Halfway to Half Way (30 page)

 

"This is true. And if you'd told me it was in the fridge, I wouldn't have eaten so much of that fabulous dinner." To the
Aw, c'mon, just a bite
look on his face, she held up her hand. "Death by cheesecake is a great way to go, but it isn't what I had planned for tonight."

 

 

"Okay…" He, who had eaten twice as much as she had, levered out a huge slice and tipped it onto a dessert plate. "I'll just have to be satisfied with torturing you by eating mine in front of you."

 

 

"That, I'm used to." Hannah pushed back from the dinette table a bit, as though a lack of breathing room was the furniture's fault. "One of these days, those million-calorie meals of yours aren't going to vaporize on contact with your stomach."

 

 

David topped off her wineglass with one hand and set down a mug of fresh coffee with the other. The man was the world's best kisser, the world's best lover, a gourmet cook and ambidextrous. What more could any woman want?

 

 

"How many times do I have to tell you?" he said. "This is a diet compared to how much I ate in high school and college." Sitting down across from her, he added, "Don't worry, I'm not going to get fat. Whenever the scale tips over two-forty, I cut back from thirds to seconds."

 

 

He'd be down to halved firsts when she became Betty-Crocker-in-training. Claudina's advice on that subject was to serve Hamburger Helper as an entrée, a canned vegetable and a salad on the side, then lick David's tonsils the instant he walked through the door.

 

 

If that didn't work, she could always resort to peanut butter, celery sticks and sliced apples.

 

 

David cut the point off his cheesecake and waggled the fork at her. "Taste?"

 

 

Lips pressed together, she shook her head again. If she held in what she had to tell him for another second, she really would explode. How and where to start…those, she hadn't rehearsed on the drive over.

 

 

Actually she had, but every intro sounded like Kathy Griffin on crystal meth. Getting in touch with her cool, sophisticated inner Meryl Streep was a washout, too. Evidently, she didn't have one.

 

 

"Are you okay, sugar? That's a mighty strange look on your face."

 

 

"The wedding is August 1."

 

 

He stopped chewing. He blinked, then swallowed. "The wedding."

 

 

"Ours. In the park."

 

 

Hannah's tongue didn't simply loosen, it went into convulsions. "I haven't told Luke and Claudina yet, but I found a dress. The shop's altering it for me. Claudina's daughters are the flower girls and Jeremy's the ring bearer. Willard's taking my job, starting Monday—"

 

 

David's fork dive-bombed the saucer and bounced off. His fingers stayed curled, as if flash-frozen. "Taking your job?"

 

 

"I hired him on the spot this afternoon. Okay, I put him on the spot, too, but sometimes you have to take charge."

 

 

"Hannah—"

 

 

"No, wait, wait. Just listen, I haven't even gotten to the best parts yet." She laughed, intoxicated with the wonder of it all, how everything had come together so fast, so perfectly.

 

 

"I'm launching a new ad agency. It
is
launched, pretty much. The Garvey Group. Sounds kind of like a stock brokerage, or an insurance company, but that's a plus—gives a subliminal Old Guard respectability."

 

 

Excitement racing her heartbeat, aware her voice was escalating, feeling as though she'd levitate any second, she went on. "The group is me, Rambo and Malcolm, but that's our little secret. Jack Clancy's my first client—the construction company
and
Valhalla Springs—so I'm out, but I'm still in."

 

 

"Clancy knows about all this? You told him—"

 

 

"And he's behind me a hundred percent. He even offered a no-interest loan, if I need it."

 

 

Fists pummeling the air, Hannah all but shrieked, "Can you believe it? It's like my fairy godmother's finally back from vacation and got with the program. I'm working from the new house, so when you're home, I'll be home. After all these months of limbo—
shazam—
everything's ready, set, go."

 

 

David's expression went from none whatsoever to comprehending to rigid and pale. Not exactly the reaction Hannah had hoped for, but jeez, in one huge lump, it was a lot to process. She was reeling a bit herself from the aftershock.

 

 

Leaning back in his chair, David blew out a breath that sounded as though it originated at his toes. "All of it, one more time. Take it slow. Complete sentences. Chronological order. Please."

 

 

Laughing, Hannah raised her wineglass, toasting her own surprise. So what if the delivery had been a teensy bit garbled? The pressure was off.
Salud,
and let the happily ever after begin.

 

 

"Take two." She paused for a healthy drink of wine, then another, because it tasted wonderful and she was thirsty. Arms crossed on the table, she began with meeting Luke and Claudina at Nellie Dunn's, the lightning-bolt inspiration at the new house and ended by saying, "I could have reviewed applications and done interviews for years and not found a better person for my job than Willard Johnson."

 

 

She shrugged. "Forest for the trees, I guess. That's my excuse, anyway. Then again, if I hadn't had to dodge IdaClare, the help-wanted ad would have run in the
Examiner
and Willard might have answered it weeks ago."

 

 

David stared at her, stone silent. His jaw worked, yet seemed welded shut. What he was thinking, feeling, was as impossible to read as a message encased in a block of marble.

 

 

Hannah's eyes locked on his. Emotions tumbled and flooded through her. Bewilderment, fear, anxiety, despair, anger—the complete opposite of what she'd expected.

 

 

"What's
wrong
with you? I thought you'd be happy!" She raked her fingers through her hair. "I thought you'd jump up and pull me into your arms and dance me around, shouting, 'I love you, I love you.'"

 

 

His tone sliced the air like a chill draught. "Why didn't you tell me any of this before now." It wasn't a question. An accusation, at best.

 

 

"Because—" Disbelief leavened Hannah's chuckle. Was she dreaming this? If she went outside and came in again, would it be David Hendrickson in that chair, or this grim, hostile stranger?

 

 

She ticked the reasons off on her fingers. "This is Saturday night. I haven't seen you since Thursday. You've been busy with a homicide investigation and campaigning. I thought it'd be next week before I could talk to Jack. I didn't know until last night that he'd be here for his birthday. I was too dense and distracted to even think of Willard until this afternoon."

 

 

Resentful at being put on the defensive, she sneered, "Ridiculous as it seems now, I wanted to tell you all this in person, not on the phone."

 

 

"Oh, yeah?" David pressed his tongue against his teeth, his head moving side to side in utter, horrified amazement. "We've got us a bona fide coincidence, sugar. That's why I waited till tonight to tell you I sold out to Luke. The earnest money's in escrow. We close the deal, first thing Monday morning."

 

 

He was joking. Teasing. He had to be. Why, Hannah couldn't fathom, but sell out? Just like that? Impossible.

 

 

"I was gonna surprise you," David said. "Tell you I was moving to the cottage, so you wouldn't have to quit your job."

 

 

"You just up and sold the place. Yeah, right."

 

 

"It'd come between us for too long already. I was sick and tired of showing up at the cottage at midnight and hauling out again at dawn. And of you driving way the hell out here and hauling out at dawn."

 

 

"Everything," she said. "The new house—your dream house, for God's sake. The land you worked so hard to clear. All of it, without saying a single, solitary word to me about it?"

 

 

"Oh, that's rich." David bolted from the chair. He slapped the refrigerator, then gripped the back of his head and spun around. "You're pissed because I sold a house you never liked, out in the middle of nothin' and nowhere, which you hated, but it's fine—it's goddamn
fantastic
for you to plan a wedding, quit your job, start a business, get Jack on board—shit, you can't sneeze without Clancy around to say 'Bless you'—all behind
my
back and all without saying a word to
me.
"

 

 

"I didn't do
any
of it behind your stupid back." Hannah was on her feet, fists balled and primed to punch a hole clear
through
the damned refrigerator. "Luke talked to you about the wedding first—"

 

 

"Yeah, and I told him, forget it." David glowered at the ceiling, then grimaced. "Then, when he whined at me again, I told him to talk to you." He lowered his evil eye to her. "Because I was absolutely positive
you'd
tell him to forget it, and maybe beat him up a little, so he'd leave
me
the hell alone."

 

 

A smile twitched at Hannah's lips at the thought of being a six-foot-four-inch sheriff's one-woman goon squad. It vanished instantly. "Okay. Fine. The wedding's off."

 

 

"What?" David's arms dropped to his sides. "Why? You want to get married in the park, you'll get married in the park."

 

 

"
We're
getting married. Not just me. If you hate the idea—"

 

 

"It's cheesy, it's a lousy publicity stunt, it's got
disaster
written all over it." He gestured conciliation. "I should've known you'd go for it."

 

 

"Yes, you should have." She pointed in the A-frame's general direction. "And I didn't hate that house. I
love
the house and I
love
the land, and for the record, I'm pretty fond of
this
place, too."

 

 

"Love? C'mon, darlin'. Be honest."

 

 

She
was
being honest. "Okay," she said, "that's a fairly recent leap, but I
do
love it, and I never hated any of it. I just kept wishing it was closer to Valhalla Springs."

 

 

Hannah looked away, more sad than angry. "When I was on the deck the other day, I pretended it was winter and imagined how incredibly beautiful it would be to watch the snow falling down into the meadow."

 

 

"It is. I could hardly wait for us to see it together."

 

 

"But you didn't wait. Worse than that, you didn't trust me."

 

 

"Where the hell does trust come into this? I—"

 

 

"Months ago, you listed it with a real estate agent, because you thought you'd need the equity to pay a defense attorney. I knew then, this place was more than an address to you. I told you that. I
showed
you, the day I yanked up that For Sale sign and threw it in the back of your pickup."

 

 

"I remember. And it meant the world to me when you did." He grasped her upper arms. "What it took me way too long to realize is that Valhalla Springs isn't just an address to you, either."

 

 

"No, but it's not the
permanent
kind, either. The cottage isn't mine, David. I don't own it and never will. I've never owned a home in my life."

 

 

She wrenched away. "All right, I should have told you about the wedding. About finally seeing myself living in the new house—our house—and about the agency idea, but none of that's anywhere
near
as drastic as selling out."

 

 

Moving to the table, she drank down her now lukewarm coffee. It didn't soothe the sickening, empty feeling in her stomach, the pounding at her temples. Carrying the empty mug to the coffeemaker, she said, "Celebrating. That's what I thought we'd be doing tonight. I wanted to take candles and sleeping bags and the wine up to the house and make love there for the first time."

 

 

She turned from the counter. "Instead, I'm unemployed, homeless, wedding-less, and I love you more than anything in the world, but I don't like you a damned bit."

 

 

"I should have told you."

 

 

"Too little, too late."

 

 

"I'm homeless and wedding-less, too, you know." He chuffed. "Gimme a coupla weeks. I may be jobless, right along with you."

 

 

"Ah,
there's
something to look forward to." She hoisted her coffee mug. "Skoal, Sheriff. Between the two of us, we've hit the trifuckingfecta."

 

 

* * *

Delbert had no idea how long he'd been on Chlorine Moody's roof. Felt like a week, at least. An hour, for sure. Probably.

 

 

The shockproof, waterproof, fire-resistant watch he'd ordered from Private Spy Supply was on his dresser at home. It had gizmos galore and set him back a cool $29.99, plus shipping and handling, but its face glowed like a one-eyed alien in a bad sci-fi movie.

 

 

He supposed he could buzz IdaClare on the walkie-talkie and ask her the time. Chances were, the old bat would say the big hand's on this and the little hand's on that, knowing he couldn't yell at her.

 

 

However long he'd been at his post, the tar-and-bird stink had evaporated, or he'd ceased to smell them. Mosquitoes heckled his ears and the back of his neck, but the shoe-polish face paint repelled them. Delbert reckoned the basic ingredients minus the black dye ought to be worth millions.

 

 

The night air and fickle breeze had also cooled the roof considerably. Now it felt like he was stretched belly-down on a hard, slantwise water bed. Downright comfy, if he didn't need to keep his golf spikes pinioned in the shingles.