The Sign of Seven Trilogy (61 page)

“Without consulting me.”

“I put together the file so I could consult you and you'd have something tangible to look over when you thought about it.”

She walked away from him. “You shouldn't have done all that.”

“It's the sort of thing I do. This”—he swept his arm in the air—“is the sort of thing you do. You're not going to tell me you're going to be happy doing office work the rest of your life.”

“No, I'm not going to tell you that.” She turned back. “I'm not going to tell you I'm going to dive headfirst into starting a business that I'm not sure I want in the first place, in a town that may not exist in a few months. And if I want my own business, I haven't thought about having it here. If I want my own, how can I
think
about all the details involved when all this madness is going on?”

He was silent a moment, so silent she swore she heard the old house breathing.

“It seems to me it's most important to go after what you want when there's madness going on. I'm asking you to think about it. More, I guess I'm asking you to think about something you haven't yet. Staying. Open the shop, manage my office, found a nudist colony, or take up macrame, I don't care as long as it makes you happy. But I want you to think about staying, Layla, not just to destroy ancient fucking evil, but to live. To have a life, with me.”

As she stared at him, he stepped closer. “Put this in one of your slots. I'm in love with you. Completely, absolutely, no-turning-back in love with you. We could build something good, and solid, and real. Something that makes every day count. That's what I want. So you think about it, and when you know, you tell me what you want.”

He walked back to the door, opened it, and waited for her.

“Fox—”

“I don't want to hear you don't know. I've already got that. Let me know when you do. You're upset and a little ticked off, I get that, too,” he said as he locked up. “Take the rest of the day off.”

She started to object, he saw it on her face. Then she changed her mind. “All right. There are some things I need to do.”

“I'll see you later then.” He stepped back, stopped. “The building's not the only thing with potential,” he told her. And he turned, walked away down the bricked sidewalk in the April sunshine.

Sixteen

HE THOUGHT ABOUT GETTING DRUNK. HE COULD call Gage, who'd sit and drink coffee or club soda, bitching only for form, and spend the evening in some bar getting steadily shit-faced. Cal would go, too; he had only to ask. That's what friends were for, being the company misery loved.

Or he could just pick up the beer—maybe a bottle of Jack for a change of pace—take it to Cal's and get his drunk on there.

But he knew he wouldn't do either of those things. Planning to get drunk took all the fun out of it. He preferred it to be a happy accident. Work, Fox decided, was a better option than getting deliberately trashed.

He had enough to keep him occupied for the rest of the day, particularly at the easy pace he liked to work. Handling the office on his own for an afternoon added the perk of giving him time and space to brood. Fox considered brooding an inalienable human right, unless it dragged out more than three hours, at which point it became childish indulgence.

Did she really think he'd crossed some line and gone behind her back? That he tried to manipulate, bully, or pressure? Manipulation wasn't beyond him, he admitted, but that just hadn't been the case with this. Knowing her, he'd believed she'd appreciate having some facts, projected figures, the steps, stages compiled in an orderly fashion. He'd equated handing them to her on the same level as handing her a bouquet of daffodils.

Just a little something he'd picked up because he was thinking about her.

He stood in the center of his office, juggling the three balls as he walked back over it all in his mind. He'd wanted to show her the building, the space, the possibilities. And yeah, he'd wanted to see her eyes light up as she saw them, as she opened herself to them. That had been strategy, not manipulation. Jesus, it wasn't like he'd signed a lease for her, or applied for a loan, a business license. He'd just taken the time to find out what it would take for her to do those things.

But there was one thing he hadn't factored into that strategy. He'd never considered that
she
wasn't considering staying in the Hollow. Staying with him.

He dropped one of the balls, managed to snag it on the bounce. Setting himself, he started the circle again.

If he'd made a mistake it was in assuming she loved him, that she intended to stay. He'd never questioned, not seriously—her conviction matched his—that there would be something to stay for, something to build on, after the week of July seventh. He believed he'd felt those things from her, but he had to accept now those feelings and needs were just a reflection of his own.

That wasn't just a bitter pill to swallow, but the kind that caught in your throat and choked you for a while before you managed to work it down. But like it or not, he thought, a guy had to take his medicine.

She wasn't required to feel what he felt or want what he wanted. God knew he'd been raised to respect, even require, individuality. It was better to know if she didn't share his feelings, his wants, better to deal with the reality rather than the fantasy. That was another nasty pill, as he'd had a beauty of a fantasy going.

Her smart, fashionable shop a couple blocks up from his office, Fox mused as he dropped the balls back in his drawer. Maybe grabbing lunch together a couple times a week. Scouting for a house in town, like that old place on the corner of Main and Redbud. Or a place a little ways out, if she liked that better. But an old house they could put their mark on together. Something with a yard for kids and dogs and a garden.

Something in a town that was safe and whole, and no longer threatened. A porch swing—he had a fondness for them.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? he admitted, walking to the window to study the distant roll of the mountains. All that was what he wanted, what he hoped for. All that couldn't be if it didn't mesh with her wants and hopes and visions.

So he'd swallow that, too. They had today to get through, and all the others until Hawkins Hollow was clean. Futures were just that—the tomorrow. Maybe the foundation for them couldn't and shouldn't be built when the ground was still unsettled.

Priorities, O'Dell, he reminded himself, and sat back at his desk. He pulled up his own files on the journals to begin picking through his notes.

And the first spider crawled out of his keyboard.

It bit the back of his hand, striking quickly before he could jerk back. The pain was instant and amazing, a vicious ice-pick jab that dug fire under the skin. As he shoved away, they poured out like black water, from the keys, from the drawers.

And they grew.

LAYLA WALKED INTO THE HOUSE WITH HER SYSTEM still reeling. Escape, that's what she'd done. Fox had given her the out, and she leaped at it. Walk away, don't deal with this now.

He loved her. Had she known it? Had she slipped that knowledge into a neat file, tucked it away until it was more convenient or more sensible to examine it?

He loved her. He wanted her to stay. More, he wanted her to commit to him, to the town. To herself, Layla admitted. In his Fox-like way, he'd laid it all out for her, presented it to her in a way he'd believed she'd appreciate.

What he'd done, Layla thought, was scare her to death. Her own shop? That was just one of the airy little dreams she'd enjoyed playing with years before. One she'd let go—almost. Hawkins Hollow? Her commitment there was to save it, and to—even though it sounded pretentious—fulfill her destiny. Anything beyond that was too hard to see. And Fox?

He was the most beautiful man she'd ever known. Hardly a wonder she was reeling.

She stepped into the office where Quinn and Cybil worked on dueling keyboards.

“Fox is in love with me.”

Her fingers still flying, Quinn didn't bother to look up. “Bulletin!”

“If you knew, why didn't I?” Layla demanded.

“Because you've been too worried about being in love with him.” Cybil's fingers paused after another click of the mouse. “But the rest of us have been watching the little hearts circling over your heads for weeks. Aren't you home early?”

“Yeah. I think we had a fight.” Layla leaned against the doorjamb, rubbed her shoulder as if it ached.

Something ached, she realized, but it was too deep to reach.

“It didn't seem like a fight, except I was annoyed, among other things. He took me up to the building where the gift shop used to be. It's cleared out now. Then he started talking about potential, how I should open a boutique there, and—”

“What a great idea.” Quinn stopped now, beamed enthusiasm over Layla like sunbeams over a meadow. “Speaking as someone who's going to be living here, I'll be your best customer. Urban fashion in small-town America. I'm already there.”

“I can't open a shop here.”

“Why?”

“Because . . . Do you have any idea what's involved in starting up a business, opening a retail store, even a small one?”

“No.” Quinn replied. “You would, and I imagine Fox does, on the legal front. I'd help. I love a project. Would there be buying trips? Can you get it for me wholesale?”

“Q, take a breath,” Cybil advised. “The big hurdle isn't the logistics, is it, Layla?”

“They're a hurdle, a big one. But . . . God, can we be realistic, just the three of us, right now? There might not be a town after July. Or there might be a town that, after a week of violence and destruction and death, settles down for the next seven years. If I could even think about starting my own business with everything else we have to think about, I'd have to be out of my mind to consider having one here at Demon Central.”

“Cal has one. He's not out of his mind.”

“I'm sorry, Quinn, I didn't mean—”

“No, that's okay. I'm pointing that out because people do have businesses here, and homes here. Otherwise, there's no real point to any of what we're doing. But if it's not right for you, then it's not.”

Layla threw out her arms. “How can I know? Oh, he apparently thinks he knows. He's already talked to Jim Hawkins about renting me the building, talked to the bank about a start-up loan.”

“Oops,” Cybil murmured.

“He has a
file
for me on it. And okay, okay, to be fair, he didn't go to Mr. Hawkins or the bank about me, specifically. He just got basic information and figures. Projections.”

“I take back the oops. Sorry, sweetie, that sounds like a man who just wanted to give you the answers to questions you'd have if this was appealing to you.” Considering, Cybil tucked her legs up in the lotus position. “I'll happily reinstate the oops, even add a ‘screw him' if you tell me he tried to shove it down your throat and got pissy about it.”

“No.” Trapped by logic, Layla let out a huge sigh. “I guess I was the one who got pissy, but it all just blindsided me. He said he was in love with me, and he wanted me to be happy, to have what I wanted. He thought my own place was something I wanted. That he was, that a life with him was.”

“If it's not, if he's not, you have to tell him straight,” Quinn said after a long moment. “Or I'll be forced to aim Cybil's ‘screw you' in your direction. He doesn't deserve to be left dangling.”

“How can I tell him what I don't know?” Layla stepped out, walked to her own room and closed the door.

“Tougher for her than you,” Cybil commented. “You always made up your heart in a snap, Q. Or your mind. Sometimes both agreed. If not, you bounced. That's your way. With you and Cal, it all clicked. The idea of marrying the guy, staying here, it's a pretty easy slide for you.”

“I love the guy. Where we live isn't as important to me as living together.”

“And your keyboard fits anywhere. If you need to pop off somewhere for a story, Cal's going to be easy with that. The big change here for you, Quinn, is being in love and settling down. Those aren't the only big changes for Layla.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'd like—and it's not just because I've got stars in my eyes—I'd like to see the two of them work it out. And for purely selfish reasons, I'd love to have Layla stay. But if she decided it's not for her, then it's not. I should go get ice cream.”

“Of course you should.”

“No, seriously. She's bummed out. She needs girlfriends and ice cream. As soon as I finish this up, I'm going to walk over and buy some. No, I'll go now, and walk around the block a few times first so I can eat my share without guilt.”

“Get some pistachio,” Cybil called out as Quinn left the room.

Quinn stopped by Layla's room, tapped on the door, eased it open. “Sorry if I was harsh.”

“You weren't. You gave me more to think about.”

“While you're thinking, I'm going out for some exercise. On the way back, I'm picking up ice cream. Cybil wants pistachio. What's your poison?”

“Cookie dough.”

“Got you covered.”

When the door closed, Layla pushed at her hair. A little caloric bliss was just the ticket. Ice cream and friends. She might as well complete the trio of comfort with a hot shower and cozy clothes.

She undressed, then chose cotton pants and her softest sweatshirt. In her robe, she decided what the hell, and opted to give herself a facial before the shower.