Got Your Number (39 page)

"Popular lady," Capistrano said.

"I haven't picked up my mail in ages."

"Does this mean I have to let you go outside
every
weekend you visit?"

She shook her head at his foolishness, then flipped through the pile, discarding junk mail and sorting bills. A letter from Richard with a Birmingham postmark evoked a rueful noise from her throat.

"What's that?"

"A letter from an old boyfriend."

He made a hurt face. "What if he wants you back?"

"I'm not available," she sang, then opened the letter. A fifty-dollar bill floated out.

Dear Roxann,

I hope this note finds you well. I thought you'd like to know that I'm in AA and have been sober for almost five months. One of the steps to recovery requires us to seek forgiveness from people we've wronged and try to repair the damage we've done. I probably owe you my life for orchestrating that intervention, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I remembered that I owe you fifty bucks.

Fondly,

Richard

"Is your old flame buying us dinner?" he asked.

"Nope. You're buying dinner, he's buying a study guide that I need."

She pulled out another envelope, this one forwarded to her through the Rescue program. "Another boyfriend?"

"No, but your petty jealousy is turning me on." The letter was from Melissa Cape Morgan.

Dear Roxann,

Funny that I don't even know your last name, yet I owe you so much. Renita and I have never been happier—you are in our prayers every night. Enclosed is a picture that Renita drew for her "lady hero." Thank you.

xoxoxoxo, Melissa and Renita

Renita had drawn a crayon version of their "rescue" to the airport. She'd portrayed Roxann wearing a long red cape and tall red boots. Roxann smiled, and her heart expanded. Maybe she had done some good all these years. She would call Tom Atlas tomorrow to see what she could do for the Rescue program on a part-time basis.

The next card was a heartfelt message from Nell Oney's sister, thanking Roxann for attending the memorial service. So sad—Nell had suffered tremendously in the end. Roxann swallowed the lump in her throat and hoped Nell was in a better place.

Finally she pulled out a thick, square envelope and grinned. "It's from Angora." She ripped it open and pictures fell into her lap.

Dear Roxann,

Thought I'd let you see what life on the farm is like. I really love it here, especially the animals. And of course, Mike is wonderful. We were married last Wednesday night at the justice of the peace. I was thinking about you during the ceremony. Mike and I are expecting a baby in the summer—we're both thrilled. Mother is less thrilled, but resigned.

Much love, Angora

P.S. Mike also runs a crop-dusting business on the side, so he's teaching me to fly a plane.

The pictures showed a round-cheeked Angora, nearly unrecognizable because her hair was now a light brown—her natural color? She wore sensible clothes and shoes, and she was holding a baby goat. Another picture was of her in the kitchen, elbow-deep in flour and smiling into the camera. The third picture was a snapshot of her and Mike at the justice of the peace. Angora wore a knee-length white dress and a white hat, and held a bouquet of dried wildflowers, beaming. Mike wore a suit and bow tie, and looked as if he'd just won the lottery. The last photo showed Angora sitting in the cockpit of a crop-dusting plane, waving.

"What's so funny?" Capistrano asked.

"Angora is amazing. Who would have dreamed that she'd enjoy living on a farm?"

He laughed. "I'll bet it has more to do with the farmer than the farm."

"They're expecting a baby."

"Wow, that didn't take long."

"Angora wanted to have kids right away. She said our eggs are getting old."

He pursed his mouth. "Hm. Might have to do something about that 'being a mother and having a daughter' thing on that list you made."

"If that's a proposal," she said dryly, "think of a better delivery."

He pulled in front of the duplex and parked at the curb. "You know I love you," he said. "I'm helping you move, for Christ's sake."

She jumped down from the truck. "Nope, you'll have to do better than that."

He caught up with her and grabbed her around the waist. He kissed her thoroughly, then lifted his head. "Okay, how about, 'Let's get married and have a bunch of kids'?"

She grinned. "Is that a hypothetical question?"

He scratched his head as if he just realized what he'd done. "Er, no. No it is not."

She shrugged. "Okay." Then she turned and walked toward the back entrance.

"Okay?" he asked, on her heels. "That's all you have to say?"

"Okay,
Detective.
"

"That's better," he said, lowering another kiss on her mouth. At the sound of a throat being cleared, they pulled apart.

Mr. Nealy stood on his front porch, broom at the ready. "Nice day," he said, but his mouth was pulled down in a disapproving frown.

"Hi, Mr. Nealy—you remember Joe Capistrano?"

"Yes," he chirped. "Hello, young man."

"Hello, sir." He leaned close to her ear. "He hates me."

"Shut up," she whispered. "Mr. Nealy, I have a table that I'd like to give to you—can I bring it over?"

"Sure," he said, a bit more cheerfully.

Inside her kitchen, boxes were stacked on the floor, packed with the few clothes, dishes, and other belongings she owned. She walked over to a wooden telephone stand with claw-and-ball feet. "I found it in an antique shop," she said. "I think Mr. Nealy will like it."

"Want me to carry it over?"

"No, I got it."

Her neighbor was holding open the back door of his duplex when she went out. She held up the table. "What do you think?"

He finally smiled. "I'm sure I can find some use for it in here. Thank you, Roxann."

She stepped inside, immediately assailed with the smell of cedar and mothballs and loneliness. His belongings were meager, but neat.

"Just set it down over there by the bookcase."

She did and complimented his book collection. "My dad is a bit of a collector, too," she said, then stopped when a familiar spine caught her eye.

Anger sparked in her stomach. She slid out a copy of
Mac Tomlin, Gumshoe
and gave Mr. Nealy a pointed look. She turned to page 124 and read, " 'I've got your number, you fake.' " Then she closed the book with a thud and looked up. "Sound familiar, Mr. Nealy?"

"N-no," he stammered, red-faced.

She planted her hands on her hips.
"You
broke into my place and left that message?"

He held up his hands. "I didn't break in—I used the key you gave me for emergencies. I did
not
break in."

"You ransacked my stuff!"

"I only moved things around a little, and I was careful not to break anything."

"I was frightened to death!"

He looked long-faced and apologetic. "I just wanted to scare you a teensy bit, just so you might come over and... "

"Ask you for help?"

"Well, yes."

She shook her head. "I don't believe this."

"Please don't tell the police," he begged. "I was just so lonely, Roxann."

"And you're going to stay lonely if you don't stop manipulating people—what you did was a terrible thing." She stuck out her hand. "Give me back my key."

He removed it from his front shirt pocket and placed it in her palm. She poked her tongue into her cheek, not even wanting to think about how often he'd been over there when she wasn't.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just wanted a friend."

She sighed. "Mr. Nealy, you need a
friend
who's a little closer to your age."

"I don't know anyone."

She drew mightily on her patience. "Go down to Rigby's Diner and ask to sit in Helen's section. And be
nice.
If you're lucky, she
might
go out with you." She shook her finger. "But don't you ever do anything like this again."

"I won't," he said.

She slowly walked back to her duplex, marveling that the antics of one old man could have unleashed such pandemonium in her life. Proof, she realized, of the power her deep-seated guilt had had over her life.

Capistrano was leaning over the counter when she walked in. "You're not going to believe—" She stopped when she saw he was marking through something on a piece of yellow legal paper. "What are you doing?"

He grinned and held up the life list she'd once crumpled. It had been ironed flat. "I found this in the items the police returned and thought you should keep it."

He had discreetly crossed through number thirty-three with a black marker. She smiled. "Thank you." Then she stopped. "Hey, wait, someone crossed off number one—backpack across Europe."

"Sounds like a great honeymoon to me."

She vaulted into his arms and checked her watch. "Right now, it's seven p.m. in London."

"Wait a minute," he said with a frown. "You did agree to marry me, didn't you?"

She pulled away and rummaged in one of the boxes until she came up with her Magic 8 Ball. She closed her eyes and held the toy reverently. "Should I marry the great Detective Joe Capistrano and live as his sex slave for the next forty—"

"Fifty."

"—fifty years?" She opened her eyes and turned over the toy.

Yes, definitely.

The End

Dear Reader,

Thank you so much for reading GOT YOUR NUMBER—I hope you enjoyed it! I'm a big believer in life lists, so I was happy to incorporate them into a novel. If you're interested in creating your own life list (fun with a partner, too, or with a group of friends), check out the downloadable article I wrote titled "GET A LIFE! 8 Steps to Create Your Own Life List," available where e-reads are sold.
 

Cheers!

Stephanie

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