T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (13 page)

She drifted back to the window, just in time to see a blur of red streak through the parking lot, circle the building and land at the back door. Smart man, he must have quickly assessed the crowded lot and was taking the back way. Mark one up for him.

There was a definite limit to the number of heads that could fit through the storage room door to gawk, but they were all there. She smiled at all of them as she lilted down the back stairs and made for the Mercedes.

*  *  *

Instead of redesigning the hymnal, Lyla’s song, or some new piece hastily sketched on the score pad, T had paced all morning. First through the living room and kitchen, then outside on the deck, around to the porch, down to the dock. He’d jogged to the front gate three times. He had ignored Fletch's ideas of amusements—eating, conducting, watching game shows, fishing, scrubbing the toilets, had even refused to call Eddie C, Fletch’s last idea of a reward. He had finally settled on washing and polishing the car. Again. Fletch had finally given up and retreated to the boat tied to the end of the dock, his own personal sanctuary. Even though he had yet to pull in a fish, he seemed to be enjoying himself for the first time in years, and T was more than a little jealous.

As T pulled into the parking lot at the Quik-Lee, he was amazed at the number of vehicles. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure this one out. He hoped Lyla wouldn’t think him crass as he pulled around to the back. He stopped just short of honking. If she were as savvy as he thought, she’d be there.

The back door opened and she came out, a grin on her face that he knew was directed toward him. He reached over to open the passenger door and she swung easily into the seat beside him before her mouth fell open as she looked at him. “Did I miss something? You said to dress to ‘paint the town.’ I didn’t know you meant literally.”

T locked the doors and put the car in gear. He was dressed as he had been the night she and Harrison had come to dinner, except he was wearing sandals. Fletch had told him not to go casual, to risk upsetting her at first sight. What did Fletch know?

Lyla was sitting sideways, her seatbelt not yet on. Despite the car’s movement, she was definitely poised for flight. “Sam, perhaps you’d better—”

“Buy more clothes. I didn’t bring a paint-the-town wardrobe, Lyla. We’ve got to go shopping.” He cleared the stop sign and charged down the road to Jinks. “You look divine. Tell me, did the lunch crowd approve?”

“I didn’t give them a chance.” She turned and locked her seatbelt. “I’m sorry I was so accusing…”

“No problem. We all make false assumptions.” He smiled at her, she smiled back, and at that moment, for the first time in years, all was right in Eddie T’s world.

*  *  *

If the trip from Dallas a week ago had been the journey to the edge of the world and the one behind the bus little short of boring, this one bordered on floating. Lyla acted as tour director, giving area history and pointing out interesting landmarks. T took it all in, let the information wash over him, let her talk and talk. He reveled in the tone of her voice, wished the Mercedes had auto-pilot so he could turn in his seat, listen to her every word, catch her every inflection, memorize all her mannerisms. The traffic slowed at the north edge of the first suburb and he didn’t mind a bit. It was just that much more time to spend alone with her.

“Where are we going to shop?” She sat straight in the passenger seat, her legs crossed, the right high-heeled shoe swinging off her toes. Her hands were lying on her knee and she had an almost hawk-like turn to her head. She seemed to be watching the traffic more keenly than he.

“Some place fancy.”

“Know how to get where you’re going?”

He nodded. The traffic worsened, but they inched their way successfully into the city, a mall opening up before them as the rush hour traffic arrived in full force. He circled the parking lot, selected the high end and expertly parked the red sports car between two others. She was impressed and told him so.

“Fletch spoils me,” but his grin was cocky.

She shook her head and gave a little laugh, as she put her hand on the door latch.

“No, no!” He pulled the keys out of the ignition. “This is a date. I will open your door.”

He was out almost before she could take her hand off the handle. He opened the door, offered her his hand. She smiled up at him. “My apologies, sir. It’s been a long time since doors were opened for me.” She gave him her hand, swung her legs out. He didn’t want to give up her hand when she stood beside him, but he did so as he locked the car.

“Shame on Tib for not treating you better.”

“It’s not his fault.” They started walking to the set of double doors. “It’s just that when you have a child and you’re only kind of dating…” She let her voice trail off. “We’re more like family going out, instead of dating.”

T nodded his head. He’d just bet that, in his mind, Tib already had them married. But he said nothing as he opened the door for her and they left the late summer heat behind for the air-conditioned world of haute couture. She gave a scant glance to the women’s clothing that surrounded the entrance and continued toward the middle of the store. He trailed. “You seem to be familiar with this place.” The heavy-textured fall fashions were making him even hotter than her nearness. “You happen to know where my side of the store is?”

“Well, I don’t live here, but I have my own card. We country girls got to have our luxuries, too, you know.” She casually took his arm, had no idea of the effect of her touch on him, started walking him to the main aisle. “Men’s furnishings.” They rounded the corner and the male half of the store appeared.

T let a smile play around his lips. He’d never been called a clotheshorse, had even made the national ‘worst dressed’ list twice, still the thought of indulging himself in a little role-playing had been teasing his imagination for two days. He was going to do it: have fun, get what he needed, impress her. Not necessarily in that order. “Will you help me, or do you need to shop for yourself?” It was a gamble, but he wanted her to have made the choice before the fun began.

“I’ll be glad to make sure you’re presentable.” They were slowly wending their way deeper between the suits and dress coats. She still held his arm. He had no intention of letting her go until he had to. “I made my annual sojourn months ago,” she drawled. “I’ve nothing left to buy anything with.”

“Try the poor-me song somewhere else, I’ve seen your home,” he whispered. He brought his face close to hers. She didn’t back off, just let a shimmer of electricity pass between them. Only the humph of the sales personnel stopped him from removing his sunglasses and taking a kiss.

*  *  *

Lyla sat in a richly upholstered wing chair, her legs crossed, a gentleman’s fashion magazine open on her lap. She idly turned the pages, but her eyes didn’t focus on the handsome, almost pretty, models, elegantly made up to sell one designer’s clothes over another’s. Her eyes were merely doing the expected looking as she waited, feigning impatience, for her companion. For the man she called Sam. Who was he, really?

Her mind was jumping from one scene with him to another. It was presently lingering on their most recent encounter, standing between the racks of coats and suits, their faces inches from each other, and unless she missed her guess, they had both been contemplating a kiss.

Kiss? Where was her mind? Of course, he wasn’t interested in a kiss! He wasn’t even interested in women! Get a grip, Lyla! Remember Tib telling about the afternoon they arrived, remember the dinner party, remember all the little familiarities between Sam and Fletch! Remember, remember, remember!
This man is playing a very dangerous game with my mind, I am eighty miles from home, and I don’t even know where I’m headed! Where was my mind when I agreed to this charade? All I need is a trip to the ladies’ room and a quick call on the cell phone. Tib will come get me. Or Dub
.

Lyla lifted her eyes from the magazine, stared at the empty chair across the small coffee table by her feet. I am losing it, she thought. They’d never let me live it down. Fifty years of “Do you remember the time Lyla got mixed up with the gays?” No, far better to play it out, trust my instincts. Better yet, trust Bertie’s.

*  *  *

“Your lady friend seems a bit restless.” The clerk sailed back into the large dressing area with an assortment of designer labels trailing from his arms. T had placed his order the minute he had reached the sanctuary of the dressing area. A strictly tailored suit, very conservative, navy perhaps, braces, shoes, socks, an extreme tie was okay. In the meantime, while he waited for the necessary snips and tucks to be taken on the coat and the pants he intended to wear out of there, he’d try on every avant-garde item they had. And he wanted to model them all for his lady friend. He had casually handed the gentleman in charge his credit card. He was sure they’d checked the limit when more clothes than he presently owned appeared. That they figured out the name of E. T. Samuels was a good bet when he had three extra clerks/tailors show up to help.

T held up the gauzy, brightly colored pants. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“The absolutely latest, sir, straight from the Milan shows.”

“It needs to go back,” T muttered as he put them on. “I feel like I’m in India.”

“Precisely, sir.”

T turned to his growing audience, raised his hands. “Gentlemen, this can be a lot of fun, but it’s got to be kept quiet. Believe it or not, my friend does not know what you know.”

“Where’s she been?” The youngest member of the sales staff breathed the question. “Eddie T’s a household name.”

“Around her house, I’m Sam Thomas. Please, can’t I have my fun, too?” He tried to have just the right tone to his imploring. He wanted their sympathy, their support, their silence. “Fellas, it’s been a rough summer.”

Half of them nodded in agreement. “That you at the museum Tuesday?”

He nodded. “Autographs for everybody if we pull this off.” They watched him. “How about two comp tickets to the Dallas New Year’s Eve concert for every business card in here?” Everyone started digging in their pockets. “I am counting noses, no cheating.” A pile arranged itself on the small table in the corner. “Get the tailor and his staff, too.”

He was shaking his head as he went to model his possible purchase for Lyla.

“You can’t be serious!” She covered her mouth with both hands. “I’m sorry,” she squeezed out between the giggles.

He narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t thought he looked
that
ridiculous. Especially not considering the scathing comments he’d endured at the hands of the self-appointed Fifth Avenue fashion mavens. At least, wearing this he was leading edge. He threw his weight to one hip, put a hand on it and waited for her to calm down.

Lyla composed herself, placing both feet on the floor, folding her hands in her lap, pursing her lips to keep from laughing again. “Well, do you feel it’s you?” she asked. She sputtered through another bout of laughter and lost the struggle to contain herself.

“It might be.”

She smiled up at him, her eyes danced. “Well, Sam, if you’re not embarrassed, I certainly won’t be.”

“Then I gather you think a kilt might be too much.”

“They have kilts?” She settled back in the chair, spider-webbed her fingertips. “Kilts are kind of sexy.”

“Women.” Faking petulance, he went back into the dressing area. The stack of business cards had doubled. “That won’t do.” He pointed to them, making sure the original sales representative was taking note. T started shucking clothes, finding new ones. Some bold stripes, a mismatched plaid, all the while noting the stack of business cards taking on a reasonable height as they were winnowed. He headed back out.

Lyla wasn’t in her seat. Frantically, his eyes swept the area, finding her in the corner of the department, digging through the summer sale items. “Shall I fetch her, sir?”

“Do I have to fear a stampede if I go over to her?” T looked down on the man in charge of him, settled his eyes on his name tag. “Tell me, Mr. Goode, has the entire store been alerted?”

“Oh, no, sir. We wouldn’t let Women’s Wear in on anything. We owe them.” His eyes half-closed and a smirk played on his lips. T was helping them settle an old score. The girls must have treated the boys shabbily.

“What about fragrance? Anybody over there able to keep their mouth shut?”

“I’ll ask around. Just tell me what you want.”

T finally caught Lyla’s eye, waved her over. He really had no intention of going to her. At the moment, even he felt ridiculous in the outfit he’d put together and the closer he stayed to the dressing room, the better he liked it. He watched her slowly come back to him, as he told Mr. Goode what he had in mind.

This time, she held herself in check, her face as impassive as a statue’s. Only her fingers betrayed her as they drummed on the back of the wing chair. Her silence was worse than her laughter. “Well, all right,” he conceded, “so it is a bit of a push.”

That brought a smile. “Unless we’re going for pizza. Then you’ll blend right in.”

“Why don’t you have a seat and I’ll be back with something more suitable.” He didn’t leave until she was thumbing through a magazine.

*  *  *

The flurry of activity into the dressing rooms, the armloads of clothes, the hushed voices as if there was a big secret and she wasn’t in on it all added to Lyla’s anxiety-ridden state. Seeing Sam’s various get-ups had given her comic relief. She had known how to respond to the pout on his lips, the crinkle in his brow as she had been amused at his outfits. If he wasn’t going to be serious, then neither was she.

The traffic into the dressing area died down and Lyla relaxed. “Madame?” The voice was young, but Lyla picked up the delicate scent of expensive perfume even before she looked at the woman standing beside her. Her nametag identified her as Mariette and she held a mirrored tray, on it an array of tester bottles, French perfumes, only the most expensive. “May I ask your help?” She settled easily on the coffee table, placing the tray beside her. “We’re conducting a little impromptu survey, utilizing our customers with a little time on their hands. I assume you’re waiting on someone?”