Always had been, always would be. He held his breath as the man approached.
Then the man was past him. Arty waited till he was far enough ahead, then followed him down the path. When he got to the edge of the woods, he saw a man getting into a red Corvette parked on the opposite side of the Little League field.
It must be the man staying in the tent, Arty thought. A man with a new Corvette, not one of the homeless bums from the beach. All of a sudden he was curious about that tent.
He could be up there in five minutes and check it out. He made up his mind and started back up the path, toward the clearing by the cliffs, but once he got there, checking out the tent didn’t seem like such a good idea. What if the man came back? He didn’t actually see him start the car and drive off. And what if someone else was staying in the tent?
But that didn’t make sense.
The tent was too small.
He looked around on the ground for a good size rock, found one, picked it up and chucked it at the tent.
Silence.
There was no one there.
Still, maybe he should leave, he thought, as he crossed the clearing toward the tent. But he could be in and out and gone in less than a couple of minutes. The man would never know. He would just take a quick peek in the flap. It wouldn’t be any different than going up to someone’s house in the predawn morning, and getting a drink of water from their hose. Besides he wasn’t the fraidy cat he used to be.
He opened the flap and looked in. He saw a sleeping bag, a small duffel bag, a flashlight, and a gun. Could it be? It looked like it. Without thinking Arty entered the tent to get a better look at the gun. He used the flashlight to inspect it. He picked it up, felt its weight, the cool metal, the feel of death. He put it down and turned off the flashlight.
He had to tell Carolina.
But as he made to leave the tent, he heard someone coming. He turned and peeked out through the flap. The man was coming across the clearing. But he saw him get in the car? He must have forgotten something. He sat back and bit into his lip. There was no place for him to go. He couldn’t run. He was gonna get caught.
He held his breath, trying to quiet his heart. Any second the man was going to open the flap and catch him. And Arty was afraid of the man. He moved as far away from the flap as he could get and still be in the tent. A drop of sweat trickled from his forehead into his right eye. He tried to blink it out. The man was right outside the flap. “Can’t believe I forgot the gun,” Arty heard him mumble.
Then he heard Brad’s voice scream, “You’re dog meat now,” followed by a thud.
“ What do you think you’re doing,” the man roared, and Arty heard him running away.
It’s now or never, Arty told himself. He poked his head out the flap and saw the man as he charged across the clearing after Brad.
Chapter Thirteen
The smell of roast turkey filled the kitchen as she took the meat out of the oven. She grinned. It seemed odd, cooking Thanksgiving dinner a week late for a man she didn’t know, but she loved to cook and Thanksgiving was her favorite time of the year. She missed it last week, because she was in Las Vegas getting married.
She lifted the turkey out of the pan and set it on the platter. Then she poured the hot turkey juices into an old iron skillet that she’d inherited from her grandmother. It was heavy and not high-tech Teflon-coated, but it was by far and away her favorite pan. She used it every chance she could, because it reminded her of all the times she sat in this kitchen, waiting for whatever wonderful thing Gram was cooking to be finished, so they could share in the eating, while she listened to the old woman’s marvelous stories.
She carried the platter into the dining room and set it in the center of the table. She checked the clock. Seven-fifty. She had ten minutes. Time to light the candles. The silver candlesticks, along with the silverware, were her grandmother’s favorite things. She used wooden matches and caught a whiff of the sulfur mixed with the smell of burning wax and smiled.
She had it all, turkey, cranberry sauce, corn on the cob, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, stuffing, both in the turkey and on the side, and for desert, pumpkin pie. And she’d done it all for a man she hardly knew. A dark, confused man. A self confessed thief, she mused. Then she thought of Miles and how he’d run away. John Coffee was as brave as any knight, and if there was a Round Table today, she was sure that he would be sitting near his king. Thief, maybe, that she would have to learn, but he would never run away and leave a damsel in distress.
She went back into the kitchen, running her hands along the wall, like a little girl running her hands along a picket fence. She had a smile in her step as she crossed to the drawer, where she kept the electric carving knife. She remembered that she needed an extension cord, because the wall socket was too far away from the table. She bit gently on her lip, to help her think of where she’d seen one last, then she remembered. She took the knife into her bedroom with her and unplugged the clock radio by her bed. She wouldn’t need the alarm tomorrow, anyway.
She was bent low, plugging in the knife, when the doorbell rang. She turned and checked the clock. He was five minutes early, but it didn’t matter-she was ready.
“ Showtime,” she said, setting the knife on the table next to the turkey. She took the elastic out of her hair and let it fall over her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it, fluffing it out. Then she went to the door and opened it. She smiled, meeting his sea green eyes head on. He didn’t look away. She liked that in a man.
“ Smells like Thanksgiving,” he said, wearing his crooked smile.
“ I wasted mine,” she said, “and I really like to cook.”
“ A match made in heaven,” he said, laughing, “because I really like to eat.” He was holding his hands together, waist high, and she noticed that he was rolling his thumbs.
“ I’m sorry, come in.” She stepped back and he followed her in to the living room.
“ Nice, but not at all what I’d imagined.”
“ I’ve always lived in an apartment and I’ve never really had anything to call my own, except my old yellow VW. I always thought I should be ready to go at the drop of a hat. You know, passport ready, a thousand dollars worth of traveler’s checks in the purse, suitcase packed. Then my grandmother died and left me the house, the furniture and all her worldly possessions.” She thought she was talking too much, but she was afraid to stop.
“ She had nice taste,”
“ She was a wonderful lady. Much younger than her years.”
“ You’ve got a lot of records,” he said. One side of the living room had old wooden crates stacked four high, from wall to wall, each crate full of records.
“ Yeah, that was the one thing I did spend my money on when I was growing up and I never stopped, only now I buy CDs, of course.”
“ Great amp. You don’t see many of those around anymore.”
“ McIntosh tube, one hundred watts per channel, very heavy, but very clean sound,” she said.
“ Kinda hard to set off at the drop of a hat with a couple thousand records.”
“ Not really. I always kept them with Gram. I came over here a lot, especially after my parents died.”
“ I’m sorry.”
“ Don’t be. It was a long time ago. My first year away at college.”
“ How?”
“ They were coming home from church, eleven o’clock on a Sunday. Drunk driver.”
“ Tough.”
“ Yeah, he was seventeen. Didn’t do a day in jail.”
“ Life isn’t fair,” he said, and she nodded her head. Then he said, “You’ve got it all here, even an electric carving knife.”
“ What color wine?” she said over her shoulder as she went into the kitchen. “Red or white?”
“ What kind of red?”
She stopped, turned and faced him. “I like that. Most people would have done the proper thing and said
