The Edge of Dawn (8 page)

Myk chuckled, “Guess you won't have to worry about him taking care of himself in a pinch.”

“Oh, no. Arnold was a serious piece of fire power. Serious.”

They then talked about the quilt.

Myk was impressed. “Hell of a way to hide a map.”

“No kidding. Can we decipher it is the question, though. Narice knows of a book that might help. We'll check it out in the morning.”

Silence crept up between them for a few long moments. Myk finally said, “Well, welcome home.”

Saint held his brother's eyes. “Thanks. How's Sarita doing?”

“Running everything as always. We're well, too.”

Saint cracked, “Sorry to hear that second part.”

His brother answered with sparkling eyes. “Don't hate.”

Saint grinned. Sarita was the only woman Saint had ever loved. In his youth, he'd imagined growing up and asking her to marry him. Little did he know he'd be the one to introduce Sarita to Myk and that they'd fall in love. Sarita knew nothing about Saint's feelings for her, but Myk did. In a way that knowledge made the brothers closer, but it had also added another edge to their relationship, before Saint saw how happy Sarita was with her marriage and with Myk. In the end, Saint came to accept the fact that although Sarita loved him, she loved him like a brother and would never love him the way she did her husband. “Is there coffee?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Well, I'm going to grab a cup, and clean up. We'll talk more later.” Saint left the office.

 

Sarita showed Narice into a spacious bedroom that had its own attached bathroom. The room's furnishings were done in varying shades of green. “You can bunk here for the night.”

Narice always prided herself on her good taste and her ability to arrange a room, but the furniture and appointments in here left Narice in awe. Everything from
the lamps to the drapes to the huge bed were elegant and stylish.

“How are you and my brother getting along?”

Because Narice had no idea how much Sarita knew about her brother's role in the search for the Eye, she chose a simple answer, “We're doing fine.”

“Saint's unique.”

“That he is.”

Sarita looked about to say something else, but apparently changed her mind. “Well, let me get you some clean clothes. You're taller than I am, but we should be able to find you something to put on. You go ahead and relax, and I'll be back later.”

Sarita walked to the door then turned back to say, “Oh, I left some insect-bite cream in the bathroom on the counter. Hope it helps.”

Narice smiled. “I hope so, too.”

Then Narice was alone. She opted for the shower instead of a bath. As tired as she was, she was sure that if she got into the huge black tub, it would feel so good, she'd doze off, slide under the water, and drown.

After the shower, Narice wrapped herself in one of the huge towels in the cabinet Sarita pointed out before her exit, then stepped back into the bedroom. On the bed was a fluffy white robe with the tags still on it, a nightgown, also new, and a pair of blue footies, also new. Narice wondered if Sarita had a department store hidden in the house? Putting that silly thought out of her head, Narice got dressed.

Later, downstairs in the kitchen, Narice and Saint sat with Sarita and Myk around the table. Narice saw that Mykal Chandler was dark to Saint's light. Sarita's handsome husband had dark skin, a mustache, and dark eyes. Although he and Saint were about the same height, Myk was more muscular. Saint's body looked as powerful, but was leaner. The cut of their jaw and the slope of their cheeks showed their shared parentage.

As the conversation flowed, Narice learned that Sarita ran a neighborhood center in the inner city and that her husband was a big-time architect and philanthropist. The talk then turned to the Eye. To Narice's surprise the Chandlers were pretty much up to speed on all that had occurred, even the discovery of the quilt.

Mykal said, “I never knew anything about slave quilts. I'll be going on the net later to see what I can find. Fascinating when you think about it.”

Narice then told them about the lecture she'd attended and how beautiful and moving the quilts were. “Many of the symbols are African-based. Some were from secret societies. Different colors meant different things and some quilts even carried symbols designed to protect the quilt itself.”

Saint raised an eyebrow. “Like magic?”

“I suppose you could call it that, yes. That book I told you we needed should help us figure what our quilt means, at least I hope.”

The clock on the wall showed it was nearly midnight. Sarita yawned behind her hand, then said, “You
all will have to forgive me, but its been a long day. There's a health fair going on at the center that kicks off at eight
A.M
., so I need to go to bed.”

Mykal Chandler ran a sympathetic hand up his wife's back. “You do too much.”

She preened under the slow back massage he was now giving her. “That's because there's a lot to do, Mykal.”

He leaned forward and whispered something in her ear, and she giggled, “You are so bad.”

She took him by the hand. He was smiling down at her with such love in his eyes, Narice made herself look elsewhere. Before her own marriage fell apart, she wondered if Brandon, her ex, had ever looked at her that way, but she couldn't remember. Back then she'd been so focused on scaling the corporate mountain, everything else became secondary. Everything. Including her marriage.

Narice turned to Saint. Because of the sunglasses, she couldn't see his eyes but he seemed to be enjoying the interaction between his sister and brother. Once Narice and Saint were alone, she said, “They seem like a very happy couple.”

“They are, but when they first got married, I hoped they wouldn't be.”

Narice cocked her head his way. “Why?”

“Come on outside with me. I need to stretch my legs after all that driving.”

Narice tossed back. “Is this a date?”

He grinned, then said, “Maybe.”

Narice could feel herself succumbing to him again, and for this moment in time decided not to fight it but to enjoy it.

The moment they stepped out of the doors, she felt the cool night breeze and smelled the water of the Detroit River. Because she'd been half asleep when they first arrived here, she'd had no idea until now just how close the Chandler home was to the river. To her right she could see the Christmas-like lights of the Ambassador Bridge that connected Detroit to its Canadian neighbor, Windsor, Ontario. The darkness kept Narice from seeing the landscaping around the deck where she stood, but the solar lights in the ground lined a wood-plank walk that sloped down to a dock on the river's edge. “It's peaceful out here.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Why were you mad about your sister being in love?”

He looked at her.

“Or is it supposed to be a secret?”

He dropped his head in what appeared to be amusement, then asked, “You're Miss Cleo now?”

“Being psychic has nothing to do with it. You brought this up. How long have they been married?”

“It'll be a year in February.”

“She's obviously happy.”

“I take full blame. I introduced them.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“She was supposed to marry me.”

Narice was confused. “You can't marry your sister. That's illegal and strange.”

“She's my foster sister. We aren't blood.”

“Oh.”

Admittedly, a small part of Narice was disappointed knowing he loved someone else, but the thinking parts of herself were convinced it was good news. Now, nursing an attraction for him was entirely out of the question. “Why didn't you tell her how you felt before she got married?”

“She sees me as blood. Telling her would have made her real uncomfortable around me, and that's not what I want.” Saint then studied her in the dark. “Why am I telling you this?”

Narice shrugged. “No idea, but talking sometimes helps clarify things.” She then added, “I won't tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about. Does anyone else know?”

“Yeah, Myk.”

Narice went still. “He knows that you're in love with his wife?”

“Was. I'm not anymore. It's a long story but to make it short, when Sarita wound up in the hospital last year, I told him. He took it well, I thought.”

He then turned to Narice and explained, “Sarita is unique, no other woman in the world has her fire or her strength. Before she married Myk, she ran that neighborhood center of hers on no money—none, but she still managed to do after-school tutoring, meals for the
shut-ins, and Christmas trees and Christmas dinners for families unable to afford their own.”

Narice was glad she'd met Sarita and come to like her before hearing Saint's evaluation. To hear him talk, the woman was Mary McLeod Bethune and Dorothy Height wrapped up in one. No sister liked being compared to a saint knowing she'd fall short. “Do they have any children?”

“No—not yet.”

They let the silence rise again and Narice could hear the wind in the trees. She thought about the rainstorm they'd encountered down by the state line. “Do you think that weather's coming this way?”

He lifted his head and looked around. The wind was rising. “Maybe.”

Narice let the breeze bathe her face. Out here, she didn't have to think about choppers, or quilts, or dead men lying in Uncle Willie's doorway. The blustery gusts seemed to blow away all of her tension and anxiety. “I could stay out here all night.”

“So could I.”

Narice smiled, “That's right, you are nocturnal, aren't you?”

He grinned in the darkness.

“Well, I'm kinda nocturnal myself, truth be told. I enjoy the quiet and the relaxation after a hard day, especially on a stormy, windy night like this. Makes you want to curl up with a good book.”

“
Or a good woman,
Saint thought.

Narice met his eyes then looked away. She was glad for the darkness.

Saint then said, “You've been a trooper through all of this. I know it can't be easy.”

“No, it isn't, but I have a feeling it's going to be harder the closer we get to finding the Eye.”

“You're right, but I'm going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”

The genuine feeling in his words touched her. “I know.”

Silence again.

Narice could feel the tiredness of the day catching up with her. In another time and place she could have stayed out here with him all night, but tomorrow was coming and maybe so were the cockroaches. “I need to go to bed. If I can find my way back to the room your sister gave me.” She laughed.

“It is a big place. Come on. I'll show you.”

Upstairs outside of Narice's door they stood facing each other as if this were indeed the end of a date, and she felt as nervous as a sixteen-year-old. “I'll see you in the morning.”

“You, too. Get some sleep.”

“Thanks.”

While he watched, she slipped into her bedroom and softly closed the door.

After she was gone, Saint stood in the hallway, thinking about her, and wondering what it was about her that had made him open up to her the way he had.
Other than Myk, no one knew how he felt about Sarita, why in the world had he told her?

Unable to answer the question, Saint shook himself free, then headed off to his own bed.

Narice awakened the next morning to the sound of knocking. Turning over in bed, she peered around blearily then remembered where she was. “Yes?”

“Are you awake?” Saint called through the door.

“Yes,” she groused sleepily. Narice had never been a morning person, and doubted she ever would be.

“Come downstairs a minute. Something I want you to see.”

Narice raised up wearily. “It's not more cockroaches, is it?”
Lord, don't let it be cockroaches. Not at this time of the morning.

Saint laughed. “No cockroaches. This is something you'll like.”

Narice didn't believe him, but got out of bed anyway.

After attending to her morning needs and brushing her teeth, Narice, still wearing her robe, left her borrowed bedroom. Unfamiliarity with the layout of the big house sent her in the wrong direction again at first, but she finally came across the staircase. It led down to the large, well-furnished sitting room she'd been so impressed with last night. This morning, the big wooden door was ajar and Saint stuck his head around it. “Mornin.' We're in here.”

But when Narice walked in she couldn't see the
we
he'd referred to because she was too busy staring at the racks and racks of women's clothing; all hanging on hangers, all brand-new and bearing price tags. She saw blouses, slacks, dresses, suits, so much merchandise, in fact, she couldn't see the furniture.

Out of the racks stepped Myk Chandler. “Morning, Narice.”

“Morning,” she replied, still looking around at the mini department store.

“Sarita said you needed some clothes, so I had a friend bring some things over. Pick out what you need and I'll send the rest back.”

Narice stared at him as if he'd grown another head. She turned to Saint. He was wearing his signature coat and leaning casually against the fireplace mantel. Covering his eyes were the shades, so lord knew what he was thinking, but he was smiling. “Pretty scary, isn't it?” he asked, gesturing to the clothes. “He does this to Sarita all the time. She's trying to find him a twelve-step program, but so far, no luck.”

Amused, Narice began to slowly move through the clothes, looking at blouses, fingering skirts. There was a small stack of boxes on one of the coffee tables. Some of the boxes were pale blue, others gold, a few were ivory but all bore the names of the city's finest stores: Nordstrom's, Lord & Taylor, Marshall Fields. She gave Myk a questioning look.

He responded, “Those, too.”

A curious Narice picked one up. A peek inside revealed a beautiful indigo nightgown trimmed with lace. The sensual gown lay in the box delicately layered between folds of scented tissue paper. Just looking at it let Narice know it would slide over her body like a caress. Her eyes strayed to Saint and found shaded eyes watching her with a powerful intensity she could feel. Swallowing in her suddenly dry throat, she closed the box and moved on.

She snaked her way through shorts, swimsuits, sun-dresses and skirts. There were capris and jeans; bathrobes and packages of fine pantyhose. She shook her head. “There's so much here.”

Saint pushed himself away from the mantel. “Need help deciding?”

Narice eyed him, and said, “Maybe,” then added dubiously, “but not from you.”

He placed his hand over his heart as if she'd wounded him, “Why not?”

She laughed. “Look at how you're dressed?”

He studied himself for a moment.

Myk interjected drolly, “She does have a point.”

Ignoring them, Saint strode over to a rack holding a bunch of blouses. After a few silent moments of hunting he held up an ivory silk number that made Narice's mouth water. He asked, “So, you wouldn't wear this?”

Narice knew the blouse would be an asset in any woman's closet. “Well, yes.”

He moved over to another rack and held up two long-sleeved cotton sweaters—one red, one black. “How about these?”

“I'd wear those, too,” she confessed. Both would be perfect for the chilly summer nights of August. She asked, “So, should I apologize and say, you have great taste, even if you dress like the hero in a spaghetti western?”

Myk's laugh filled the room.

Saint ignored him. “Yes.”

She smiled. “I apologize. You do have great taste.”

Myk said proudly, “Runs in our genes.”

Narice looked from one brother to the other. “You two do favor.”

“No, we don't,” the brothers replied in unison.

“Yes, you do. You have the same cheeks, the—”

“No, we don't,” they said again, firmer this time.

She shook her head. “Never mind. Myk, let me go and get my purse so I can give you my credit card number.”

He asked, “What for?”

“So I can pay for what I'm going to choose.”

“Your credit isn't good here—your money either. Just pick out what you need. Me, I have to get to work.”

“But—”

“No buts. It's the least Sarita and I can do.”

“But—”

He smiled, then turned to his brother. “Are you going to stick around?”

“Depends on whether we can find the book or not.”

“Okay, but don't leave town without letting me know. I'm on my way to pick up something you'll probably need.”

Saint looked confused.

Myk waved him off. “I'll see you later. Narice, there's a suitcase you can use in the hall closet.”

She nodded. “Thanks, thanks for everything.”

He left without a further word.

In the silence that followed his exit, Narice took a slower stroll through the clothing; picking out pieces here and there, holding items against her torso in an attempt to gauge how the garment might look once she had it on. Through it all, Saint waited and watched silently. Narice was very conscious of his presence. “You know, you're going to go blind wearing sunglasses inside all the time.”

“I'm already blind, that's why I wear them.”

Her eyes swung to his. “They're prescription?”

“Yep.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You never asked.”

She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I didn't did I?”

He shook his head. “No.”

Narice's guilt stung her. She'd had no business be
ing so judgmental, but he was so unlike the men she was accustomed to being around. “How long do you think we'll be on the road, that way I can figure out how much stuff I'll need to take.”

He shrugged. “No idea.”

“A week's worth maybe?”

“Sounds good.”

So she spent the next few minutes gathering jeans, tops, sweatshirts, T-shirts, and other practical wear. Choosing those garments made much better sense than trying to run from the bad guys in Bandolinos and Dior suits with tight skirts. Speaking of Bandolinos, the Chandlers had also provided a slew of shoes: sandals, hikers, running shoes, and dress flats. Narice stuck her left foot into a sandal and the right into a running shoe. Both fit well, so she put them with their mates and set them in her keeper pile.

Narice was pleased with her choices; she didn't need to take much with her, she had tons of clothes at home. The only thing she hadn't spotted yet, and she prayed they were here somewhere, was underwear. She shot a quick look at Saint. She really didn't want to ask him, but she needed more underwear than the single change she possessed now. “Is there underwear here, somewhere, I hope?”

“Try checking the rest of those boxes on the coffee table.”

Sure enough, one of the gold boxes held three sexy brassieres and matching panties. The jewel-tone colors and the lace trim were just her style. A quick search
through the other boxes turned up more underwear, a couple of camisoles, pajamas, and a robe. She walked the boxes over to her keeper pile. “Does your brother really bring clothes in like this for his wife?”

“Clothes, jewelers, furriers. He bought so many clothes for her when they first got married, lots are still in bags and boxes in her closet. She has enough stuff for
three
women.”

“Does he do it to impress her?”

“Nope. Does it because he loves her.”

“I see,” Narice replied. Most women never got that kind of love. Narice thought it best to change the subject. “I'm going to take all this upstairs and get dressed.”

After breakfast, Narice and Saint went out to the van. Last night, the darkness kept them from fully assessing the SUV's damage, but now that it was morning, the big dent on the passenger-side front wheel well was quite apparent. The paint had been badly scratched on the driver's side. There were bumps and bruises on the doors, and a headlight was broken. “Considering what we went through, it looks pretty good,” he said pleased. “Gives it some character.”

Narice wasn't sure if character was the word, but as long as it could outrun a helicopter, she didn't care how it looked. “So where do we go first?”

He looked at his watch. “I need to get a headlight, then we can find a bookstore.

Wearing a short-sleeved blue blouse, matching shorts, and her new running shoes Narice climbed into
the passenger seat and clicked in her belt. “You know,” she said as he got in on his side, “I've been thinking about the clue daddy left in the quilt.”

He stuck the key in the ignition and turned on the engine. “What about it.”

“It said,
‘then go Home'
. I'm wondering if he meant our home, the house I grew up in?”

“Is it the same house where the fire was set?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let's swing by there after I get the headlight and see what we can see.”

She nodded her agreement, but in reality Narice dreaded the prospect of revisiting the scene of her father's death.

Saint made a few calls and found an auto shop that could replace the light. An hour later, the work was done and he was driving down Forest Avenue on the city's east side en route to Narice's home. She'd been pretty quiet most of the morning. He didn't press, figuring if his childhood home had been torched and someone he loved had died in the fire, he'd be pretty silent, too.

Per her directions, Saint took a left onto Sheridan Street and drove halfway down the block. On their left was a large city playground filled with kids on swings, in the sandbox, and shooting hoop. On the right, the charred remains of Simon Jordan's house. Saint eased the SUV to the curb and cut the engine.

For a moment, Narice didn't move to get out. She sat there looking up and down the street at the familiar
houses. The memories of playing in the park when she was young rose to mind as clearly as the happy sounds of the children playing there now. Her eyes finally settled on the blackened wood and bricks that had once been her home and the grief filled her throat. Pushing it aside, she took hold of the door's handle and swung the heavy door open.

Saint could feel her pain. “Are you sure you want to do this, now?”

“Now or later, it's all the same.”

She got out and he followed.

The roof was gone. Yellow police tape cordoned off the perimeter. A sign nailed onto the temporary plywood door declared the place condemned and warned trespassers to stay out.

Narice held the yellow tape up so she could duck under it, then she and Saint stood there for a moment scanning the hulk.

Narice said softly, “Well, daddy, we're here. Now what?”

Saint asked, “You don't think the Eye's in there somewhere, do you?”

“I doubt it, that would be too obvious, but it's too dangerous to go inside and look.” She studied the house again. “I wonder why he wanted me to come here? He said,
home,
and this is home.”

She turned to Saint hoping he had a theory.

He shrugged. “I have no idea.”

Narice walked slowly around the burned perimeter, stepping over wood and around scorched furniture and
other debris. Her first trip here had been the day before the funeral. In her pain and sorrow all she could do was stand in front of the remains and weep for her father and for herself. Coming here today, she'd hoped the purpose behind the visit would give her the strength and distance she'd need to look for whatever clues might be contained in the ashes, but grief still had the upper hand.

When Saint looked up and saw the tears standing in her eyes, his heart went out to her. “How about we go to the bookstore? I don't think we're going to find what we're looking for here.”

She discreetly wiped her eyes. “You're probably right. If there was anything valuable it's long gone.”

A woman's voice interrupted them. “Well, good morning, Narice.”

Thelma McNeal had been the Jordans' next door neighbor for thirty years. Narice took in a deep breath and looked over to where the woman stood on her back porch. “Good morning, Mrs. McNeal.”

Once upon a time, Thelma McNeal had been hot. With her dark brown skin, beautiful full figure, and jet black hair, she drove the neighborhood's husbands and widowers wild. She drove their wives wild too, because Thelma had many of those husbands sneaking in her back door at night. Now, the years of alcohol abuse and fly-by-night sugar daddies had drained her beauty and aged her well beyond her sixty years. Her skin was now mottled and creased, the eyes bleary. One of the
reasons was easy to see. It was barely 10:30 in the morning and Thelma was already buzzed; probably from the brown liquor in the glass she had in her hand. Her platinum-blond wig was on slightly crooked and the once traffic-stopping curves were now just bulk beneath a flowered muumuu that should have been turned into a dust rag years ago. Her other hand held her current yap dog against her formidable chest. Like all little yap dogs, it had the nerve to growl and bare its teeth.

Mrs. McNeal ignored the dog and said to Narice, “Sorry about your daddy's passing. I was in North Carolina burying my sister the day the fire broke out.”