Just Like a Man (10 page)

She sighed with much contentment and made her way to the bedroom, shedding her workday clothes as she went, anxious, as always, to be free of them. After making herself comfortable in a loose-fitting, long-sleeved white T-shirt and even looser-fitting pale blue lounging pajama bottoms decorated with clouds, she plucked the pins from her hair and gave it a thorough brushing, looping the elbow-length tresses through each other to form a loose knot at her nape. Then she returned to the kitchen to prepare for her celebration, calling the number of Pizzarama to order a large garbage pizza and cheese sticks. Then she opened a bottle of Chianti and poured herself a generous glass. And then she went to the hall closet to retrieve her presents.

Naturally, they were presents Hannah had bought for herself, since no one she knew had an inkling that today was her birthday. But because she'd never been able to celebrate her birthday as a child, when birthdays meant so much—mostly because her father always forgot when her birthday was—she made sure she celebrated them as an adult. Because even as an adult, birthdays meant so much to Hannah. Each one marked another year in which her life had been stable, secure, and uneventful, and in which she had been reasonably happy.

The Pizzarama guy came and went, and by the time Han-nah finished dinner, she was halfway through the Chianti and was feeling pretty festive and eager to open her gifts. She'd save the one from her imaginary Great-Aunt Esmer-alda for last, since Auntie always gave her the nicest gifts. But she always got things from her pretend parents, too, not to mention her mythical Nana Frost, and her fictitious Cousin Chloe. And of course Patsy, her fabricated best friend from first grade, always sent some kind of joke gift that made Hannah smile. Oh, boy, she couldn't wait to tear into the brightly colored paper and stick the bows on her shoulders like epaulets, the way she would have done had she ever had a birthday party as a child.

But first things first. First, the
piece de resistance.
First, she had to have some ballerina cake. And some music. Couldn't forget to sing herself the birthday song. It was, after all, a tradition. So Hannah carefully inserted ten candles onto the cake, then lit them and carried the cake out to the dining room, where she had stacked her presents into a dappled pyramid. And then, as she placed the cake on the table, she began to sing.

Out in his nondescript van, still wearing his navy blue coveralls, Michael Sawyer wondered just what the hell was going on inside Hannah Frost's house.

Oh, the evening had been uneventful enough for the most part. In fact, it had been so uneventful, he'd dozed off a couple of times. At this rate, he'd be home in time to put Alex to bed himself and send the sitter home early. All he'd heard coming from Hannah's house had been a call to Pizzarama—and man, his mouth had started to water when he heard her order the garbage pizza, with anchovies, since all he had to eat himself was a bag of Fritos—and soft, muffled sounds of movement, and what he was pretty sure had been a cork coming out of a bottle of wine. His mouth had watered at the sound of that, too, since all he had to enjoy with his Fritos was a Chateau Cafe Froid, vintage two hours ago, which although full-bodied and robust—oh, man, was it full-bodied and robust—just wasn't as smooth as he might have liked. And behind all those sounds had been the faint strains of classical piano—Debussy, if Michael wasn't mistaken—which, now that he thought about it, could account for why he'd dozed off a couple of times.

But then the weirdest thing had happened. A different kind of music had suddenly started up. But it wasn't Debussy, not by a long shot. In fact, it had sounded sort of like the birthday song, except that it was being sung in the key of… well, it seemed to be an extremely minor key that Michael was fairly certain must be undetectable to anyone but feral, frothing-at-the-mouth mongrels who could appreciate sounds like that. Though maybe
appreciate
wasn't quite the right word to use… On the upside, having heard it, he probably wouldn't have any trouble staying awake for the rest of the evening. On the downside, he might never sleep again.

Just what the hell was going on in there? Hannah was home alone. Wasn't she? But why would she be singing the birthday song—in any key—if she was there all by herself? He thought for a moment that the singing might have come from the television or radio. But then he decided there had to be some kind of FCC regulation forbidding broadcasting that might potentially turn the population into rabid dogs. No, it was definitely Hannah singing—or something. But who was she singing—or something—to?

Immediately Michael thought of a way he might find out the answer to that question. Unfortunately, it involved committing another felony. But being a Peeping Tom couldn't be more than a class D felony, could it? Then he recalled the purloined panties which were still in the pocket of his coveralls, and he realized he might be convicted of a few other crimes, as well. Unable to help himself, he retrieved the pan-ties, holding them up to his nose to inhale their sweet lavender scent again, growing dizzy just remembering the madness that had overtaken him that morning, when he'd snatched them from Hannah's lingerie drawer.

Great. He was OD-ing on underwear. This was just what he needed—a lingerie addiction. He was becoming a panty junkie. He was going to wind up one of those vacant-eyed, slobbering guys who stood outside Victoria's Secret, gazing through the display windows at the scantily clad dress forms that didn't even have a head or limbs, mainlining thongs and garter belts.
He used to be such a nice, normal guy,
they'd all say,
but now he's got a V-string on his back.

Tucking the lacy garment back into his pocket, Michael unzipped and shed his coveralls, revealing blue jeans and a lightweight, oatmeal-colored sweater beneath. Then he checked all his equipment to be sure it was still taping, and, deciding not to question his actions, he left the safety of his hideout and headed for Hannah's house. Yes, he could have just activated the living room cam to see what she was doing, but something in him revolted at the thought, because it was so, well, revolting. That seemed like such an extreme—and unnecessary—invasion of her privacy, and he didn't want to be guilty of that.

No, he'd much rather invade her privacy in person.

The rain had finally stopped falling, but the air was cumbrous and chill with the lingering damp. The sun had set, smudging the sky a murky soot, but a street lamp on the corner spilled bilious light over much of Hannah's front yard. Michael cleared the four porch steps in two quick strides, then, before second thoughts prevented him, he pushed his thumb against the doorbell. Instead of a melodic
ding-dong,
a shrill, quick buzz shot through the house on the other side of the door. The jerky sound was at odds with his quiet surroundings, and the juxtaposition made him even edgier. After a moment of silence, he heard the creak of hardwood flooring as someone approached. Another moment passed in silence as Hannah, he was certain, viewed him through the peephole and tried to figure out where the hell he had come from and what the hell he was doing here. Then, finally, the door opened, a scant few inches, and her face appeared on the other side.

Only then did Michael realize what a stupid thing he was doing. How on earth was he supposed to explain his arrival at her front door at this hour of the night? Not that it was that late—it couldn't be much past eight—but it
was
night, and normally, parents didn't visit the director of their child's school at night. Nor did they visit the director of their child's school at home. Nor did they show up without calling first. Nor did they show up without a vehicle of some kind. What the hell had he been thinking?

Oh, right. He hadn't been thinking. He'd been sniffing Hannah's panties. So that explained that. And there were thick shrubs obscuring the driveway, so maybe she wouldn't notice the absence of a car. How to explain the rest of it, though…

"Uh, hi," he began eloquently. And for the life of him, he could think of not one single additional thing to say. So he stood there foolishly, hoping maybe this was all just a hallucination brought about by a lingerie high.

Hannah eyed him warily for a moment before replying, and when she finally did, her words were tinged with suspicion. "Hello. Mr. Sawyer. What brings you out?"

So it wasn't a hallucination. Her voice was too clear, too pure, too reserved for it to be anything other than the real thing. He strove for a lighthearted, faintly comedic tone when he said, "Would you believe I was just in the neighborhood?"

"No."

He waited for her to elaborate… but she didn't. So much for lighthearted and faintly comedic. "Well, then," he tried again, "would you believe I needed to talk to you about Alex and it couldn't wait?"

Oh, fine,
he told himself derisively.
Just use your son to further your own treacherous agenda, why don't you ? Some father you are.
But then he realized maybe he
did
want to talk to Hannah about Alex. Maybe.

"I might believe that," she said, interrupting his self-contempt. Not that he wasn't grateful. "But I don't know why you'd drive all the way to my house when you could have picked up the phone," she added. "For that matter, I don't know why you wouldn't call me at work. During the work
day,"
she added meaningfully.

"I usually get pretty busy at work, during the work
day,"
he said. "And I get so focused, I tend to forget about things that aren't work-related," he added, proud of himself for at least telling the truth about that. "By the time I remember I need to call you, you're gone for the day."

"You could call me at home," she said. "My number is in the school directory, and I'm always available to talk to parents about any concerns they might have. Though," she added in that meaningful voice again, "usually the parents try talking to their child's teacher first."

"I, ah, I've never much been one for chain of command," Michael said. "I'd just as soon go straight to the top. Besides," he added, hoping he sounded meaningful, too, "Alex's teacher said in her first note home to the parents that she'd be unavailable on Monday and Thursday evenings."

Hannah nodded. "That's right. She teaches adult returning education classes those nights."

Funny, Michael thought, but Hannah sounded kind of ticked off that he'd been right about that. And she hadn't opened the door any farther, and she was still looking at him suspiciously. Gosh, he couldn't imagine why.

"And I really was in the neighborhood," he added, congratulating himself for the truthfulness—sort of—of that statement. "I was hoping you wouldn't mind if I dropped by. So can I come in?" he asked, knowing he was pushing his luck and preparing himself for her rebuff.

But she didn't rebuff him. Not yet. "Is it terribly important?" she asked, cracking the door open a little more.

Her tone was one of reluctant capitulation, so Michael, being the sort of man he was, back on the sort of job he had performed for so long, did what he normally would have done. He took advantage of it.

"It is," he told her. "I wanted to see how he's been faring since we spoke that day in your office. I wanted to talk to you about it at the potluck Friday, but I didn't get the chance. Adrian really monopolized you that night."

Oh, bravo,
Michael applauded himself.
Play the guilt card.
Hannah Frost, School Director, hadn't been doing her job on Friday, because she'd been too busy making time with a member of the school's board of directors. She'd
have
to talk to him now.

"You just wanted to check up on him and see how he's faring?" she echoed dubiously. "That doesn't seem terribly important to me."

In contrast to her objection, however, she opened the door even wider, enough for Michael to see she was in her pajamas—kind of. It struck him as odd that she'd be ready for bed so early in the evening. And then he wondered if maybe she wasn't alone after all, if he'd somehow missed someone coming over to see her. And he wondered, too, if that someone was Adrian Padgett, and he really, really, really hoped it wasn't.

Strangely, though, his hope that she wasn't seeing Adrian in her pajamas sprang not from Michael's unwillingness to keep spying on her, but from something else entirely, something he didn't want to name or even think about, because it just didn't seem possible. Or smart.

"It's important when you're a father," he told her. And again, he spoke the truth. Because there was a part of him that would always worry about Alex, no matter how old his son got, no matter how far his son traveled, no matter how responsible, independent, and self-supporting his son became. Michael really did want to know that Alex was faring well at school. The fact that he was going about it in ways that were a bit unorthodox just went along with everything else in his life these days. Because whenever Adrian Padgett was around, things always got unorthodox. To put it politely.

"All right," she said, the words punctuated with a weary sigh. "You can come in."

She took a step backward and pulled open the door, and before she had a chance to change her mind, Michael stepped over the threshold and into her house—into her life—for the second time that day. This time, though, he
had
been invited. Even if it was under false pretenses. Really, he told himself, his presence here now was no more acceptable than it had been earlier that day. At least, it wouldn't be if Hannah knew what was actually going on.

He realized once he got inside that what she was wearing might not, technically, qualify for pajamas, at least not on a less astringent woman. On Hannah, though, the outfit was downright whimsical, a soft white shirt that flowed over her curves instead of hiding them the way the suit jackets did, and pants with… nah, couldn't be. Those could not be clouds on her pants. She must have spilled something on herself that landed in the shapes of clouds. But the color made her blue eyes seem even bluer somehow, even larger, and her hair… Wow. Her hair. It really was long, spilling out of a knot at her nape—literally, a knot, her hair having been looped through itself—down between her shoulder blades, as thick and glossy as honey.