"You're not?" Simon's brows came down. He tilted his head. "You haven't. Are you talking about--"
"Agnes will run in my place." This time, Spaulding's delivery didn't falter. Simon's shock, his absolute befuddlement, registered in his silent stare.
For a split second, she knew what he thought, could read the images that passed through Simon Maxwell's mind. How could Agnes, sheltered, fat little Agnes, possibly compete? She dug her nails into the chair arms and closed her eyes.
"Agnes?" Simon whispered her name. "How? I mean, no one has seen--I'd heard--" He continued to struggle with the idea, stammering.
Agnes had to peek, to see how much of her guessing proved correct. He looked so much like his father.
"You shouldn't pay attention to rumors." Spaulding held the reins now and didn't intend to let the opportunity go to waste. "Agnes is alive and well, of course."
"But I can't."
"The rules state very clearly."
The disbelief on Maxwell's face shifted and morphed into a flash of anger that made his eyes sparkle even more. He pressed his delicate lips together. They weren't his father's, she realized, but must have come from his mother's side.
"Damn the rules, Spaulding!" He growled her brother's name. "This is too far and too low, even for you. Using Agnes, I don't know what your game is, or what trick you've cooked up, but I won't be a party to taking advantage of your poor sister."
Agnes flinched. Simon's attempt at chivalry paled compared to the pity she heard in his tone. She caved to a surge of indignation and abandoned her intentions to remain silent. She managed to keep her voice level, to let the words slip out slowly and with what dignity she could salvage.
"Or perhaps," she started. In the mirror, she saw Simon's reflection taken aback by her presence. "Perhaps his
poor sister
is perfectly capable of taking the advantage for herself."
Silence rushed in behind her statement, filling the parlor. Spaulding hurried back to the phone console, effectively blocking her view of Simon's face. It didn't matter. She'd seen the shock, the horror at the realization that she'd sat there, listening the entire time. Agnes released her grip on the chair and relaxed back into the padding.
How long would his pity last, she wondered, after they met tomorrow?
The Wager
Simon stared at the blank screen. His hands trembled, clutched at nothing and made useless fists at his sides. He'd managed to make quite the ass of himself. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and caught the thought, poor Agnes, sneaking up on him again. How condescending had he sounded?
He should call the chief, update the man on Spaulding's plans for the morning, but his hand reached for the intercom panel instead of the phone. Swain's sleepy voice answered immediately.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'm sorry to wake you, Mr. Swain. I didn't notice the hour."
"It's quite all right, sir. Can I get you something?"
"Gin?"
"Sir?"
"Okay, how about a smoothie?"
"With pollen or wheat grass, sir?"
"Pollen. Thank you, Mr. Swain."
The night his father came home, Simon had been watching television. His parents didn't encourage the practice, but since Mr. Maxwell's disappearance, Simon's mother had taken to turning on the machine in the evenings.
That particular night, he sat absorbed in an episode of the Planet Defenders while his mother kept her vigil at the living room window. Her startled yelp pulled Simon from the TV in a surge of guilty conscience. But Mrs. Maxwell hadn't noticed him at all. Instead she dove for the front door with the skirt of her house dress swirling around her claves.
Young Simon watched her fling the door wide, certain enough that it would be his father on the other side to quickly switch off the television, but with enough doubt to lodge a lump of fear in his throat. It had to be his father. Neither of the remaining Maxwells entertained any thought of the man failing to return. When Maxwell senior did indeed tumble back into the house and into a flurry of questions and hugs, Simon's body released the pent up tension in a flood of embarrassing tears to match his mother's.
His father embraced them both, but waved away their questions with a knowing look for his wife and a nod in Simon's direction that meant the details of the incident would be discussed beyond his son's hearing. While Simon believed himself old enough to hear the conversation, he obeyed the dismissal to his bedroom without argument.
On his painstakingly slow ascent up the staircase, however, he managed to overhear a brief exchange between his parents. His mother's trembling voice not hiding her anger, "Rutherford?"
"Yes," Maxwell Senior kept his reply flat, as if pronouncing some final verdict.
"They let you go?"
"No."
"Then how?"
Simon had stopped completely then, for a moment risking outright disobedience. He waited on the stair, his hand clutching the smooth wood of the railing and his ears straining for the answer. Maybe Spaulding had come to his senses, had finally seen the error in his family's methods. He held his breath.
"Agnes," his father said.
* * * *
Agnes sipped her tea and thumbed through the stack of newspaper clippings. She'd snagged the folder from Spaulding's desk drawer and, in each rumpled, yellowing article,
that Maxwell boy
grinned and posed for the media. She recognized Simon even though each caption labeled him
Maximus, the town hero
.
She smiled and turned back to her window. She'd chosen the guest room. Her old bed and dusty toys seemed far too melancholy this evening. This view showed the family vineyards stretching down the hill in neatly wired rows. The grapes never saw the press these days. What a shame. She'd never tasted the Rutherford label, had been sent away long before she'd attained a drinking age.
She looked back to Maximus, selected her favorite of the clippings and slid the others back into the file. The town hero wore a royal blue spandex suit that outlined every one of his chiseled muscles. He certainly possessed the body of a superhero. Her smile curled deeper. She could still see the boy in the staggered stance, the crossed arms and the cocky tilt of the head. Maximus and The Spartan, hell, Agnes saw two grown men still playing childhood games.
She closed her eyes and let the next sip linger in her mouth for a moment. He had a voice that could undo bodice laces. She'd read the phrase somewhere, hadn't expected that any more than she'd expected his chivalry. His father. What had his father told him about her? Poor Agnes, no doubt. Poor, pudgy Agnes kept prisoner in her own home.
Years ago,
Poor Agnes
slipped down the basement stairs long after the rest of her family left the house. Mrs. Rutherford hadn't yet guessed about the new nanny's afternoon naps and Agnes wouldn't be the one to give away the woman's neglect. Usually, she took advantage of the rare freedom to sneak a second afternoon snack, or to browse through her mother's jewelry box and try on the chunky jewels that, even at ten, Agnes knew she'd never wear.
That day she'd skipped the stolen food and the fashion show and sidled down the long hallway on the main floor to the basement door. She might have been young and more sheltered than the normal child, but Agnes had enough brains to know when something was going on in her own household. The house, after all, encompassed her whole universe, and that day Agnes knew she'd find something in their basement--something big.
Whispered arguments between her parents and the shuffle of activity and footsteps to and from the basement might have tipped her off on their own. But Agnes had the addition of Spaulding, twitching in excitement and flittering around the mansion like a mosquito with no target to land on. She'd watched him for three days, wandering past, lingering beside the basement door, shadowing his parents' every step and whimpering under his breath at any audience they might spare him.
Whatever they'd hidden in the basement, Spaulding wanted at it. Young Agnes smiled as she slipped into the dark stairwell. She'd see it first and then she'd have something her brother didn't.
She set down her tea and shook away the memory. The picture of Maximus grinned up at her and she could almost see his eyes sparkle. Definitely his father's eyes. She laughed. Whatever she'd expected at ten years old, Agnes had never guessed she'd find Simon's father held prisoner in her parents' basement.
* * * *
The parade lasted eighteen minutes from the first flashing police car to the last swish of Joe Hinkley's Clydesdale's tail. Eighteen minutes--three longer than the year before, thanks to the fourth grade class marching down Main Street with their beagles and retrievers in tow. Simon grinned and wove through the dispersing crowd.
The majority of the population had turned out for the event, which meant more that he had to stop and discuss weather, business and local gossip with each passerby than it made the street actually crowded. He shook hands and accepted victory wishes for the race ahead. He admired new babies and ignored the cow-eyed flirting of his underage admirers. He deftly dodged a few loose-lipped Maximus fans, and kept moving steadily toward to mayor's podium.
Spaulding already posed atop the platform beside a short line of chairs. His business associates milled around him, forming a barricade between Rutherford and the rest of the town. Simon could have sworn that a few of them limped. Spaulding, on the other hand, didn't, despite the oversized and over-obvious cast encasing his left leg.
Simon scanned the area for Mayor Lee's bald head. He caught a glimpse of the shining cranium off to the side and veered in that direction. He wanted to talk to Lee before Rutherford got to him. If the mayor could postpone the event until Spaulding
recovered
, they'd not only avoid whatever the Rutherfords had brewing, but Simon wouldn't have to participate in humiliating Agnes.
The mayor waited beside his car, chatting with the driver and tossing occasional glances over the crowd. He caught Simon's eye and waved him forward.
"Should be here any minute. Simon!" Mayor Lee clapped a wide hand down on his shoulder and waved the other one at random passersby. "Ready for battle?"
"Actually, if you have a moment." Simon watched with narrowed eyes as a sleek limousine drifted past the mayor's car and pulled up to the curb in front of them.
"Of course, of course. Just a second."
The mayor hustled toward the new arrival with more spring than Simon had seen in his step for at least five years. "Who's that?" Simon turned to the driver in time to catch the man scowling at him. The expression disappeared immediately, but not before Simon registered the distaste, the sneer at his royal blue track suit. He smiled and made a mental note to get the driver's name from the mayor, maybe get his background check as well.
The driver pasted on a convincing smile and shrugged. "I just drive the car."
Simon nodded and clinched his opinion of the man. He didn't want this guy driving the mayor or anyone else around town. If The Spartan had a goon this close to Lee, he could start a lot more trouble than the usual petty distractions. He needed that moment alone with the mayor, and the longer he watched the driver watching him, the less patience he had for the wait.
"Excuse me." He sidestepped toward the limo.
The rear door opened as Simon closed in on Lee. The mayor leaned forward, extending an arm to the car's occupant. He's too casual, Simon thought. Spaulding's little games have been too easy to fend off. An inexplicable guilt filled him that Maximus had done his job too effectively, that the whole town had settled into an overdeveloped sense of security. He shook it off, had no reason to spook so easily. Still, the look on the driver's face rattled him almost as much as Spaulding's surprise announcement that his long-lost sister had returned to town.
He focused on the limo again just in time to see a pair of legs slide into view. They dangled out of the car for a moment before extending the dainty feet, strapped into a pair of low heels, to the pavement. Simon's gaze followed the straps up the ankle and then abandoned them to continue along the curve of a well-toned calf.
His head tilted to the side as the knees flexed and the rest of the woman stepped out into the street. Simon's eyes continued to follow the outline of her muscular thighs right up to the hem of a pair of low rise jogging shorts. At that point, propriety demanded a briefer examination and he lifted his gaze to her face without lingering more than a second on the shapely hips or overtly noticing the flat, athletic abs peeking out from under the tank top. He remembered to breathe with some effort.
The mayor slid an arm around the woman's strong shoulders and Simon suffered an uncommon flash of nerves as Lee steered her in his direction. Her dark hair tapered around a confident face and her brown eyes lifted to catch Simon at his inspection of her full lips. She smiled at him, a crooked, amused smile, and his knees stuttered mid-step.
As the mayor led her by, forgetting Simon and steering the woman directly for the podium, her head turned. Their eyes locked as she passed him. Her smile tightened a touch and she nodded.
"Hello, Simon."
Her voice pulled him into step beside her, but she turned back to Mayor Lee almost immediately. The spell held just the same and Simon continued along at her right shoulder, rapt and watching the highlights shimmer in her hair while she listened to the mayor go on about something or another.
"I'm thrilled that you're here," the mayor said.
Simon nodded agreement, but the woman continued to watch Lee instead of him.
"A chance to show our gratitude," Lee continued. "For all that you've done for the town."
"There's no need." She shook her head, protesting the attention.
Simon approved wholeheartedly.
"Surely there is, my dear." Mayor Lee waved an arm toward the library across the street. As he did so, he caught site of Simon alongside of them. "Oh good, Maxwell. Thought I'd lost you there for a moment. The new library." He continued his argument. "Your generous check for the parks foundation."