Authors: Patricia Burroughs
He plowed his fingers through his hair, torn between curiosity and trepidation. No, it wouldn’t be her after all these years. Just a coincidence, he told himself again, returning to the express checkout. The last person in the world he wanted to see was Cecilia Greene.
There were only two people ahead of him, so in minutes he was headed through the automatic doors with his coffee. As he walked toward his car he passed the empty space where the red minivan had been. A peacock blue wallet beckoned from a shallow puddle of water.
The tension crawled down his neck and spine. His instinct of self-preservation warned him to leave it alone. Instead he stooped and retrieved the dripping wallet. He was being ridiculous. That frazzled woman with the untidy tot couldn’t possibly be the hoydenish Cecil Greene.
He opened the wallet, saw the name imprinted on the checks inside and groaned.
~o0o~
Cecilia drove into her neighborhood and waited for the surge of relief to sweep over her. But her chest kept pounding and her racing pulse refused to slow. She couldn’t believe that after all these years the sight of Jeff could still shake her up. “I think I have the flu,” she rationalized aloud.
“Look!” Anne-Elizabeth’s shrill voice pierced through the fog of Cecilia’s reverie. “It’s a po-weece car!”
Cecilia glanced at the flashing red lights in her rearview mirror. “Oh, no.” She checked the speedometer; she wasn’t even speeding.
“What the heck is it now?” She pulled over, rolled down the window and waited for the police officer. She was almost home. Why did this have to happen? And why today?
“May I see your driver’s license, please?”
“Yes, Officer, I’ve got it right here...somewhere.” The officer looked too young for a driver’s license himself, much less old enough to be demanding hers. She rummaged through her purse. Her hand emerged empty. “Uh, why did you pull me over?”
“You didn’t use your left turn signal at the corner, ma’am,” he replied courteously.
“I always use my turn indicator, Officer. Excuse me.” She flipped on the blinker and got out of the car, slamming the door behind her. “Stay right where you are, kiddo,” she snapped over her shoulder.
Seeing the officer’s astounded expression, she shook her head. “Not you, Officer.” She pointed at Anne-Elizabeth, poised and ready to climb out the rear window. “Buckle yourself back in before I lose my last thread of patience, young lady!” Circling the car, she stood and stared at the taillight that failed to flash. “Damnation.”
“Sorry, but I’m going to have to give you a citation, ma’am. May I see your driver’s license, now?”
“Yeah, sure. Let me find it for you.” Climbing back into the minivan, she searched the brown grocery bag—with no success.
Anne-Elizabeth hung out the back window. “Are you gonna take Mommy to jail?”
“No, darlin’. Just writing her a ticket.” The officer tipped his visored hat back on his head and stepped closer to the rear window. “How old are you?”
Keep talking, Annie, Cecilia thought. Just give me a little more time. She knew she could count on her daughter to keep the officer occupied while she groped under the seats for her wallet.
“I’m Anne-Ewizabeth and I’m four years old and I can spell my name. A-N-N-E hyphen E-L-l-Z-A-B-E-T-H,” she rattled off in a singsong voice. “Is that a weal gun? Does it have bullets in it?”
“Don’t worry.” The officer patted his holster. “It won’t hurt you.”
“Wet me shoot it!” Anne-Elizabeth lunged forward, her plump, sticky hand outstretched.
“Hey, wait a minute!”
The officer jumped and surveyed the hand smear on his shirt.
“Look, lady,” he said, irritation in his voice. “I need that license now, if you don’t mind!”
“Of course I don’t mind,” Cecilia said. “But I can’t find it! I wrote a check at the supermarket. I must have left my wallet there!”
Frowning, he pulled out his pad and flipped it open. “Name?”
Cecilia groaned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a small red convertible stop behind them. Dazed, amazed and flabbergasted, she watched Jefferson Smith unwind his lanky frame from the car. What in blazes—
Her mouth fell open when she saw her blue wallet in Jefferson Smith’s hand. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening to her. This was a nightmare.
“Cecil?” He peered in the window at her. “It really is you. Imagine that, after all these years.”
“Where did you get that?” she asked breathlessly.
“I found it in the parking lot in a puddle.” He lifted the soggy wallet.
“Why... thank you, Jeff.” She took it from him, overwhelmed with conflicting emotions. Jeff stepped aside, and Cecilia restrained her temper and accepted her ticket gracefully.
“Bye-bye,” Anne-Elizabeth sang as the officer pulled away.
Jeff took a step closer to the minivan and peered inside. He grinned, damn him, and her heart catapulted into her throat.
“Some things don’t change do they, Cecil? You still can’t drive a mile without getting yourself in trouble.”
“Thanks for bringing my wallet,” Cecilia said.
Jeff’s eyebrows drew together, “I’m really sorry about your ticket.”
“Mommy, the pizzas aren’t cold anymore. Can I eat ’em?” Anne-Elizabeth ripped the box half-open.
Cecilia wrenched it from her hands. “No, they’re still raw. Just sit down. We’re leaving.” She buckled her daughter securely into the seat, then faced Jeff, her pretense at civility wearing thin. “Don’t worry about the ticket, Jeff. I can handle everything without any further assistance from you.”
Jeff interrupted her with a shake of his head. “I don’t think so, Cecil. I happened to notice the balance in your checkbook.”
“You
what
?”
“I know how it seems—but I wasn’t being nosy. I was looking for your name and address and your wallet fell open to your check register.”
“How dare you!”
“Calm down, Cecil.” His hand closed over hers, his palm surprisingly cool and smooth. “I’m not prying, honest. But you really do need to do something about that checkbook. It’s a mess. At least you aren’t wreaking havoc with a debit card.”
She tugged her hand away from him. “For your information, Mr. Smith,” she hissed, “there’s a perfectly good explanation for my checkbook, but it happens to be none of your damned business!”
“Hey, I’m sorry, kid,” he protested, looking genuinely chagrined.
“I’m not a kid, Jeff!”
“No, you’re certainly not. You’ve changed.” He studied her intently.
She felt her face flush. “Most people do change between the ages of fourteen and thirty-two.”
“Who would have thought...” Jeff murmured, his voice velvety and soft and all too pleasing to her ears.
“Thought what?” she asked breathlessly.
“You...” He angled his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’re pretty pale. You really look ill, Cecilia.”
Cecilia gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes closed and wished for a gun to shoot him and an open hole to shove him into. “I thank you very much for your concern. No, I’m not well. I’m sick. I’m coming down with the flu. Goodbye, Jeff.”
Jeff glanced at his watch. “I’m already late for a meeting, but I’d better follow you. You don’t look like you’re going to make it.” He strode toward his car.
Why was he doing this? Cecilia wondered. But with a weary ache numbing every joint in her body, she had no more energy to argue. She pulled away from the curb and slowly drove the short distance home.
~o0o~
What the hell was he doing? Jeff wondered as he followed the minivan down the shady street of aging brick homes that had been his old neighborhood. He hadn’t been here or thought of Cecilia Greene in years, and here he was, playing Sir Galahad to her maiden-in-distress act. The damp wind whipping through his hair did little to explain the way his blood was racing, probably from out-and-out madness.
Her checks had been embossed “Cecilia Evans.” Evans... Evans. He vaguely remembered Robert Evans, remembered hearing that they’d married.
He parked on the street as Cecilia swerved into her daffodil-lined driveway too quickly. She cut the corner short, crushing a row of yellow blooms with her front right tire. The house seemed oddly unperturbed by its near brush with destruction. But, then, he thought wryly, that old house had probably gotten used to her erratic ways. From its L-shaped porch that wrapped its southwest corner, to its irregular native red stone exterior that dripped ivy from almost every surface, to its diamond-paned windows, the house seemed a buxom old dowager, ready to absorb Cecilia into its protective embrace.
In front of the house, a pair of spreading pecan trees cast the yard in shadow. Purple violets filled the flower beds beneath the trees, and a rusty wagon lay overturned amid the violets. The homey scene was marred only by a plastic Uzi machine gun propped against the wagon. There was probably a metaphor there, if he cared to pursue it. He didn’t.
He strode toward the minivan as her car door opened, and offered his hand. She ignored him and fumbled with the grocery sack, instead.
“You get the kid and I’ll get the dog food,” he told her firmly, spying the large bag in the back of the vehicle.
“You don’t have to do this.” She reached across the sack to unbuckle her little girl.
“And who is going to carry in fifty pounds of dog food if I don’t? You?”
Her head snapped back and she faced him with sparks of green fire shooting from her eyes. “Who the heck do you think usually does it—elves?” She paled, and he reached involuntarily for her shoulder, stopping just short of touching her. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, or what you’re trying to prove.”
Her voice was just as he remembered, a little husky in a pleasing sort of way. Now why had he noticed that? “Cecil.” Jeff jerked his hand back and spoke more gruffly then he intended. “Calm down. Okay?” He softened his words with a quirky grin. “I just want to help. Give me a break, huh?”
He heaved the dog food onto his shoulder and stood waiting for her as the child scrambled out of the car and scurried up the sloping yard to the house, shouting at the top of her lungs, “Mommy bwung home a man!”
He read Cecilia’s chagrin in the straight line of her back and the rigidity of her shoulders. But even her anger and frustration didn’t still the gentle sway of her hips as she followed her daughter up the cracked cement walkway. Jeff followed, not even bothering to avert his gaze. She hadn’t grown an inch, and certainly hadn’t picked up much extra weight. But what was there was... softer, maybe.
Damn. He yanked his gaze away in time to see a slightly older boy come bounding down the porch steps. “A man? Where?” the boy demanded. Crunching into a carrot, he stared at Jeff, then dropped a soccer ball and trapped it under the toe of his sneaker.
Jeff was rather taken aback. Two children.
“You’re home early,” Cecilia told the boy, brushing his red hair out of his eyes as she passed him.
“Friday’s an early release day, remember?” The boy pointed the chewed end of his carrot at Jeff. “Who’s he?” “Just an old friend. Jeff, this is Brad. Brad, this is Jeff,” she mumbled as she climbed the steps.
The kid stood in front of Jeff and bounced the ball from one foot to the other, then off his knees and to his feet again. “I did it seventeen times without missing,” he boasted, never missing a beat of his juggling.
Cecilia stopped in the doorway and called, “Brad, move out of the way.”
The ball glanced off Brad’s toe and soared toward the street. “You messed me up,” he complained, taking off after it.
Balancing the large bag of dog food on his shoulder, Jeff paused in the doorway. His dark brows met in a scowl. Cars, space figures and baseball cards littered the floor, a veritable minefield of boyish booby traps. As he stepped carefully across the foyer floor, his gaze was drawn into the living room, with its overstuffed chintz chairs, a love seat and more clutter.
Then he saw the fireplace. A brass antelope nestled on the hearth, and behind it, a profusion of large silk butterflies hung in the white-enameled firebox. Somehow, butterflies in Cecilia’s fireplace seemed whimsically appropriate.
He stepped forward and something crunched beneath his shoe. “Damn!” He kicked aside a small plastic car and moved on into the den. A guy could break his leg walking through this disaster.
Cecilia stood facing a lanky blond boy, clearly the oldest—what, ten or eleven?—in glasses.
“Mom, how could you?” The boy waved an envelope in his mother’s face. “Three overdrafts. Three! I told you to let me balance the checkbook last week, but oh, no! You didn’t have time! And now—”
“Peter,” Cecilia ground out through clenched teeth. “This is not the time for this discussion. If you want the checkbook, take it!” She slapped it into his outstretched palm. “Balance it or burn it—just get it out of my sight!” Without giving him a chance to respond, she walked into the kitchen area.
Peter turned and saw Jeff, his eyes widening in surprise. He stiffened, then left the room, muttering under his breath.
“Charming child,” Jeff remarked, more grateful than ever for his bachelorhood. Three? She and Robert had three children?