92 Pacific Boulevard
Page 16

“Whatever you want.” Teri sounded as if repayment was of little concern to her.
“It’s more than what I want, Teri,” Christie said. “It’s the right thing to do.”
Teri smiled down at her tea.
“What’s so funny?” Christie asked.
“My little sister’s finally grown up.”
It would’ve been easy to take offense at that comment, with its implication that Christie was—or had been—immature. However, her sister’s willingness to fork over the money precluded that. And, in all honesty, Christie couldn’t completely disagree.
Bobby walked into the room just then. His eyes went instantly to his wife. He didn’t seem to notice that Christie was there, too.
“Hello, Bobby,” she said, loudly enough to catch his attention.
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Did you tell her?” he asked, directing the question to Teri.
Bobby Polgar was a man of few words, but Christie could never doubt that he loved her sister. From a very young age Bobby’s world had revolved around chess; it had been his whole life until he met Teri. According to her, the defining moment in their relationship had come the day Bobby confessed that his whole existence was about thinking. Chess required strategy, deliberation and the ability to forecast consequences, and he’d transferred those cerebral skills into every aspect of his life. But Teri made him feel.
Christie realized that James had just the opposite effect on her. For most of her adult life, her decisions had been driven by emotion. But he’d made her think. He’d made her reconsider the way she was living—from one day to the next with no greater ambition than getting to the end of the week and going to the Poodle for a beer. Because of him she had goals and purpose. His defection had made her even more determined. James had hurt her, and hurt her terribly, but this time, for the first time, she was using the pain inflicted by a man to learn and to grow.
Christie dismissed the thought. James was no longer part of her life.
Teri caught her eye. “He phoned.”
Playing dumb was her only option. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“James,” Bobby said excitedly.
Christie stopped herself from asking where James was living now and how he was doing. No doubt he’d escaped to someplace far from Washington. It didn’t matter. Nothing that happened to James Wilbur or Gardner, or whatever he called himself now, concerned her.
“Oh.” That was all she was capable of saying.
“Don’t you want to know what he said?” Teri asked.
“No.” She shook her head.
Teri huffed out a sigh. “That’s not true. You’re dying to hear the details, but you’re too stubborn to admit it.”
Shaking her head more adamantly, Christie denied that. “Nope.”
“He’s sorry,” Bobby said. He stood behind Teri, his hands on her shoulders.
No man would ever look at her the way Bobby Polgar regarded her sister, Christie realized. She wasn’t jealous; she ached to be in a relationship as caring and real as the one Teri had with her husband. Well, get over it, she mused. Because it’s not going to happen. Nor would the children she’d always dreamed of having…
“Who’s sorry?” she asked, continuing the pretense.
“James.” Teri rolled her eyes. “You’re pretty transparent, little sister, so drop the act.”
“It’s not an act.” Christie slid off the stool. “Anyway, I should get home.” She had a long walk to the bus stop and didn’t want to waste time on idle conversation with her sister. Especially if James Wilbur was going to be the topic.
“All right,” Teri said in that superior way of hers. “Whatever you say.” She made her skepticism abundantly clear.
“Fine.” She hungered for information about James but refused to ask, refused to let Teri or Bobby say one word about him. She wasn’t giving James an opportunity to creep back into her thoughts or her life.
Teri insisted on calling a taxi and tucking a twenty into Christie’s pocket. Although she made a fuss, Christie was thankful. Before she left the house, she hugged both Teri and Bobby, and Teri promised to call as soon as she heard about the car.
True to her word, Teri phoned less than twenty-four hours later. Bobby’s friend had located an older vehicle in relatively good condition for under five thousand dollars. The gas mileage was low; it even had a CD player and automatic locks.
“Perfect!” Christie said, so happy she could barely hold still. “What color is it?”
“What color?” Teri repeated. “White.”
Christie couldn’t squelch her disappointment. “I was hoping for blue.”
“You can have it repainted later if it bothers you that much.”
“It won’t—I’m just being silly. I’m so grateful to have a car.” And if it was as reliable as her sister seemed to think and had such nice extras, she wasn’t about to complain.
“Shall I have it delivered to your apartment?”
“Please,” Christie said. “Thank you, Teri,” she said, “thank you, thank you. I promise I’ll pay you back—with interest.”
“Okay. It’ll get there soon.”
Fifteen minutes later, the knock on her door told her that her new car had arrived.
When she saw James Wilbur standing on the other side of the torn screen, she followed her instinctive reaction, and that was to slam the door. A torrent of emotion overwhelmed her as she leaned against the wall. Her knees gave out, and she started to slide downward.
There was another knock, this one louder and more insistent. She had to answer, Christie thought reluctantly. Any kind of reaction would encourage him and that wasn’t Christie’s intention.
Collecting herself, she straightened and opened the door again. She had to admit James looked good, although she made every effort to stare right past him.
“I apologize,” she said. “The door, uh, got away from me.”
He smiled at her explanation as though it amused him. Well, fine, he could be as amused as he liked. But not at her expense.
She was furious with Teri and Bobby. They’d tried to pull a fast one on her—and they’d succeeded. Christie supposed she should have figured it out. Teri’s vague talk of a friend “in the business,” the sudden mention of a phone call from James…Why hadn’t she asked more questions? Teri would be hearing a few angry words about this.
No, she decided. She’d put her anger aside and overlook their trick in gratitude for all their help—although she wouldn’t forgive them a second time.
“I brought your car,” he said and held up the keys.
“Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice emotionless. Indifferent. But her awareness of him had never been sharper than it was just then. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, she’d rather keel over dead than give James Wilbur any indication of her feelings.
“Can I show it to you?” James asked. His eyes burned into hers, sending silent messages—that he needed to talk to her, be with her.
“That won’t be necessary, but thank you for offering.” She opened the screen door far enough to pluck the keys from his hand. Then, with a polite smile, she quietly closed the door.
To be on the safe side, she turned the dead bolt—unsure whether this was an attempt to keep him out or her in.
Twelve
Footsteps. Faith Beckwith heard them outside her bedroom window. Whoever was there made no effort at stealth. Someone was about to break into the house and didn’t care if she knew.
Paralyzed with fear, Faith stopped breathing. The clock radio said 2:14. At first she’d assumed the movements, which couldn’t be more than a few feet from her window, were just her imagination. But now there was no question—someone was there, crunching through the hardened snow in the backyard. Whoever it was might even be looking inside. Although she was buried under blankets and the blinds were closed, Faith felt the trespasser’s stare, felt his presence as clearly as if he was standing over her bed.
Her breath came again in gasps as her mind raced frantically. Rolling carefully onto her side, she reached for the bedside phone and drew it under the sheets with her. Then, hidden under the covers, she used the lighted dial to punch out 9–1-1. Whispering, she told the operator that someone was outside her bedroom window.
The operator assured her a deputy was on his way. Without thinking, Faith disconnected the line. Oh, dear, that was foolish. Then she understood what her heart had been telling her from the first—it wasn’t a 9–1-1 operator she wanted reassurance from, it was Troy Davis.
Troy had said she should call but she couldn’t. Not in the middle of the night and, really, what could he do?
He’d been on her mind ever since the evening he’d come into the Wok ’n’ Roll when she was dining there with Will Jefferson, a friend from her high-school days. He’d been two years ahead of her and a real heartthrob.
Naturally, Troy pretended he hadn’t seen her with Will. She’d done exactly the same thing and acted as though he was invisible. If anything, she’d gone out of her way to prove she could enjoy another man’s company. It’d seemed like a good idea at the time; now, in retrospect, she wasn’t so sure. She couldn’t resist letting him think she had an active social life.
Will Jefferson, while charming and as good-looking as ever, didn’t interest Faith. For that matter, he wasn’t interested in her, either. He happened to be eating alone when she came in, and Will had invited her to share his table. They’d spent an hour catching up and exchanging news of mutual friends, laughing frequently at various reminiscences. They’d had a friendly visit—and that was it. Faith hadn’t heard from Will since and didn’t expect to, which suited her fine.
The footsteps outside her window seemed to be receding. Faith exhaled and then, acting purely on impulse, grabbed the phone again. She hesitated; she had plenty of time to change her mind, plenty of time to be ruled by reason rather than emotion.
Troy answered on the second ring. “Davis here.” He sounded awake. Alert.
“Th-there’s someone outside my bedroom window,” she said, struggling to speak coherently.
“Faith?”
“I—I shouldn’t have called.”
“Hang up and call 9–1-1.” Each word was spoken clearly and distinctly.
“I already did. You suggested I phone you, too—it was silly. I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t hang up,” he commanded.
“I’m fine…. Your deputy will be here any minute. I’m sorry to bother you, Troy.” She disconnected. With her fingers trembling violently, she felt more than a little embarrassed to have given in to her impulse. Her weakness.
Faith could hear a car pull up and hurried out of bed. She threw on a housecoat, then waited by the door until the sheriff’s vehicle came into view. Turning on the porch light, she stepped onto the porch.