The Very Thought of You (26 page)

“I could probably round up an iron from somewhere.”

She almost laughed but swallowed it in case he'd take any levity as a sign she might weaken.

“Your neighbors might not appreciate being awakened at this hour.” She buttoned her blouse and tucked it into her skirt. Her mouth felt like it had sprouted cat fur and her body ached for a hot water-logging, skin-shriveling shower.

He held up his hands, palms facing her. Disappointment etched his facial muscles. “Okay, I suppose there are a bunch of girly things you have to do. I'll drive you home.”

“My car is in your garage. I don't need a ride.”

“It's five thirty in the morning. I'm not going to let you drive home alone.”

She glanced at the wall clock. “It's almost twenty of six. By the time I hit the street, it will start to become light.”

He came over to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “Did I remember to tell you you're one of the most stubborn people I know?”

She almost said, “Yes, along with your tenants,” but decided it best to stay away from the T word. Not after she'd had the most mind-blowing night of her life and wanted another.

“I'm a grownup. I can handle the streets at dawn. Lots of people will be on their way to work. I won't be the only one out there.” Pale light had started to filter into the apartment through the balcony doors.

“Okay, I'll concede round one. Round two is mine. I'm taking you down to the garage.” He fished his shirt off a chair and jammed his arms into the sleeves. While he worked on the buttons with one hand, he placed the other on her shoulder. She grabbed her purse. He led her to the front door.

He put his arm around her in the elevator. When they reached her car, she fished out her keys and pushed them into the lock. Nick opened the door, and she slid onto the seat.

“Promise me one thing,” he said.

“What's that?”

“Next time, you'll stay the night and have breakfast with me.”

Next time.
“Sure.”

He closed the car door, and she pulled out of the slot. She headed up the ramp that led to the street and watched for traffic but mostly watched him. He stood in the opening of the garage, his hands on his hips. Her heart squeezed in her chest. Maybe it wasn't hopeless after all. He'd said “next time.” He knew she wouldn't turn traitor on his tenants. So maybe he had a plan. After all, he'd admitted he'd thought about her ever since that first day. He'd had almost two weeks to come up with a solution.

Maybe he felt more for her than he showed on the surface. Tonight must have told him something about her strong attraction to him. Would he equate that for love and return it? She smiled as she drove toward home, confident she was heading toward something good with him.

• • •

When her taillights disappeared, Nick closed the security gate and rode the elevator back up to his apartment. He usually never paid attention to the emptiness, but now that he'd admitted to it, without Molly there, it hit him even harder.

He shucked his shirt and pants and went into the bathroom and ran the shower. As he stepped under the spray, his mind turned into a movie factory that produced flickering images of him and Molly making love. It went on long enough for the bathroom to fill with steam and the water to turn cool. He remembered all the places he'd touched her and it turned him on, setting off fireworks in his head. No woman had ever excited him like that before. From that first day in her office, he'd thought about getting her naked. When it finally happened, he'd just let his body do all the thinking for him.

He toweled off and headed for the bedroom. He wondered if this thing he had going with her would turn into a documentary short or a full-length feature. There were a couple of Olympic-sized hurdles he still had to jump over — no, not jump, vault. Whether their movie lasted for ten minutes or two hours, he'd thread the first reel tonight after he took her someplace special for dinner. He'd walk over to her office later and set up the date.

He dressed in slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie, and was about to head for his favorite Mexican restaurant when his phone rang. His first thought was of Molly. He couldn't think of anyone else who'd call him at six thirty on that particular morning. He took the call in the kitchen and almost said, “Good morning, sweetheart.” Good thing he held back. It wasn't Molly on the other end of the line but a man who introduced himself as Detective Larsen.

Molly spent a longer time than usual doing damage control to her hair. Then, dressed in a crisp white blouse and the new navy blue linen suit she'd recently splurged on at Nordstrom's, she maneuvered her car through the Tuesday morning commuter traffic.

Two SUVs cut her off, and she realized she'd better pay more attention before she wound up in an accident. That meant she had to stop thinking about Nick. She'd done nothing else ever since she'd pulled away from his garage. She relived every moment, held tight each memory. Images flooded her mind and along with them came questions. Would she see him today? Would he ask her out on a date? When, if ever, would they make love again? She stayed away from the most important questions — would he reach an equitable settlement with his tenants and in the future build somewhere far away from the clinic? If both didn't happen, there could be no relationship. And if not, how could she live the rest of her life without him?

The traffic thinned as she drove into the South of Market area. She picked up more speed as she neared the construction site. A quick glance at the dashboard clock told her it was almost eight thirty. Nick should be around by now. Her heart did a little flip-flop in anticipation. She didn't want to interrupt him — just look. Okay, stare shamelessly. That should be enough to get her through the morning.

But when she went to make the turn onto his end of the street, a police car blocked it and a patrolman waved away rubberneckers. She slowed to a crawl. Several vehicles, including squad cars, a fire engine and an ambulance, jammed the street. The far end of the block where the clinic stood was cordoned off as well. She searched for Nick through the throng of policemen that crowded the sidewalk. Her mind raced with every possible disaster — “something big” that closed down the site, a fire had torn through the apartment building, a tenant had suffered a heart attack. Maybe Duncan Serk had discovered a more lethal way, other than a picket line, to shove his point home.

The cop approached her. “Move it, lady.”

She braked, leaned over, and lowered the passenger side window. “What happened?”

“Did you hear me? I said get going.” The cop signaled with his thumb. He gripped the handle of the baton attached to his belt with his other hand. His pinched face and dark glaring eyes invited no further questions.

“Yes, officer.” Molly crossed the intersection and hunted for a place to park. She spotted a loading zone midway down the avenue and decided to chance it. She squeezed in behind a linen service van, locked up, and hiked back in her three-inch wedge heels. When she reached the corner, the same policemen intercepted her.

“You again. You can't go down there.”

All the vehicles were parked haphazardly in the street directly in front of the apartment house. She thought she spotted Mrs. Z and a couple of the tenants.

She pointed to the building. “I know the people who live in those apartments. I need to speak with them.”

“You want to get arrested?” The patrolman reached behind his back to where she thought he might keep his handcuffs.

“Well, no … ”

“Then beat it.”

Several cars had stopped at the intersection and blocked traffic. A crowd gathered at the corner. The patrolman blew his whistle and signaled for the drivers to move on. Molly scooted down the street the moment he averted his eyes. When a gravelly voice called, “Hey, you, get back here,” she broke into a somewhat wobbly sprint as if the moment called for her to warm up for next year's Bay to Breakers race. She slowed down only when she reached the apartment/construction site.

The gate in the security fence that protected the corner site was rolled aside to reveal a gaping hole that had been gouged into the side of the apartment house at ground level. A heavy steel beam protruded from it. Long jagged splints of wood littered the empty space between the condo site and the occupied building. Three streamers of yellow police tape cordoned off the hole and the front door as well. Wooden sawhorses closed off the sidewalk. An emergency medical technician administered oxygen to one of the tenants, the arthritic lady. Another woman sat at the curb, dazed. Duncan Serk paced in the street and puffed on a cigarette. Other tenants milled around near Nick's trailer. He stood by a squad car talking to a couple of policemen.

As Molly slipped around the sawhorses, Mrs. Z rushed toward her.

“Molly,” she panted. “They said not to go back inside. The whole place can crash down on our heads. Didn't I once tell you?”

“What happened?”

Mrs. Z pulled Molly closer to the construction site. “You see that.” She pointed to the steel beam that poked into the building. “It flew from somewhere in there where they make the condos. The gas, you should have smelled it. Some people are still dizzy.”

“When did it happen?”

“I was asleep. It was dark. I only had time to throw on some clothes.” She smoothed the skirt of a faded purple and black print cotton housedress. “Mr. Sanchez helped me get out. Someone called the police, and all these people came.”

“Are you all right?” Molly put her arm around Mrs. Z. “Did you speak with the medical technicians?”

“I had the oxygen. I told them I don't need it, but … ” She waved her hand as if swatting away a mosquito. “I took a sniff to make them happy.”

Molly stared at the jagged hole in the apartment house wall. Apparently, as the beam had crashed through the wooden siding, it ruptured the gas line. Although she figured a PG&E crew had capped it by now, the air still smelled faintly gaseous. She didn't need a blueprint to figure out how it happened. A rough wooden floor had been laid across two thirds of the condo's second story. Steel, probably meant for use on an upper portion of the structure, was stacked there. Several other beams were visible from the street. Somehow, one of them slid loose — or was dragged to the lip of the floor and given a push. It then flipped down over the edge and crashed into the apartment building. A sick feeling settled in Molly's stomach at the thought that it could have killed someone.

While she comforted Mrs. Z, she glanced at Duncan Serk. He leaned against a police car and clutched an ever-present cigarette in his paw. She'd never really taken a good look at his hands before. They appeared beefy and strong enough to lift heavy objects. His arms — the size of small tree trunks — bulged with muscles visible where he'd chopped the sleeves off his T-shirt. He could wrestle with a steel beam, especially if he had help. Was he responsible? It left him momentarily homeless, but she supposed someone like Serk wouldn't think that far. Maybe he thought if he destabilized the building, it'd fast track a payout from his landlord. He didn't have the smarts to follow his actions past the initial idea. Nick could have the building condemned and — voila — no more tenants. Yes, Serk was stupid and disgruntled enough to cause serious damage.

Then there was the mystery man, the one Nick had chased the previous night. Then, too, there was Nick. He came out a winner. God, she hated herself for even thinking it. Still, he wouldn't be human if he didn't feel some relief if the building wound up condemned.

“We can't live here anymore,” Mrs. Z said. “It isn't safe. You talk to that Mr. Builder. You tell him we need our money now.”

Molly glanced over at Nick. Stress dug deep furrows into his brow and pulled his clenched jaw into a tight line. She couldn't think of a single reason why he should listen to her. A night of great sex only bought you so much influence. The building was off limits, and the tenants would soon be dispersed. He no longer had to concern himself with pickets, leaflets, and demands for money. Who was going to make him dig deep into his wallet? Duncan Serk? He could threaten all he wanted. Nick could probably have him arrested for harassment.

“Now we have to move — to what and where I don't know,” Mrs. Z moaned.

Two women, who Molly recognized from social services, spoke with several of the tenants. They'd make temporary arrangements and perhaps use the Good Samaritan occupancy law, the one recently enacted by the mayor. Its purpose was to find temporary housing at the same rental rate for tenants whose homes became uninhabitable after a disaster. Since occupancy was limited to twelve months, Mrs. Z and the others would eventually have to locate permanent housing. Even those temporary arrangements would take time. Social workers needed to be assigned and rental units made available. None of it would happen quickly. She hated to think any of them might have to spend even a few nights in a shelter. When Molly had worked in social services, the long line of people who were waiting for the city to find them affordable apartments had seemed endless.

Molly suggested Mrs. Z talk to the women from the city's services. “They'll help you get settled.”

“You'll talk to him?” Mrs. Z pointed to Nick.

“Yes, I will.” Although she could promise nothing.

Molly stood alone on the sidewalk and watched the surreal scene. How long would she have to wait until Nick was free? One thing was certain: She refused to leave until they spoke. He'd glanced at her a couple of times, but looked detached, as if they hadn't just shared a night of intimacy. Finally, when the policemen dispersed, he walked over to her.

“Molly.” He put his hand on her arm, then let it drop to his side. He looked wrung out, as if he'd just speed-climbed Half Dome in Yosemite. Of course, he hadn't slept much last night, either. His eyes lacked their usual spark. His voice rasped. She wanted to ease the lines that chiseled his brow.