3 Swift Run (5 page)

I paused near the steps, shivering, trying to work up my courage to walk up to the
door. What if Les answered? A happy thought struck me. I didn’t have to mention Heather-Anne.
I could say I was in Aspen for the skiing and decided to drop in on Moss and Cherry.
That would keep him from being suspicious. I climbed the stairs before I could lose
my nerve and knocked timidly. I waited, shifting from foot to foot, getting chilled.
Butterflies swarmed in my tummy. Zipping my parka, I knocked again, a little louder.
Still nothing. Maybe I’d been wrong about Les staying here.

I backed down the steps, looking up at the house, but no lights popped on. I seemed
to remember that the huge window to the left of the door looked into the living room.
Struggling through knee-deep drifts, I tromped to the window, leg muscles screaming.
With my hands cupped around my face, I tried to peer in. Too dark. Cold and wet and
tired, head ducked against a strengthening wind, I turned to leave. I should have
stuck with Charlie’s plan. A sudden flash of movement made me look up. A black shadow
had rounded the far end of the house and was aiming for me like an arrow shot from
the crossbow my daddy used to hunt wild hogs. About to hyperventilate, I turned to
run, but the deep snow pulled at my boots, and I had only managed a couple of steps
before something slammed into my back and I pitched face-first into the snow.

5

I struggled to breathe, cold, grainy snow filling my nose and mouth. Something heavy
on my back held me down, and when I turned my face to gasp for air, hot, meaty breath
blew over my cheek. It was accompanied by a ferocious
grrr
ing and I froze, trying not to think about a news story I’d read recently about a
pit bull that attacked a woman going about her daily business and bit her nose off,
among other things. I really didn’t have money in my budget now for a plastic surgeon.

“Knievel will rip your throat out if you move,” a man’s voice said.

Despite the edge of fear in his voice, I recognized it. “Les,” I said in a small voice,
trying not to upset Knievel, whose paws on my shoulders kept me from raising my head.
“Les, it’s me.”

There was silence. “Gigi?”

“Yes!”

More silence, long enough for me to wonder if he’d walked away. I shifted my shoulder,
and Knievel growled louder in response. “Nice doggy,” I said. “I hope someone already
fed you dinner. Les?”

“I’m thinking.” After another moment, he said, “Off, Knievel.”

The heaviness left my back, and I rolled over slowly, looking for the dog to make
sure he wasn’t going to pounce on me again. I kept one hand on my nose. When I had
managed to sit up, snow and wet all over the front of my parka and velour leggings,
I made out Les standing in the shadow of a large spruce, holding a shotgun on me.
Knievel, a Doberman pinscher, sat a foot away, ready to chew me into confetti if Les
gave the word. “You’re a handsome boy,” I told the dog. He curled his lip, showing
strong white teeth.

I began to shiver. “I’m c-cold,” I said. “Can I get up?”

“Of course you can get up,” Les said impatiently. “Jeez, Gigi.”

“You’re p-pointing a g-gun at me.”

“What? Oh.” He lowered the gun to his side. “You can’t be too careful these days.”

I didn’t know what he meant by that, but I struggled to my feet and brushed snow off
myself. Knievel kept his eyes trained on me, looking for an excuse to rip my nose
off. “What happened to Bella?” I asked.

“Bella? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Cherry and Moss’s bichon,” I said. I hoped Knievel hadn’t eaten her.

“How the hell should I know? God, Gigi, I’d forgotten how you go on about irrelevancies.”

I swallowed hard. “Sorry,” I whispered.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, he said, “I guess you’d better come in.” He turned and
headed around the side of the house, and I followed. Knievel stuck close to me, eyeing
me like I was a pork chop he was hoping to sink his teeth into, until Les called,
“Knievel, heel.” The dog trotted forward then, and I slogged behind them, wanting
nothing more than some dry clothes and a bowl of soup. I couldn’t even feel good about
having located Les so easily and earning Heather-Anne’s thousand dollars.

The back door hung open as if Les had been in such a hurry to confront the intruder—me—that
he hadn’t bothered to close it. Golden light spilled onto the snow, a yellow road
leading into the kitchen. Knievel’s claws clicked on the hardwood floor as he trotted
toward a bowl in the corner and began to slurp. The kitchen was all ceramic tile and
warm woods with a stone arch over the six-burner Viking stove; Cherry had redone it
in a Tuscan style since the last time I was here. Les laid the shotgun up against
the wall and bent to remove his boots. I did the same, stealing covert looks at him
from my bent-over position.

He looked about the same as when I’d last seen him. Maybe a little browner. He still
combed his blond hair to hide his bald patch, and he still had the mustache Charlie
said made him look like Hitler. I’d always liked it; I thought it made him look a
little bit like a 1940s movie star, and it tickled when he kissed me. Beneath the
too-big jacket he was shucking off—maybe it was Moss’s?—he wore a pineapple-printed
Hawaiian shirt not at all right for Aspen in February. Its loose fit disguised his
little potbelly. With both of us in our stocking feet, he was only an inch taller
than me; he never liked it when I wore high heels when we went out together.

“What are you doing here, Gigi?” Les asked suddenly, and I nearly toppled over. “How
did you know I was here?”

I straightened slowly, taking my time pulling off my parka so I could try to remember
my story. White feathers drifted from a tear on the shoulder where Knievel’s claws
must have ripped it. I gave the Doberman a look where he lay with his head on his
forelegs in front of an old-fashioned iron stove that was putting off a lot of heat
and muttered, “Naughty dog.” He ignored me. Les didn’t offer to take my coat, so I
hung it over a chair tucked under the heavy butcher-block table.

Taking a deep breath, I launched into the story I’d settled on. “I’m in Aspen to do
some skiing and thought I’d drop in on Cherry and Moss. I haven’t seen them since…”
Since before Les ran off with Heather-Anne.

Les raised his spiky brows. “Skiing? You haven’t skied in years, Gigi.”

“I was on Snowmass today,” I said, trying to make it sound as if I’d schussed down
in Lindsey Vonn style. I didn’t tell him I was listing my skis and boots on Craigslist
as soon as I got home. I was never skiing again.

He gave me a doubtful look. “Are Kenny and Dex with you?”

“Uh, no.” I thought quickly. “School. I couldn’t take them out of school. They’re
staying with … friends. They miss you.” I knew Kendall missed her daddy, although
I wasn’t so sure about Dexter. He never talked about Les.

He turned away and began to wash his hands in the farmhouse sink. I liked it and wondered
whether I shouldn’t redo our kitchen.
My
kitchen. Les had insisted on stainless steel appliances and sinks, but I’d always
found the metal kind of cold, especially on gloomy, cloudy days—not that we had many
of those in Colorado Springs. I remembered I could hardly afford to buy napkins, and
my shoulders slumped. When Les didn’t respond to my comment about Kendall and Dexter,
I said, “What are
you
doing here? I thought you were in Costa Rica or someplace.” Trying to make it sound
like I didn’t know or care where he’d gone.

“Business.” Reaching into a cabinet over the stove, he pulled out a bottle of Scotch.
Mac-something-or-other; I couldn’t read the whole label.

“Where’s Heather-Anne?” I asked, suddenly remembering I wasn’t supposed to know she
wasn’t with him.

“Home.” He poured a shot, downed it, and poured another without looking at me.

“I’d like some,” I said. I was cold, wet, and unhappy. Books and movies always made
it seem like a shot of whisky would warm you right up. That’s what Saint Bernards
carried in those cute little barrels attached to their collars, wasn’t it? Or maybe
that was brandy.

“You hate Scotch,” Les said, turning to face me. Surprise and uncertainty fought it
out on his face.

“Not anymore,” I said, semidefiantly. “A lot of things have changed since you left.”

He looked doubtful, but poured me a shot in a heavy crystal tumbler and walked it
over to me. “What else has changed?”

“Well, I’m working now.” I tasted the amber liquid and coughed. Nasty.

Les gave me an “I told you so” smirk and I forced myself to take another sip. It wasn’t
so bad this time.

“I heard,” he said. “For that third-rate PI firm I invested in. Stupidest financial
decision I ever made.”

“Charlie is not third-rate!”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. His gaze ran over me, and I was suddenly glad
I’d worn the aqua cashmere sweater that brings out the blue in my eyes and the dark
purple leggings that make me look svelte. Well, less fat. “You’re looking good, Gigi,”
Les said. “Divorce must agree with you.” He moved in a little closer, and I could
smell the Scotch on his breath.

Flustered, I tipped the rest of my Scotch into my mouth. It burned down my throat
to my tummy, and I felt a warm glow spreading through my limbs. My fingertips tingled.
It worked, I thought, just like in the movies. My brain felt a little fuzzy.

“You haven’t asked about Cherry and Moss,” Les reminded me, his gaze dropping to my
lips.

I licked them nervously. “Oh, Cherry and Moss. I was hoping to see them … thought
I’d drop by while I was here in Aspen. For the skiing. Where are they?” Les had me
so rattled I looked around, half expecting Moss to come in with an armload of wood
from outside, or Cherry to pop in and suggest we have a
Die Hard
marathon in their theater room after dinner.

“They’re in Singapore,” Les said, watching me closely.

“Oh, right.” I remembered I wasn’t supposed to know they were gone. “I mean, I’m sorry
they’re not here.”

“I’m not.” Les slipped an arm around my waist and pulled me closer. “I’ve missed you,
Gigi.”

I wriggled away, flushing. “Don’t say that, Les.”

“Why not? It’s true. You can’t tell me you haven’t missed me, too.” He plucked the
glass from my hand.

“Maybe a little at the beginning.” I watched him from the corner of my eyes as he
poured us both more Scotch. “What are you doing here?” I twisted my head from side
to side; my neck hurt. Noticing, Les set his glass down and moved behind me. He started
massaging my neck and shoulders, thumbs digging deep into my aching muscles. It felt
good. “Mm.”

My eyes wanted to close, but I forced them open, trying to remember what I’d asked
him. “Why did you come back?”

“I might have made a mistake.”

“You did?” He smelled good, like fresh air and the spicy aftershave the kids got him
every Father’s Day. The familiar scent did something to my insides, or maybe it was
the Scotch, and even though I meant to ask him what kind of mistake, the words didn’t
make it from my head to my tongue. I turned and pushed against his chest halfheartedly.
“What about Heather-Anne?”

“She’s—we’re kind of taking a time-out right now. I’m not sure … You always could
get me going, Geej,” he said, wrapping his arms more firmly around me.

I wondered briefly if Heather-Anne knew they were taking a time-out. “We shouldn’t …
We’re divorced.”

“I don’t feel divorced right now,” he murmured against my ear, his teeth nipping at
it in the way he knew made me crazy. Some part of my brain that didn’t feel all warm
and woolly tried to remind me that I should be asking him what he was doing here,
why he wasn’t in Costa Rica, or calling Charlie to let her know I’d found him. Then
he kissed me, mustache tickling, and pulled me against his body and we fit together
just like we used to, and I felt myself melt like butter on a stack of steaming hotcakes.

6

Charlie Swift pointed her pancake-laden fork at Father Dan Allgood, the Episcopalian
priest who lived in the rectory next door. “I told you you don’t need to keep making
my breakfast. I’m well enough to do it myself now.” She patted her hip. “Almost good
as new.”

“You didn’t say it very convincingly,” he said with a lazy smile, “and since that’s
your sixth pancake, I get the feeling you appreciate my cooking.” With a flick of
the spatula, he flipped a pancake off the griddle and slid it onto the stack on his
plate. Turning off the gas, he collected his plate and joined her at the kitchen table,
his broad shoulders and six-foot-five frame making the table feel smaller all of a
sudden. Light gleamed on his blond hair and turned the syrup stream he poured onto
his pancakes a luscious amber.

“Who wouldn’t?” Charlie mumbled around a mouthful of pancake. She downed half a glass
of orange juice. “You’re going to make some lucky woman a wonderful husband.” Having
breakfast together, as they had been since Dan started cooking it for her after she
got shot, felt weirdly cozy, and she tossed the joke out to defuse the feeling.

Dan gave her a look from under his brows but didn’t respond. He was probably in his
late forties, ten years older than she was, Charlie thought, although his rugged build
made him appear younger. The expression in his eyes, though, especially when he was
staring off into the middle distance, unaware that someone was watching him, made
him seem older. For all she knew, he’d already been married three times; they didn’t
often discuss personal matters. She knew he’d been ordained an Episcopal priest ten
years ago and had been the rector at St. Paul’s for two years, but she didn’t know
where he grew up or what he’d done before becoming a priest. She’d been tempted to
ask on more than one occasion, but something about the way he stilled when the conversation
looked like it was headed in that direction made her back off. It’s not like she was
eagerly sharing the grimmer details of her air force years or her peripatetic childhood,
either.