'Where do you want me to go? A safe house?'
'No. You're coming home with me.'
22
NO ONE FOLLOWED US, AND yes, I saw you looking too. Forget the baddies for the moment. What do you think of my humble abode?''
'I forgot about anybody following us the moment I stepped in here. I've never seen anything quite like it.' She raised her face and splayed her fingers in front of her. 'It's filled with light.'
It wasn't a simple two-story open town house. There were soaring pale-beamed ceilings with huge skylights, all the walls painted a soft cream. The furnishings were beige, gold, and a dozen shades of brown. The oak floors were dotted with Persian carpets, the colors soft, mellow, old. A winding oak stairway covered with a running Tabriz carpet in multiple blues went up the stairs. There was a richly carved wooden oak railing running the perimeter of the landing.
'Dillon,' she said slowly, turning to look at him for the first time since she'd stepped into this magic place, 'my house is to this as a stable is to Versailles. This place is incredible, I've never seen anything like it. You have unplumbed depths. Oh dear, I'm not feeling so good.'
She wasn't nauseous, thank goodness, but she did collapse into one of his big, soft, buttery brown leather chairs, close her eyes, and swallow several times. He put her feet on a matching leather hassock.
'You need to eat. No, you need to rest. But first I'll get you some water. How about some saltine crackers? My aunt Faye always fed saltines to my pregnant female relatives. What do you think?'
She cocked open an eye. She sighnd and swallowed again. 'I'm not pregnant, Dillon, but you know, maybe a saltine wouldn't be a bad idea.'
He covered her with a rich gold chenille afghan, tucking it around her feet on the leather hassock, and took off to the kitchen. She hadn't seen the kitchen. She wondered if its ceiling went up two stories just like the rest of the house.
After she ate a saltine and drank some water, she said, 'I think the FBI pays you too much money. You could open this place to the public and charge admission.'
'I'm poor, Sherlock. I inherited this house and a bit on the side from my grandmother. She was an artist- watercolors and acrylics.'
'Was she a professional? What was her name?'
'Sarah Elliott.'
She just stared at him, one eyebrow arched, chewing another saltine cracker. 'You're kidding,' she said finally. 'You're telling me that the Sarah Elliott was your grandmother?'
'Yes. She was my mother's mom. A great old lady. She died five years ago when she was eighty-four. I remember she told me that it was time for her to go because the arthritis had gotten really bad in her hands. She couldn't hold her paintbrushes anymore. I told her that her talent wasn't in her hands, it was in her mind. I told her to stop bitching and to hold the paintbrushes between her teeth.' He paused a moment, smiling toward a painting of an orchid just beginning to bloom. 'I thought at first that she would slug me, then she started laughing. She had this really deep, full laugh. She lived for another year, holding the paintbrushes between her dentures.' He would never forget the first time he'd seen her with that paintbrush sticking out of her mouth, smiling when she saw him, nearly dropping the brush. It had been one of the happiest moments of his life.
'And you were Sarah Elliott's favorite grandchild? That's why she left you this beautiful house in the middle of Georgetown?'
'Well, she was worried since I'd chosen the FBI and computer shenanigans for a career.'
'Shenanigans? I like that. But what exactly was she worried about?' She pulled the afghan higher up on her chest. A headache was slowly building behind her left ear. She hated it. Even her arm ached where Marlin Jones had knifed her weeks before.
'She was afraid that my artistic side would stultify, what with the demands of my job and with my constant computer fiddling.'
'Ah, so this place is to inspire you? Get you in touch with your artistic genes?'
'Yes. You look green, Sherlock. I think it's time you took a nap. Do you have to puke?'
'Living here still hasn't kicked in your artistic genes enough. Puke is a dreadful word. May I just stay here for a while? It's very comfortable. I'm just a bit on the thready side.'
'No wonder,' he said, and watched her head loll to the side. She was out. The chair was oversized, so he wasn't worried that she'd wake up stiff as a pretzel. He unfolded another afghan over her, one his mother had knitted, this one so soft it spilled through the fingers. He stroked it as he gently tucked it around her shoulders. She'd French-braided her hair, but it really wasn't long enough, and so auburn spikes stuck up here and there. Several strands of hair fell about her face, curling around just a bit. The big Band-Aid looked absurd plastered over the shaved spot on her temple, faintly pathetic really, since she was so pale.
All she needed was a little rest. She'd be just fine. He lightly stroked his fingertips over her eyebrows.
He saw she had a spray of freckles over the bridge of her nose.
She didn't have any freckles anywhere else. And he'd looked. He hadn't meant to, but he had. He really liked the freckles on her nose.
No doubt about it. He was in deep shit.
She woke up to the smell of garlic, onion, and tomatoes. Her mouth started watering even before her brain fully registered food. Her stomach growled. She felt just fine, no more nausea.
'Good, you're awake.'
'What are you cooking?'
'Penne pasta with sun-dried tomatoes, pesto, onions, and garlic. And some garlic toast. You're drooling, Sherlock. You've got an appetite, I hope.'
'I could eat this afghan.'
'Not that one, please. It's my favorite. The nurses told me you hadn't eaten much all day. Time to stuff yourself. First, here's a couple of pills for you to take.'
She took them without asking what they were.
'No wine. How about some cider?' He put a tray over her legs and watched her take her first bite of Savich pesto pasta. She closed her eyes as she slowly, very slowly, chewed, and chewed some more until there was nothing left in her mouth but the lingering burst of pesto and garlic. She licked her lips. Finally, she opened her eyes, stared at him for a very long time, then said, 'You'll make a fantastic husband, Dillon. I've never tasted anything so delicious in my life.'
'It's my mom's recipe. She taught me how to make the pasta when I was eighteen and headed off to MIT. She'd told me she'd heard that the only thing they ate up there was Boston beans. She said guys and beans didn't mix well so I needed to know how to make something else. You really like it better than the pizza you devoured a couple of nights ago?'
'Goodness, it was just two nights ago, wasn't it? It seems like a decade. Actually, I like it better than anything I can ever remember eating. Do you make pizza too?'
'Sure. You want some for breakfast?'
'You cook it anytime you want, I'll consume it.' They didn't say anything more for a good seven minutes. Savich's tray was on the coffee table, close enough to keep a good eye on her. She stopped halfway through and stared down at the rest of her pasta. He thought she was going to cry. 'It's so good. There's just no more room.'
'If you get hungry later, we can just heat it up.'
She was fiddling with her fork, building little structures with the pasta, watching the emerging patterns with great concentration. She didn't look up as she said, 'I didn't know there were men like you.'
He studied his fingernails, saw a hangnail on his thumb, and frowned. He didn't look up either, just said, 'What does that mean?'
'Well, you live in a beautiful house, and I can't see a speck of mess or dust. In other words, you're not a pig. But that's just extraneous stuff, important, sure, but not a deal breaker. You have a big heart, Dillon. And you're a great cook.'
'Sherlock, I've lived alone for five years. Man cannot live by pizza at Dizzy Dan's alone. Also, I don't like squalor. There are lots of men like me. Quinlan, for example. Ask Sally, she'll say his heart is bigger than the
