Authors: Beverly Jenkins
While Saint drove, Narice continued to mull over the handwritten clue her father had hidden in the quilt. What had he meant by
Home
? Thinking out loud, she said, “Suppose we forget about my house being the place daddy talked about in his note. Where else might home be?” A blink later, she had an epiphany. “Maybe he meant his own?”
Saint shrugged. “Maybe, but where's that?”
“Grey Swan, Georgia. Little bitty town down by the Okefenokee Swamp. I went to visit right after my mother died. Haven't been back since.”
“Has he been down there recently?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, before we head off on a wild-goose chaseâ”
The word
goose
sent a chill across the back of
Narice's neck. “Where's the quilt?” Hastily unhooking her belt, she leaned into the back seat, giving Saint a real nice look at her behind in blue shorts as she reached for the paper-wrapped bundle. She picked it up, then with a bounce settled back into her seat.
Saint asked, “What's up?”
“When you said, goose⦔ She paused for a moment to unwrap the quilt. Sending the paper wrapper sailing into the back seat, Narice spread the quilt out and studied it. She pointed to a square. “There.”
Saint glanced at where her finger rested. To him the square's symbol just looked like a bunch of stacked triangles.
Narice had her book out and was flipping through the pages. When she came across what she'd been after she said proudly, “These are the Flying Geese. I knew I'd seen them in here.”
“Geese?”
“Yes. This patch tells the runaways to follow the geese north. I guess it's a clue for folks who plan to escape in the spring when the birds migrate.”
Saint grinned. “You're getting damned good at this, Teach.”
She inclined her head, and said in a fake British accent, “Thank you, sir.”
Saint was starting to like this woman way more than he was supposed to. “What else does it say?”
She read further. “If the slaves were to travel in a particular direction, that direction was sometimes
highlighted by using a different fabric within the rest of the pattern.”
Narice looked at the square of geese closely. The triangles representing the birds in flight were in flocks of three. Two of the flocks were done in black corduroy. One flock flying towards the bottom of the quilt was made of black satin. “Well, we have two made of cord and one of satin.”
“Which way are the satin ones flying?”
“Down.”
“Meaning south?”
Narice studied it again. “I guess.”
“Your theory that this quilt might be telling us to check out your daddy's birthplace could be a good one.”
“Or not.” Right now, she wasn't sure about anything. Narice took a moment to look out of her window. “Where are we headed?”
“Some place where we can hole up for the night and study this quilt, hopefully without being disturbed by cockroaches or helicopters.”
“I'm all for that.”
Were Saint traveling alone, he'd be content with the nearest fleabag hotel, but the lady with him was a
lady
; she deserved to spend the night in a decent place. With that in mind, he left the Detroit city limits and headed west. The cockroaches and their friends were probably scouring the city for them. Leaving town would make it harder for him and Narice to be found.
The motel was in Ann Arbor, about thirty-five miles away. It was nestled in a complex of six or seven other motels. If the quilt was really pointing the way south, one of the highways running through Ann Arbor was US 23 which connected with south I-75 near Toledo, less than forty minutes away.
Saint got off the highway at State Street, turned right on Victor's Way, and drove down the quiet tree-lined street to the motel. It was the same chain he and Narice stayed at in Grand Rapids. The suite's layout would allow each of them to have their own bedroom and shower, and the place was spacious enough to stretch out and relax.
Saint parked and went inside to the desk. After registering them as Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, he paid cash for the room and took the keys. Getting back in the van, he told her, “We're Mr. and Mrs. Palmer.”
After settling into the room, they got the quilt out and pored over it some more.
Next to the Flying Geese was a pattern she identified as the Drunkard's Path. Its patch was made up of two intersecting lines that zigzaged across its square.
Saint read aloud, “The drunk's pattern told the runaways not to travel on a straight line so slave catchers and the dogs would have a harder time tracking them. Based on their African heritage, slaves believed evil traveled in a straight line.”
He raised an impressed eyebrow. “Never knew that.”
Narice noticed that the raised eyebrow seemed to be a signature move. “Neither did I.”
They were seated on stools at the long white counter that divided the small kitchen from the main living area and served as a place to eat.
Saint read a little further and said, “According to this, what we have is a sampler quilt. One that has a bunch of different patterns on it. Many were used as maps.”
Narice looked down at her father's midnight blue-and-black creation and marveled at the effort that must have gone into making such a beautiful work. “So, we're not crazy. This is a map.”
“Yep.”
“Wow. When he told us to use the quilt, he wasn't kidding.”
“No.”
She ran her palm slowly over the soft fabric surface. “This had to have taken some time to doâlook at how intricate the patterns and stitches are. I wonder when he started it.” She also wondered if he'd been scared?
Had he already been threatened or pressured?
Thinking about him made her mood gently slide to blue.
Saint saw the sadness descend upon her like clouds bringing shadows. It was time to do something else. “Hungry?”
She shook her head. “Not right now. If it's okay with you, I think I'm going to take a catnap. Give me about an hour, then I'll be ready to eat.”
“Okay.”
She slid from the stool and headed up the stairs to her portion of the suite.
When Saint heard her door close, he turned his mind to dinner. He didn't really want to risk eating out, so he picked up the phone and called the desk. Under normal circumstances if a guest made arrangements in advance, the housekeeping staff would stock the room's refrigerator and cabinets with groceries, but since Saint hadn't made arrangements, he figured the promise of a hundred-dollar tip would do the trick. It did. One hour later, the lady manager arrived with enough food to keep Saint and Narice fed for their stay. The bags were set on the counter and the manager took her tip. Before she left, however, Saint said, “Some friends of mine might drop by. They like surprises and gags and they especially like posing as Federal agents. If they show up, will you call me?”
The blonde said, “Sure will.”
Saint gave her another twenty. “Thanks.”
She smiled like Marilyn Monroe. “No, thank you,” and she exited.
A pleased Saint closed then bolted the door.
Narice came downstairs at 7:30. Saint, standing at the stove, noted that she looked rested and that she'd changed into a dark blue, clingy-looking top that had long sleeves and a scoop neck that was discreet yet sexy enough to catch a brother's interest. On the bottom half she wore a pair of jeans that showed off her curves. She was dressed very casually but with the gold heart hanging from a chain around her neck, her hair fixed, makeup on, and the thin gold bracelets on her wrist, she looked like an elegant million bucks.
“What're you cooking?” she asked. “Smells good.”
He found the scents of her perfume just as pleasing. “Broiled salmon, fried corn, salad, and yeast rolls. Sorry, they're frozen but no time for real ones.”
Narice croaked “You make yeast rollsâfrom scratch?”
“Yep. Gran cooked for rich folks all of her life. No way you could be around her and not learn something. Sarita and I are great cooks.”
“The secret-agent chef. What else can you make?”
He pulled open the oven door to check on the salmon. “I do a mean prime rib. My German chocolate cake ain't bad either.”
“You do not make German chocolate cake.”
He turned to her. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
Narice realized he was serious. Nope, she didn't know much about this man at all. “Where'd all this food come from?”
After he told her about the delivery, she said, “Well, cook on my brother. I can't wait to eat.”
Unlike many men Narice knew, he appeared comfortable in the kitchen. Brandon, her ex, had been a good cook too, but Narice had rarely been home in time to sample his efforts. She turned her mind away from those bittersweet memories and refocused her attention on Saint. Lord, he was handsome; the face, the build, the way he moved. He was dressed in his usual black turtleneck and black jeans, but this set looked fresh. It was her guess, he'd showered while she was
upstairs sleeping. The dark glasses were in place and the beard still made him look like an outlaw, but the magic coat was on one of the living room chairs.
Thank goodness.
She doubted the health department would clear it as a proper food preparation garment.
He looked her way and said, “There's wine over here chilling. Pour yourself some.”
“Don't mind if I do.”
The kitchen was small. As she reached for the bottle sitting in a saucepan filled with ice her body brushed against his and the heat of the contact was like a slow sear. “Excuse me,” she whispered, hastily, trying to pretend she'd felt nothing.
“No problem.”
Their eyes met and held. The last twelve hours had been hectic ones; there hadn't been time to further explore their unspoken attraction to each other; they'd been too busy with cockroaches. Now, however, they were alone and admittedly curious about each other.
He stepped back over to the stove and took the top off the corn. He stirred it with a large spoon, then scooped a small portion onto the spoon's tip. “Here, taste this.”
Narice hesitated for a moment but walked the two steps to where he stood.
His voice was soft with warning. “Careful, it's a little hot.”
Feeling as if she were being stroked by his eyes, she
let him feed her. The sweet, spicy taste made her moan softly with delight.
Her sounds of pleasure made him wonder if she would purr that way if he kissed her. “Like it?”
“Mmmm. More,” she purred appreciatively.
He took a clean spoon from the drawer and dug her out another little portion, then slowly fed that to her as well. It was an innocent yet sensual moment that affected them both. After she swallowed she slipped her tongue around her lips in a move Saint found so provocative and blood firing, he had to turn back to the stove. “It didn't need more salt or anything?”
Narice's pulse had heightened in response to being fed and it refused to slow down. “No. Perfect. Do you want some wine?”
“Yes, please.”
Narice found some glasses in the cupboard and took out two. The merlot was a well recognizable one. She poured some into each glass and handed him one, and attempted to shake off the wild sensations his nearness had a way of setting off. She raised her in toast, and said, “To the cook.”
He raised his in reply, “Thanks.”
More conscious of him than she thought safe, Narice matched his sip. Giving her a long look over his glass, he took another draw then went back to his cooking. Her senses flaring, she strolled over to the fireplace. A store-bought composite log, wrapped in red paper, sat on the metal grate waiting to be lit. The
room's blue-patterned drapes were pulled closed and with the lamps in the sitting room lit; the interior of the suite was cozy and hushed.
Narice took another small sip of her wine and said, “I know it's July but how about a fire?”
“Sure, why not. The AC is on.”
Instructions on how to operate the fireplace safely were printed on a little metal plaque on the wall, and after reading them, Narice adjusted the flue, then using the matches provided by the motel, lit the paper ends of the log's wrapper. Once the flames caught, she closed the wire grate and stepped back. “How's that?” she asked him.
He looked over. “Cool.”
Narice turned back to the fire and watched the flames slowly build. The heat made her move back a short step, but the blaze was lovely to look at. Standing there with her merlot in her hand, she realized she couldn't remember the last time she'd sat with a man by a fire. With the smells of the food cooking and the crackling sounds from the fireplace, the air was romantic, even if it wasn't supposed to be.
In the kitchen, Saint knew she wasn't deliberately tempting him, but her presence, the fire, her perfume were keeping him from concentrating on what he was supposed to be doing, which was slicing tomatoes for the salad. Even as he kept glancing her way, he had to make himself pay attention to the task at hand so he wouldn't lose a finger to the knife's sharp blade.
But soon all the food was done.
He called out, “Come get it.”
She walked over to the counter and eagerly took a seat.
Narice watched as he expertly removed the salmon's crisp silver back before he set the steaming browned fillet on a platter. Next came a large bowl filled with the fried corn, then the salad, and the hot-buttered rolls. Impressed, she scanned the fare. “I may have to hire you.”
He sat down. “You can't afford me.”
She asked teasingly, “No?”
The timbre of her voice and the look in her dark eyes made Saint's manhood quicken. “No,” he told her. “When I cook for a lady, I don't cook for cash.”
Narice chuckled, “Oh really?”
“Really.”
“Then I need to leave that alone.”