T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (10 page)

“When?”

He shrugged. “You tell me. I’m going to be at the dock figuring out which end of the pole to use and Sam is always otherwise occupied.”

“I need to help Sally with lunch, then Murph will be here. Two?”

“See you then.”

*  *  *

Fletch whistled his way through the utility room door from the garage. The final chords of BCA’s last album were quickly dissolving into something Russian. He stopped in the dining room to watch T at the piano. Whatever smidgen of art appreciation Fletch had in him would always turn up when he could catch T off-guard, totally absorbed in his playing. He could be poetry in motion. The other end of the scale held the ass in residence.

Fletch moved into the living room. He left the exploitive magazines on the loveseat, then carried the newspaper back into the breakfast nook and put on water for tea. It always worked. T was in the kitchen in record time, scanning the headlines from rag to rag.

“I think I like this one best, ‘Eddie C sees T disappear into alien ship’. You don’t suppose he wrote that himself and faxed it over?”

“Tea?” Fletch paused with cup and saucer in hand. T shook his head.

“You were gone a long time. How long does it take to get a fishing license?”

“Oh, I had coffee, met the local fishing legend-cum-bigot. Indulged in a cinnamon roll. Asked Lyla when she’d be up.” He watched T out of the corner of his eye. He had spent yesterday afternoon being sullen about Fletch’s criticism of his behavior in church. Saturday’s mellowness had seemed to disappear until the melody to her song had been reactivated about ten last night. What would be his reaction today?

T walked over to the table just as the kettle whistle blew. He settled in, flicked the television on, totally nonchalant, noncommittal. “So when do I need to clean up for the housekeeper?”

Fletch poured the water over the teabag, joined T at the table. “About two today. But you can join me on the dock and we can both stay out of her way.” He opened the business section, started scanning.

“I don’t have a license.”

“You can watch.”

“Too hot. Fish won’t be biting anyway.”

“Probably not.” He adjusted his reading glasses before looking at T over the rims. “So do you want to be up here alone with her or not?”

“I didn’t think you approved.”

“I don’t. She’s not going to give you the time of day anyway. You are classified, boy. You are off-limits.”

“What about a side bet?” T raised his eyebrows. “It is my only vice left, you know.”

Fletch’s gaming spirit rose. “You cannot endanger our cover.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. But before these two and one half miserable weeks are up—one and a half if I behave myself—I’ll have a date with her.”

“What kind of limits are we talking here?”

“Big date, fancy. No ice cream at the Dairy Mart. Dallas. Hell, New York.”

“I don’t want you trying too hard.” He returned his attention to the paper.

“Double the money and I’ll bed her.”

“How much are we talking?”

“You’re the manager. How much can either of us afford since we’ve both been out of work?”

“Five K if you date, ten K if you bed her. But let’s put it to good use. We’ll buy her church an organ.”

“Your tax man will love that.”

“You can’t let her in on this. No manipulating the odds.”

“Hell, Fletch, I’m more of a sport than that. I need a challenge. I got used to them these last months.” He opened the top magazine. “I will not blow our cover, but I will date her.” He paused, grinned. “And she’ll like it.”

*  *  *

Nothing stirred as Lyla pulled into her own driveway. She parked the Jeep in the shade, waited for the dust to settle before she got out. Just to see if Fletch was serious, she walked to the edge of the bluff above the dock first. He was in the boat, shaded from the afternoon sun by the rock face. He was shoeless, the tackle spread everywhere, three poles in various states of disrepair. Shep nuzzled the back of her bare legs, whined. “Mind some company?” she called down.

He turned and waved up at her. “You?”

“Shep.”

“Send him down!”

“Go on, boy.” She shooed him to the steps, and he bounded down and into the boat with the man. Fletch was caught unawares and the boat yawed. Fletch steadied it with a hand on the dock. Lyla laughed. The fish were in no danger.

“Got a question for you before you go,” he called.

“Ask away.”

Fletch adjusted the brim of the neon pink cap he’d found in the garage. “This morning Norm said Harrison’s fishing was in his genes. But Dub can’t fish?”

“Professional jealousy between two old buddies. What he really meant was my husband was a fishing and hunting guide. Good enough to make a living at it. You can’t take half of what Norm says at face value.”

“Well, I’d figured as much. Thanks.” He turned back to face the lake, pet the dog.

Lyla shook her head as she walked back to the cabin. Had she ever had such strange tenants?

*  *  *

She found the piano bench empty when she finally tired of trying to get Sam to the door. It was unlocked, so she stepped through, called. No answer. She caught sight of him through the windows on the patio. He was stripped to the waist, lying on a redwood bench by the hot tub, wearing only swim trunks and sunglasses. He was baking in the afternoon sun. She didn’t know where he’d been for the summer, but his well-built body was pale on any fisherman or golfer scale of tan. She hoped he wouldn’t overdo. She really didn’t want to have to recommend a doctor for this one.

She went over to the window, tapped on it to let him know she was there. He raised his sunglasses, acknowledged her with a sneer, presumably for disturbing his peace, and went back to the nothing he was doing. She started toward the bathroom.

Lyla stood in the middle of the double bathroom and immediately knew who used which side. Fletcher’s was neat, clean, the shaving kit closed, the towels hung, and the dirty clothes in the hamper. The disaster that was the other side reminded her of what the marina had looked like after the tornado five years ago. There was nothing for it but to start at one corner and work her way out.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged with an armload of towels and a resolve to screen her future clients for neatness attributes. She was heading into the kitchen as he opened the door, came in, and tossed his sunglasses on the table. “I was afraid you’d be the color of lobster if you stayed out much longer!”

“Worried about me, huh?” He leered at her and held up the container of number 25 sun lotion. “Just need a little color on my cheeks!” He waited the requisite second. “The little ones!” He puffed out his face. She felt herself blush as her eyes trailed down his torso to where his trunks rode low on his hips. Fully visible above the waistband was a tattooed snake’s head, its body disappearing into his trunks.

She spun around and went into the kitchen.

“Listen!” he called after her. “Don’t start any water, I’m going to shower. Remember your water pressure leaves something to be desired!”

Lyla dumped the towels on the washer, straightened the living room and plumped the pillows. She noted the music was all back in its cabinets, except for a ream of score paper. Some of it was stacked on the floor, some splayed out on the book rest. The shower continued running and the temptation was too great.

Lyla let her fingers follow the hastily drawn notes on the score sheets. The harmony disappeared in the middle of the second page, but the melody continued for four. It was a little on the jazzy side and changed so much, so often, she had her experienced hands full trying to decipher it. She swept through the music three times before stopping to listen. The shower had quit.

She was halfway off the bench when she noticed Sam standing in the hall doorway watching her. He was dressed in shorts and tank top, no shoes. A hint of after-shave wafted through the air to her. She had been concentrating so hard, she’d not heard him come down the hall and now she was well and truly caught.

*  *  *

T had heard the strains of the new work when he stepped out of the shower. So she could be tempted. Wonderful! Her rendition was jerky, and he wasn’t pleased, didn’t even particularly like his tune now that he heard it interpreted by someone else.

Then she started over on it. This time the notes flowed, she added some of her own, and Edwin Thomas Samuels fell in love for the first time since he was sixteen.

And it kept getting better. She had a deer-in-the-headlights look on her face. “Caught you!” He pushed off from the doorframe. “It’s only fair, I guess. I find your music, you find mine.” He could be Mr. Friendly.

“I guess you could look at it that way.” She stood by the piano, her left hand resting lightly on it. “Except I smell entrapment on your part.”

He smiled broadly. “
Moi
?”

“You.” She turned toward the kitchen and he stretched forward to catch her arm. “You promised me a duet, remember?”

“I don’t recall promising.” Her skin was smooth under his fingers. Like silk. Her breath hitched. Neither of them moved and neither of them looked away.

T gradually eased his hold, let his hand drift to rest on the piano. “Not even chopsticks?” he whispered.

Lyla didn’t move. “S-some other time. Harrison’ll be home any minute and your towels need seeing to.”

He followed her into the kitchen, stood in the doorway while she loaded the washer, tried not to stare. “Most of those seem to be mine.”

“Someone else obviously picks up after you at home.”

His mother, his grandmother, maids. “Yes.” He sauntered farther into the kitchen, sat at the table as she swept the floor. “Fletch said you had to come today because you’re going to a museum exhibit with Harrison’s class tomorrow.”

“That’s right.” She circled the table.

He lifted his feet without being asked. “Need another chaperone?”

“Why?” She stopped sweeping, leaned on the broom. “You volunteering?” There was more than a trace of a smile on her face. “Funny, you don’t strike me as the third grade class’s homeroom mother type.” She was laughing now.

He winced. “Perhaps I just want to see the exhibit.”

“Oh, a patron of all the arts, not just the musical ones.” She started sweeping again. “It’s been sold out for months. We got these tickets last May and did an educated guess about the number of students.”

“And?”

“And we have just enough. But thank you for your interest.” She bent down to hold the dustbin, looked up at him. “Fletch know about this offer?”

“Think he wouldn’t let me go?”

“Never crossed my mind.”

“I do what I please.”

“Coming here was your idea?”

“I think we’re off the subject now.”

She stood up. “Okay, what else do you want to cover on this subject?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “If I could get a ticket and be there when you are, what would it be worth to you?”

“Sold out. Read my lips.”

“Would you let me take you to dinner?”

“Dairy Mart or McDonald’s?”

“Real dinner. Something in Dallas. We could fly to New York.”

“And what will Fletch—you remember him, your one and only—think about this?” She was laughing again, holding onto the broom to steady herself.

“Do not take me for a fool, Lyla. This has nothing to do with sexual preference. This is a personal challenge.”

She quit laughing, stood straight. “All right, Sam, I’ll accept your challenge. And I’m doing this because a week ago I tried to get three more tickets any time within an hour of our tour and couldn’t. It can’t be done. Except by someone of your inestimable talent.” She leaned forward with the broom. “We’re leaving town at 8:15. We’ll be at Fair Park at 10:45. Find me and I’ll go to dinner with you. Surprise me.”

She put the broom back in the closet, wiped her hands and started for the front door. “Don’t forget to put the towels in the dryer or you’ll be air drying on the patio!”

He gave a two-finger wave. Not only had he not used fancy words to persuade her to a date, he’d even managed to be rude. Fletch could be proud of his spirit of fairness.

*  *  *

“You what?” Fletch stood at the stove with an openmouthed expression. He quit stirring the vegetable sauté. T had waited until dinnertime to break the news to him.

“I need the car tomorrow. I’m going in to wrangle a ticket and show her. Get my date, show you.”

“Do you even know where this is?”

T shook  his cell phone at him. “Good ol’ GPS. Let’s hear it for the Internet. Or I could hide around the corner from the school and follow the busses.” He nodded his head. “Yes, that’s what I’ll do. Follow them.”

“That’ll get you arrested.” He turned back to the pan. “This is insane.”

“So are we going to wrestle for the keys, are you coming to nursemaid me, or do I go in peace?”

“I don’t feel good about this, T.”

“When was the last time you felt good about anything, Fletch?”

He stirred in silence, was wistful in his answer. “Your first platinum record. I knew we’d done it then!” He looked over at T. “Please don’t screw this up. Let’s call the bet off.”

“No way. That church needs an organ.”

Chapter Nine

“M
ama,” Harrison whispered as he stood at her side at the front of the bus. Lyla was deep in conversation with the school principal.

“What, son?” She turned her attention to him immediately. “You’re not supposed to be out of your seat.”

“I know, but,” he continued whispering, pulled at her. “I need to show you something.”

Lyla gave him a this-had-better-be-good look and excused herself to follow him down the aisle to the back of bus. He resumed his place on the rear seat and she leaned over. “Now watch real close. I know it’s Sam. He’s following us!”

She narrowed her eyes and peered out the dusty back window. Clearly there was a red Mercedes two car lengths behind. “Harrison, there are lots of red Mercedes.”