cameras…
I turned off the set and flung the remote on a chair. What was wrong with me? Sitting here alone on New Year’s Eve without a friend for company, without anyone to hug or kiss, in a silence that suddenly pounded in my head like jungle drums? I could be in bed now with Simon…I could be partying, champagne flute in hand…I could be out somewhere, anywhere, with Rossi.
Wait a New York minute. This wasn’t the first time Rossi had popped up out of nowhere. Why?
I picked up the phone and dialed. Maybe Rossi had to listen to the chief, but I didn’t. My pulse pounding in rhythm with the rings, I held the receiver to my ear, eager to hear that raspy voice. It would be on the cusp of irritation when he picked up, and then a heart-stopping pause when I said “hello” and he knew I was on the line. Yes…I had to hear that stunned pause. I had to have my fix.
On the fourth ring, I knew he wasn’t home. On the fifth, I held the receiver at arm’s length, staring at it as if it could tell me where he was. Did homicide detectives work at midnight on New Year’s Eve? Sure they did. ’Round the clock. Twenty-four/seven.
And they had dates on New Year’s Eve.
I hung up and said “Happy New Year” to the fridge. Disgusted with my own longings, I snapped off all the lights, tossed the sling into a corner and tumbled into bed. Sure, I was lonely, but did I have to turn pathetic and needy, making weird phone calls at midnight? My first New Year’s resolution: no more calls like the last one. Not to any man on earth.
Before I could settle under the covers, the phone on the bedside table rang. Probably Simon again. I didn’t want to answer, but the ringing wouldn’t stop.
Annoyed, I grabbed the receiver off the hook. “Yes.”
“Happy New Year, Mrs. D.”
I bolted upright.
“I was asleep when you called,” he said.
“You sound lonely.”
So he could detect that, too? “You’re a psychiatrist now?”
“I told you what I was.”
“For now, maybe, but not forever.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I’d just vowed not to make any more middle-of-the-night phone calls, but asking middle-of-the-night questions wasn’t part of the deal.
“Are you in bed?” he asked, ignoring my question completely. Rossi did that a lot.
I gripped the phone tighter. “Why do you want to know?”
“I have some news that might help you rest easier. I would have called earlier, but I thought you’d be out with that neighbor of yours…that…what’s his name?”
Rossi never forgot a name. I was beginning to enjoy myself. “His name is Simon. And for your information, he did invite me out.” I lay back against the pillow. “What’s the good news you have for me?”
“Your assailant has left town. The shop should be safe now.”
“Oh?” So that was the reason he’d returned my call. Not because he needed to hear the sound of my voice or to say how much he missed not seeing me. “How did you find out about Merle?” I asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
A growl pulsed through the line. “Go to sleep, Mrs. D. Sweet dreams.”
The steady hum of a dead line sounded in my ear. Damn. He’d hung up. He did that all the time. It drove me nuts.
January second. The holidays were over, thank God. So were my days wearing the sling. Dr. Lemoine removed my dressing and declared the angry-looking red scar “Healing beautifully. Two months from now, you’ll barely notice it. In six months, it will have disappeared.”
With only a light dressing covering the wound, and both arms fully functioning, I was a new woman. Armed with a portfolio of drawings, I drove to Bonita Bay and rang Morgan Jones’s front doorbell confident he’d love my design ideas. Until he yanked open the door, greeting me with a face full of frowns.
“Good morning, Morgan,” I said, forcing my voice into cheerful mode.
He checked his watch. “Let’s make this fast, Deva.”
Back to that attitude, were we? I saw red. Crimson with slashes of magenta. “I can do fast,” I said, stepping inside and slamming the door so hard the bang echoed throughout the vast, empty rooms. “I can also do very fast. And I can do super fast. Which one is your pleasure, Dr. Morgan?”
Tripod in one hand, portfolio in the other, handbag slung over my shoulder, I glared at him. Not an auspicious beginning. Maybe I had just blown the account. So be it. Every once in a while, everything took a backseat to a temper tantrum. I’d just had one a two-year-old could be proud of and enjoyed every second of it.
Like challenged bullies everywhere, Morgan backed down. “It’s been a stressful few days, Deva.”
That and that alone would be his apology. I nodded. It would do. I was there to make a sale-not love or war.
In the center of the great room, empty except for the paintings stacked to one side, I set up the tripod and placed the drawings on it. The morning light poured through the wall of glass, illuminating the first one, a rendering of this very room with the palest whisper of blue on the walls, the huge Rosenquist facing the windows, and the other oils on opposite walls, each one dynamic, each one demanding attention. To offset that demand, I’d introduced minimalist furnishings, a pair of long, linear sofas in white leather. The only jolt of color, a cobalt blue ottoman that could double as a coffee table. Clear Plexiglas for the narrow console tables behind the sofas, and the end tables; they took up no visual space, leaving that to the exciting wall art.
Morgan studied the concept carefully, his gaze darting from one detail to the next, missing nothing.
Finally, too nervous to keep still, I said, “Everything is designed to showcase the paintings.”
He glanced at me briefly then turned back to the drawing. “I can see that. Your conception is exactly what I had hoped for.”
A bead of perspiration trickled down my back. It felt good. “I’m delighted that you’re pleased, Doctor.” I uncapped my pen. “Would you initial this sheet?”
His frown returned, as scowly as ever. “Is that necessary?”
“It’s a standard formality.” Why bother to point out that his initials protected me should he decide, once I’d ordered the case goods and other materials, that he didn’t like the concept after all? If he were acting on good faith, he wouldn’t object to signing.
Holding my breath, I handed him the pen with a shaky hand. His lips tightened a bit, but he took the pen and scribbled his initials on a corner of the page.
I exhaled that pent-up breath and showed him a sketch of the foyer that multiple coats of cobalt blue lacquer had transformed into a jewel box. Together with the great room ottoman, they were the only two vivid touches in my scheme.
As Morgan studied it, the merest wisp of a smile raised the corners of his mouth. He tapped a fingernail on the page. “I like the drama.”
I flipped through the sketches, found the one for the master suite, set it in front of the others and stepped back.
“Aaaah.”
No need to ask if he liked it. As he stared at the satin bed linens, the piles of pillows, the velvet chaise and the concealed lighting that bathed everything in a soft glow, he smiled-an all-out, cheek-cracking smile. So he could do
