Tennessee Touch, Sisters of Spirit #6 (13 page)

"Hello?"

"Alison?"

"Logan? Is that you?" He always softened the first letter of her name like that, but she asked anyway. Her heart kept right on racing, but this time in pleasurable excitement even as she experienced a measure of relief that no one was in trouble.

"Uh huh. Did I wake you?" he asked as if the thought had just occurred to him.

She sank back into bed. "Yes." It came out blunter than she would have wished. It was too late to recall the word or the tone.

"I'm sorry, I should've thought. But I needed to talk to you so much...." His voice trailed off.

Poor guy. He was probably berating himself for calling so late. She didn't care when he called, actually, although late night calls tended to startle her. "That's all right. It was disappointing to see you so shortly."
So he had felt as bereft as she. That was good.

"What time is it there?"

She looked at her alarm. "It's midnight. Where are you?"

"Chicago. I lose track of the time zones."

"What are you doing in Chicago?" It must be around two in the morning there.

"I have to come here sometimes, on business. Could I maybe call more often than once a week...whenever I get the chance?"

"Of course." She was happy to negate that promise he made her. "That was just in case you turned out to be a pest. But long distance; it's sort of expensive isn't it?"

"Not half as much as a plane trip." He had a point there, but....

"Where were you before you came here?"

"New York. I stopped off in Seattle—"

"Stopped off?" She laughed fondly at his logic. She could have been forgiven for thinking he was a little crazy when she first met him, making statements like that. "Oh, Logan, where do you live?"

He laughed cheerfully. "Around." He was going to stay mysterious it seemed, but somehow it didn't matter so much to Alison anymore. Let him have his secrets. But she had no intention of letting him get away that easy, so pressed again.

"That's no place, you need some sort of residence."

"I move a lot." A weak statement; he didn't offer a better. A pause, then, "Uh...did you find my little present?"

A present? He'd left a present?

"No...where is it?" She struggled upright to a sitting position.

"On the kitchen counter. I thought for sure you'd find it." He sounded both disappointed and bewildered. It must have been in plain sight...but she hadn't entered the kitchen area.

"I went right to bed...um...I was tired." She wasn't going to tell him she had slipped in without anything on. That would really be asking for trouble. "Wait a sec and I'll get it."

She carried the phone out with her, the light from her bedroom shining out into the other room.

She spotted it immediately.

The package was unusually heavy, not little—about three feet by two—a box wrapped in plain brown paper. If she'd have looked around at all, she'd have seen it. No wonder he was bewildered when he asked her about it.

Fascinated, she opened up the sturdy cardboard box to reveal a metal sculpture of a woodland scene: an old mill with a clock face on its mill wheel. It was made of welded metals, black and burnished copper, delicate silver wires, gold and silver flowers and little droplets of solder. It was a magnificent piece of work, a work of art.

He called this a little gift?

"Logan, I just opened it; it's beautiful. Where did you get it? Or did you make it?" she continued, as that thought struck her next. He said he loved beautiful things...and that he was a welder. But this... this must have taken hundreds of hours to acquire the fine detailing required by the tiny figures such as the miller and his wife.

"My best work so far. I wanted you to have it."

"But it's...it's...." she stopped, speechless. No one had given her such a gift before; expensive, yes, but none with so much time and labor invested. And the cost! He would have been able to sell it for hundreds of dollars. "It's priceless, Logan. You can't possibly want to give—"

"None of that" He cut her off, insistent. "It's yours; I made it just for you. I'd plenty of time while I couldn't walk around." Then added, tentatively, "I take it you like it?"

"Like it? I'm overwhelmed But I've never accepted an expensive gift from a man before. I don't know how to react."

"Well, you can't give it back 'cause you don't know how to find me." He sounded both smug and amused, but Alison knew he was also pleased over her reaction to his present.

"Logan...thank you," she said sincerely. "It's the most beautiful thing I've ever had." Words were so inadequate sometimes.

"It's also...sort of...my way of helping you keep me in your thoughts."

"That’s for sure," she declared.

He chuckled, his laugh deep and vibrant. "Take care, princess. Good night and pleasant dreams." She stammered a good night and he hung up.

Slowly Alison returned the phone to its cradle. For some reason she felt like sitting down and bawling.

Instead she put on her nightgown and robe and walked back out to the table to examine the clock again. It was a battery run quartz clock; he had already set it.

Such delicate work. She saw bits of color shining in the carpet of flowers and turned on the bright kitchen light, revealing tiny colored stones in blues, greens, and reds interspersed among the gold and silver. Miniature birds carrying bright red—ruby?—berries in their mouths flew skyward. And those couldn't be emeralds—could they—the stones set in the eyes of an owl? Surely it was just colored glass...no one would put precious stones in a clock.

Satisfied with this explanation, she examined again the intricate work, fascinated with his use of different metals, some polished highly, some bronzed, others gouged or beaten so that the roughness of bark, the smoothness of the water was reflected in the metal. The clock had an extra ring on the outside, like the rim of the wheel, that turned slowly with the passage of time.

About one a.m. she turned out the light and went to bed again although wide awake. The present still overwhelmed her.

What kind of man was he?

Logan had called Alison as soon as he landed in Chicago to refuel, too impatient to wait to see if she liked his gift. Her reaction was all he'd hoped for, and he hung up, the warm feeling of accomplishment sweeping aside his disappointment that their meeting had been so brief.

She loved the clock
. Her words of thanks and praise were ample reward for the hours he'd spent while injured and unable to practice or play, painstakingly trying to give her something of himself, something he felt would show her how much he valued her friendship.

And at last—now he was free to call her, to talk to her, to get to know her better.

He went directly to his meeting with Judge Walters. It turned out to be lengthy and profitable, and it was late when he got home.

Jake's car was missing from the garage as Logan pulled in but he didn't give it a thought until he tried to unlock the door. The key wouldn't fit. Puzzled, he tried again, several times, but the key wouldn't even enter the lock.

Strange. Logan opened up his car door and looked at the key in the light. It was the right one. He took out the front door key and walked around to the front and tried that one. It went in easily, but would not open the door.

Was it the right house? A quick look around assured him he hadn't pulled up to the wrong address...this was his place. But the locks had been changed.

Jake. It had to be Jake and his practical jokes. He'd pulled them all, from tying opposite hotel doors together with a long rope so no one could get out until someone outside untied it, to dressing up the floor-waxing machine and turning it on in someone's room at night. Jake had even hidden Logan's plane just after Logan had bought it by hiring a truck to tow it to another part of the airport.

Jake had to be nearby, hiding somewhere...perhaps even inside the house. He'd want to see Logan trying to get in. Logan pushed the doorbell impatiently. Sometimes he felt like clobbering his friend although he knew that if he'd thought of it first, he'd have pulled it on Jake. Logan's mind had been on Alison so much lately, he hadn't had any fresh ideas.

How long was Jake going to make him stay out here?

It turned out to be an hour before Jake drove up from wherever he had hidden his car, asking Logan what he was doing sitting outside, and opening the door with a flourish.

"She must have liked your gift," Jake remarked. “You’re still smiling in spite of the one hour delay I just put you through. I hope Alison is worth it. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

That clock had been a labor of love. Logan knew that Jake realized it.

Logan considered Jake one of the finest men he'd even known. After his wife divorced him, Jake had hit the bottle heavily in self-pity, destroying himself as surely as if he'd put a gun to his head—and Logan had pulled him out of it; smashing his liquor and calling him all kinds of a fool. Years later, the two Tennessee men had come together again when both were signed on by Green Bay, eight years after Jake's marriage had disintegrated.

Jake had been close to becoming an alcoholic; he still remained a cynic where women were concerned but he no longer blamed himself solely for his broken marriage. There had been many factors: a young wife who wouldn't leave her mother, a mother-in-law who interfered with their plans and who continually tore him down, and the physical and emotional pressures of professional football.

“You know Jake, your ex-wife couldn’t handle things. How can I find out if Alison can? There seems no way—”

“There is. Sort of. I learned the hard way.” Jake followed Logan into the kitchen. “You need to find out about her. Get her to talk. Find out about the important things like politics and religion. Some people don’t ask about those things and get a rude awakening.

“But especially, watch how she treats other people. Old folks. Her friends. Your friends. People who do some work for her, like a waitress. You.” He looked at Logan. “How does she treat you?”

“She Maced me.”

“She
Maced
you?”

“Yes.”

“Smart girl.” Jake started to laugh. “What did you do?”

“I startled her.”

“Well,” Jake said, “she certainly isn’t a push-over. Does she argue?”

“No. She was defending herself.”

“From what?”

“Me. She thought I was a killer.” Logan explained what had happened.

“You may have found a fighter. That’s good. She’ll need backbone to handle this life.”

“She’s that. And stubborn.”

“Good. You know,” Jake said, as he handed Logan a new house key, “I didn’t just change the locks for fun. There’s been more players injured and Coach Dobb suggested everyone replace the locks on their homes. Last week Marcus Osgood was knifed in the hand while he was asleep at home. Cut him enough to keep him on the sidelines for a month.”

“And take Cincinnati out of playoff consideration.”

“Yes. They looked to be our toughest opponent this year.”