wasn’t curious to know what was going on up there. I was. But I wasn’t going to break my strike to find out.

As it turns out, I didn’t have to. Moments later, the door to my room burst open.

“Mother,” Gwen demanded, “how could you let that man come up to my room?”

“I’m on strike,” I reminded her.

She stared at me. “Well, I’m not going back to Chicago and nobody is going to make me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

She stared at me some more. “I mean it.”

“So do I. Now please shut the door on your way out.”

I half expected her to stamp her foot like Scarlett O’Hara. She settled for slamming the door.

I could hear them talking, though the conversation was muffled. They must have gone into the living room. Then there were footsteps running upstairs—probably Gwen’s—and the slamming of another door—probably Gwen’s.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled at the situation. Cole Hudson was an intimidating man but I was pretty sure he’d gotten nowhere with Gwen. This was the girl who had won the title of Miss Willow Creek two years in a row and graduated valedictorian of her class. Riding on floats in parades all over the county and giving a speech before practically the whole town hadn’t even caused a flutter in her toned tummy. Nothing—or no one—ever intimidated Gwen.

The door to my bedroom opened again.

Cole Hudson glared down at me. “So you find this amusing, do you?”

“Ever heard of knocking, Mr. Hudson?”

“Would you have let me in?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” he said, his light gray eyes boring into me, “let’s not play games. I need your help. For some inexplicable reason my son is in love with that woman up there—” he thrust his cleft chin at the ceiling “—and he wants her back.”

“And you think I could help…how?”

“By intervening, of course. By convincing her that the right thing to do is to go back to Chicago.”

“And how do I know that’s the right thing for her to do? She told me she’s unhappy with David.”

His face hardened. “She was happy enough until he had to cancel that blasted cruise!” he bellowed. “She’s acting like a spoiled brat.”

That brought me to my feet. His assessment fit how Gwen was acting as well as the expensive clothes she wore. But no one was going to get away with calling my daughter a spoiled brat. Except for me, of course.

“Mr. Hudson, if my daughter says she’s unhappy, then she’s unhappy. And I am not about to do anything that would result in her making the choice to go back to a man that she’s unhappy with.”

He scowled and started to pace—unsatisfactorily, I’m sure, given the length of the room. As it was, the energy of his anger only seemed to make the room smaller. I was feeling slightly claustrophobic.

“Do you have any idea what David is dealing with in Chicago?” he demanded. “He’s in the middle of the biggest project of his career so far and it’s in crisis. There are dozens of men whose jobs depend on the decisions he makes right now. He doesn’t have time for this foolishness.”

“Then why is he calling here seven times a day?”

He stopped his pacing and glared at me again. “Because my son is foolish in the ways of romance, like a lot of men of his generation.”

“You’re calling your son a fool?”

“When it comes to love, yes. Obviously he doesn’t use his head.”

“For love, Mr. Hudson, some of us use our hearts.”

He made an angry sound of dismissal. “Spare me, please.”

We were obviously getting nowhere. “Look,” I told him, “even if I wanted to help you, I couldn’t. Because I’m on—”

“Strike,” he finished for me with a click of his large white teeth. “I see that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I could feel the heat rise on my cheeks. Oh, I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, all right. Instead, I returned to the rocking chair and started, once again, to rock. I was pretty sure that Cole Hudson wasn’t used to being ignored. And I was right.

“Damn it! You’re even more infuriating to deal with than your daughter is,” he proclaimed before stalking off and shutting the door behind him with a resounding thunk.

I heard his purposeful steps upstairs followed by the not-so-muffled voice of Gwen suggesting he go back to Chicago and tell David to come himself if he wanted her back so badly.

Back to Chicago. The phrase rang in my head with the echo of a bell.

Chicago.

Why not? Chicago, I told myself, would be a great place to carry out my strike. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend on myself, but I had enough room left on my emergency credit card for a few nights in a reasonably priced hotel and transportation would be free, courtesy of Cole Hudson—even if he didn’t know it yet.

I scurried out to the hall closet, trying to ignore what was going on upstairs. It sounded like Gwen was winning. I grabbed my suitcase and quietly hurried back to the maid’s room. I threw the suitcase on the bed and started to fill it. My choice of clothing wasn’t much since most of my wardrobe, what there was of it, was still upstairs. I threw in jeans, T-shirts, a couple of sweaters, some plaid flannel pajamas with matching robe. I’d be walking around Chicago by myself for a few days. What did it matter what I wore? Maybe I’d see a matinee performance of a play, have a massage, order some room service. A few days of solitude. A few days of not being needed. A few days to just be Abby again.

Okay, Abby in sneakers, but I wasn’t going to risk going to my bedroom to get anything and giving Gwen a chance to talk me out of what I was going to do. I’d simply jump into Cole’s taxi with him and off I’d go—traveling light and not very far, but traveling, nonetheless.

I had finished packing and was scribbling a note, telling my family I’d be spending the rest of my strike in Chicago, when I heard the front door slam. I grabbed my parka, purse and suitcase, but by the time I got out to the front porch all I could see of Cole Hudson was the tail end of Ernie’s taxi.

I looked at the house. No. I couldn’t go back in. Now was the time. And the opportunity was here, it had just gotten a little bit of a head start, that was all. I didn’t see Jeremy’s truck anywhere, meaning only Gwen was in the house. I’d have to make a run for the garage. I was afraid that all anyone would have to do was to try to talk me out of it. I was sure I’d cave like a soufflé after someone slammed the oven door.

Suitcase in hand, I hotfooted it from the house, thankful now that I hadn’t much to pack. I winced when I pushed the button to open the old wooden garage door. It had always been loud. Now it seemed as if it screamed. I tossed my suitcase into the station wagon, then eased the door shut. I knew Gwen would hear as soon as I started the car. Face it, the wagon’s muffler had been damaged goods for a while now. But I figured that once I was down the short driveway, I was as good as gone.

I can’t even explain what it felt like as I drove away from the house and headed in the same direction Cole’s taxi had taken. I grinned. Yes, I could, I thought. It feels like I’ve escaped.

I tamped down the guilt at the same time I pressed harder on the gas pedal. There was no way Cole Hudson was taking off in his plane without me.

I averaged ten miles over the speed limit but even so, as I pulled into the small airport, Ernie was already pulling out. I rolled down my window and waved him to a stop.

“Which plane is Hudson’s?” I asked.

“That one,” he pointed. “Over there.”

I followed his outstretched finger. The plane was sleek and white, accented with black-and-silver stripes. As elegant as its owner—and just as powerful looking.

“Thanks, Ernie,” I yelled, not taking my eyes off of the plane.

Was I really going to do this?

Yes, I was, my heartbeat answered.

I parked, got out of the car, grabbed my suitcase and started to run. For the first time I appreciated the Louis Vuitton pilot’s case that Gwen had given me years ago when Jo, Iris and I had started planning our trip to Europe. Its wheels had no problem at all keeping up with me. I was running into the wind and yesterday’s snowfall was blowing around hard enough to sting my face. But I felt alive. Freedom was ringing! And, okay, it wasn’t Rome or Paris. It was Chicago. The point was, it wasn’t Willow Creek. I was making a symbolic stand—and not just for myself. For all of us—Iris, Jo and me. I’d go to one of the best restaurants that would let me in wearing jeans and sneakers and toast the others just like we’d always promised we would if one of us ever left again.

Too bad I’d have to put up with Cole Hudson’s company to do it. But Chicago was only about thirty minutes away by air. And a man like Cole Hudson was sure to have a driver waiting for him at the airport so I’d get a free ride into the city, too.

He hadn’t started the engines yet when I reached the plane. He hadn’t even taken up the stairs or shut the door. My luck was holding.

“Anyone home?” I yelled.

“Good God! What are you doing here?”

I spun around to find him coming toward me, his leather flight jacket plastered to his chest by the wind, his long silver hair streaming back from his rock hard face. I ran to meet him.

“I came to hitch a ride,” I said with all the confidence and pluck I could muster. Surely, he wouldn’t turn down pluck. And confidence he’d respect.

“Sorry, Ms. Blake. I don’t take on hitchhikers.”

I gave him my most winning smile. The pluck was fairly oozing out of me. “Come on. I need to get out of here. You’re leaving. It’s serendipity.”

“Forget it,” he grumbled as he kept walking.

I hurried to keep pace. “I’ll sit in the back and be really, really quiet,” I yelled over the wind.

“No!” he yelled back.

“Oh, stop being so argumentative. All I’m asking is to fly along with you. You’re going to Chicago anyway. You’re using the fuel. You’re depreciating the plane—or whatever it is planes do. You might as well have a passenger on board. In fact, it’s practically your patriotic duty to have a passenger on board.”

He stopped walking and turned to stare at me, those dark brows lowered over his gray eyes. I was pretty sure he was going to say no again, so I kept talking. “Just one way, that’s all you have to take me. And then I’ll be out of your hair and won’t bother you again.”

Finally, he spoke. “One way, you say?”

I nodded with the energy of one of those bobble-headed dogs in the back windows of cars. “I’ll worry about how to get back once I get there. Just take me with you—please.”

Was that a gleam I saw in his eye? Was he going to change his mind? I thought for a moment that he might even smile.