Never Trust A Lady

For some reason, the question didn’t surprise him. Nor did the fact that she’d said police, not cops. A nice woman… He wondered later if that was why he didn’t simply lie to her.

Instead, he muttered, “Not in this jurisdiction,” and walked away, this time without looking back.

After Tom Hawkins had gone, Jane closed and locked her door and barricaded it with the security bar. Then, for a time. she just stood with the flowers in her arms, struggling to think, to make decisions, to regain some measure of control. Control of herself, her life and her circumstances.

Recent events had shaken her more than she wanted to admit to herself, and certainly more than she’d ever admit to a stranger, especially one as attractive as that enigmatic Mr. Hawkins. After all, she was a full-grown woman-a middle-aged woman, if she was completely honest with herself-and ought to be accustomed by now to dealing with life’s unpleasant little surprises.

Okay, so she’d never been the victim of a violent crime before. These things happened all over the world, to millions of people, every single day.

Grow up, Jane. Join the club. And pull yourself together. You’re always complaining that nothing exciting ever happens to you.

A perfect example, she thought, of “Be careful what you wish for!”

So, okay, first of all, what to do with the flowers? It wasn’t in her nature to blame them for the fact that they’d been used for evil intent. And they were so beautifut-some of her favorites, in fact. She’d always particularly loved lilacs.

Closing her eyes, she dipped her face into the center of the bouquet and inhaled that sweet, familiar scent; she felt the cool touch on her cheeks and eyelids, light as a kitten’s kisses, and felt the tremors of emotions she couldn’t name. Which was something that had been happening to her quite a lot today, for some reason.

But those longings that had come over her at the auction had been vague and restless, a strange, sweet ache for something she’d never known and probably never would know. This was much more specific, and if she didn’t know what it was she was feeling, at least she knew why. Because standing there with her eyes closed and the smell of spring in the air, all she could see was the tall form of Tom Hawkins, walking away from her down that long hallway without looking back. Walking away…and out of her life forever.

Oh, but she couldn’t give in to emotions of any kind right now. And she would not. She even had a formula-how did it go? Oh, yes, she remembered it well. Swallow hard a few times…concentrate on breathing deeply until the weakness passes… Then, do something. Find a job, a purpose.

So, as if it were the most important job in the world, she carried the flowers into the bathroom and gave them a drink of water, then dried the florist’s vase carefully so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the furniture and placed it on the dresser, arranging it nicely in front of the mirror. The fragrance of the lilacs seemed to fill the room.

I should eat something, she thought. From experience, she knew she’d feel better if she did. But, oh dear, how could she leave her room unguarded? What if he was out there somewhere, watching, waiting for her to do just that?

This time the wave of emotion was easier to identify. What it was, was pure panic. Suddenly she could feel it all over again-the sensation of falling, of utter helplessness, the weight on her back squeezing the breath out of her lungs. She felt warm fingers on her neck, the awful, terrifying pressure, the pounding, the gentle darkness…

Trembling, she sank onto the bed, groped for the phone and clumsily punched the Operator button. For a moment, hearing the unexpected words, “Front desk,” her mind went blank. Then her own voice responded calmly, “Room service, please.” The very normalcy of her request helped to quiet her panic, although it continued to roll and chum through her insides.

After the girl at the front desk had cheerfully connected her with room service, she ordered the only thing she could think of at that moment, even though she wasn’t particularly fond of hamburgers, and absolutely never ate French fries.

Music, she thought desperately as she cradled the phone, reaching for the TV remote. That’s what I need. Please, God, let there be something on PBS.

But PBS was showing a nature film, and the idea of watching Serengeti lions tear into a zebra wasn’t at all appealing to her right then. Neither were the talk shows, police dramas, old movies, sitcoms and infomercials offered by the other channels. The best she could find was the cable channel directory, which was playing classical music as background-Vivaldi, she thought. Or maybe it was Mozart. She turned up the volume as far as she dared, then sat restlessly fiddling with the remote control as her eyes darted around the room in search of further distraction.

She thought about the paperback romance novel she’d bought to read that evening, the map of Washington she’d meant to study, the sight-seeing plans she’d intended to make. But she didn’t feel like reading, or planning. She couldn’t think. Her mind was a jumble of fragmented thoughts and impressions. She felt exhausted and wired at the same time.

What she wanted was simply to talk to someone.

She thought about calling the girls. She knew she should-they’d be expecting to hear from her, since she always checked in with them when she had to be away overnight. But of course she didn’t dare tell them about this. It would only alarm and upset them. And besides, she was the mom, she was supposed to be the strong one, the steadfast, sensible one; her children were supposed to come to her for comfort and strength, not the other way around. And if she called them and tried to act as though nothing was wrong, they’d know. They’d hear it in her voice; she’d never been any good at hiding her feelings.

She supposed she should report the incident to hotel security or the police. Doing so would certainly give her an opportunity to talk, but she had an idea it would, in the long run, bring her more headaches than solace.

What she really needed, she thought, was a friend. Just a friend, with a sympathetic ear and a strong shoulder. Like Connie, who was more than likely halfway home to Cooper’s Mill by now, or blissfully asleep in some roadside motel. She thought of David, who had never listened or given her much support or solace, even when they were married. She thought of a stranger named Hawkins who had sat beside her, almost but not quite touching, just in case she needed him.

For the first time since the terrifying days leading to and then following her decision to divorce David, loneliness seemed overwhelming. It came suddenly, like a bad cramp. Doubled over with the pain of it, arms across her belly, she rocked herself back and forth, entombed in the darkness of her own desolation. She kept saying to herself, Dammit, dammit, I thought I was done with this. I thought I was stronger. I thought I’d taught myself not to need.

And so she had, until tonight, when a stranger’s touch had awakened her to her own reality, like a bright light turned on in a room where she’d grown accustomed to darkness. Once before such a thing had happened to her, and her life had been forever changed.

A knock on the door and a muffled, “Room service,” jolted her badly. Trembling, she went to eye the hotel waiter’s starched white coat through the peephole. She instructed him to leave the tray outside the door, and only after he’d gone and she’d verified that the hallway was completely deserted did she unlatch the safety bar and open the door long enough to snatch the tray and carry it inside.

She wolfed down the hamburger without tasting it, left the French fries untouched, then prepared for bed, taking meticulous care to floss and brush and cleanse as she always did; she’d always found routine reassuring. After that, she put on the peach-colored silk pajamas she only wore on those rare occasions when she slept away from home and crawled between the starched and tucked hotel sheets. With the pillows from both beds stacked high behind her shoulders and the light burning brightly over the nightstand, she channel-surfed until her eyes burned and her head ached. Then, at least, she could welcome the darkness with relief rather than dread. But she didn’t find solace in it, nor sleep, either.

Sometime in the dead of night, it came to her and she threw back the covers and sat up, clutching the edge of the bed. Clammy. Trembling. And one thought in her mind: wet wool.

That was what was wrong. She’d smelled it. She’d felt it. His coat had been wet. And yet he’d told her he’d been on his way out. Hadn’t he? Yes, she was sure he’d said so. On his way out to get something to eat, that was it. Tom Hawkins had lied to her. Why?

His story about “happening along” at just the right moment-had that been a lie, too? And if he hadn’t just “happened” to be there, it followed that he must have been there for a purpose. Was the purpose something to do