“But I don’t have a choice.” I can hear the almost-whine in my own voice.
“It’s all right,” Josh says. “It’s me who will have to change.”
“No, you don’t,” I interrupt. “We can-”
“We can’t.” Josh puts my hand back on my own knee, and gives it a lingering pat. “Was it just two days ago? I wrote a new address for you on that card? I thought our lives were coming together, and I was so eager to share, well, everything with you. I came to see you, decided I had been unfair the other night. That phone call was disturbing, Penny had been upset going to Victoria’s…” He stops, and looks at the floor. “Whatever. So I thought, let’s try again. Charlie’s worth it. And then you chose your messages.”
I’m staring at the floor, too. Afraid to hear what may come next. Dumb, dumb Charlie. Married to her job. Tears well in my eyes. And then I decide. No. Dammit.
I stand up, dumping Botox onto the couch. Whirl around and face Josh, who’s looking at me, bewildered.
“I did not. Choose my messages. I did not.” Anger, or disappointment, or loss, is selecting my words, not me. “You have to balance your daughter, your job, even Victoria and what’s-his-name. Your students, now that Bexter’s back in session. Your parents in Annapolis. I have to do the same thing with my life. We’re trying to add each other and trying to keep the balance. And…and…and-”
I feel my fists clenching. I bite my lip, fearing this might be goodbye. “Maybe it’s just not easy. Maybe it takes some practice. Or maybe, it can’t work. No matter how much you want it to. No matter how much you try.”
Josh stands, his face inches from mine. “We’re new at this, aren’t we? Grown up and acting like spoiled teenagers. Wanting everything, maybe not wanting to work for it.”
“I’m trying to work at it. It’s just-old dog? New tricks?” I say. I reach up and touch his face, see his eyes close for a brief second. “And as for wanting…”
My heart is beating so fast, my chest is so tight, it’s difficult for me to get the words out. “Want” is hardly enough to describe it. And then, I couldn’t speak if I wanted to. Josh’s kisses are soft and strong and full of tomorrow. And of right now.
“Shall we just take it slow?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper. “One day at a time? No plans? No predictions? See what happens?”
He pulls one end of the tiny ribbon bow that’s keeping my peasanty blouse civilized. As gauzy fabric drops from both my shoulders, I close my eyes, and feel his lips exploring my neck.
“Mmm,” I murmur. “I think I can predict what’s going to happen now, at least.”
Chapter Ten
“What kind of animal?” I say to Franklin. We’re in our office, desk chairs pulled up to our video monitor, watching my shaky pictures from the purse party. Video from a hidden camera is about ten per cent usable. Most of it turns out to be upside down, sideways, all swoops and blurs, or has someone’s hand over it. Basically, a lot of it looks like someone’s shooting out of focus movies on a storm-tossed ship. Screening raw video can make you seasick.
That’s why I’m having a bit of a difficult morning. I’m still the tiniest bit hung over from the late-night champagne that my almost-fiancé and I shared to celebrate the beginning of part two of our relationship. I’m also the tiniest bit distracted by residual twinges and tingles from that same late night in places it’s inappropriate to discuss with my colleagues at work.
So I’m trying to hide my potentially embarrassing physical infirmities and focus on our story. And my mind keeps going back to the anonymous phone call. I finally told Franklin about it, including my worry about who might be on the other end. He agreed I don’t need to run to the police.
“What do you mean, what kind of animal? That’s what mob types call themselves, you know? They all have nicknames,” Franklin answers, not taking his eyes off the screen. He’s making a shot-sheet of everything that’s usable, noting the time codes and a brief description so we can easily find it all later. “Billy the Animal, Steven the Rifleman. You’ve seen the court transcripts. Lattimer thinks the purse syndicate is terrorist-connected. Or mob. But that doesn’t mean Billy the Animal called you. Whoever it was probably wasn’t even referring to the purse story. I mean, how would anyone know about it? And the second call, the hang-up? Probably a wrong number, as you said. I suggest we just see. Are you comfortable with that?”
Franklin always seems to understand me, even when I pick up a conversation in the middle.
“Okay,” I reply, still watching the video. So far we’ve seen great shots of the mounds of purses, women shopping, and lots of cash changing hands. And my close-ups on the money box worked perfectly. Sally is there from all angles: tight, medium and wide.
“And it’s true, of course,” I continue. “‘Billy the Animal’ isn’t that scary, if he’s like, a hamster. Or, you know, Billy the Bunny.” I burst out laughing, suddenly carried away by my own wit, then wincing with the noise level. I turn forty-seven and suddenly my body can’t hack late hours and champagne? Advil. I need Advil.
Franklin hits the pause button, stopping the tape, and turns to look at me. Confused. “Charlotte. Do you need some Advil?” he asks.
“Did I say that out loud?” I reply. Now I’m the one who’s confused.
“Nope, but you’re, how shall I put this delicately? You’re a little greenish this morning. And may I say you might be well-advised to get one of those refrigerated cold-packs for your eyes.”
“Hey, Brenda. Hey, Flash. What’s up in snoop-land? Getting any bad guys?” Maysie Green leans against the doorway to our office, her still naturally brown ponytail tucked into her Red Sox cap. Her maternity wardrobe consists of black clingy stretch leggings with one of her husband Matthew’s shirts. Works fine for her weekday all-sports drive-time radio talk program. Sunday nights, she has to dress up a bit more for her TV show. Titled, much to her dismay, Maysie Green, the Sports Machine. “Catch any ballplayers in the act? I could use some of the video for this Sunday.”
“Hey, Mays,” I say. “How’s the new kid?”
“Hey, Machine,” Franklin says at the same time. “Welcome back from the road trip. This has got to be your last expedition before little number three arrives,” he adds, pointing to her stomach.
He hates it when she calls him Flash. I’m not that hot on Brenda, either, since Ms. Starr is even older than I am. And only exists in the comics. But my bff Maysie has called me Brenda from the day we met, years ago, and I know she means it affectionately. She’s ten years younger than I am, and she somehow manages to juggle career, husband and two-going-on-three children. She adores Josh, and insists we wait until after her new baby is born to get married. Right.
I really need to talk to her.
“Little Poppy or Theo is fine,” Mays says, patting her five-month bump. “Matthew still wants another M name to match Max and Molly. I suggested Maris or Mantle to get him to back off. And nope, the Sox are off to Yankee Stadium. Can’t miss that. So I’m headed out tomorrow for a triple header, then off to Tampa Bay. Anyway, I just came to see if anyone wants to grab Mexican food for a farewell lunch.”
I almost fall off my chair. Franklin saves me.
“Our Charlotte is in a somewhat delicate condition, I fear, this morning.” He smiles. “How about if I go fetch some tea from the caf? And leave you two a moment to catch up?”
“Thanks, Franko,” I say. “I owe you.”
“Yes, you do,” he says. “Pop that video. We’ll watch the rest when I get back.”
I’m on the phone when Franklin arrives. I only got about halfway through giving Maysie the scoop on my Josh dilemma when the phone rang. And now eyes are growing wider with each word I hear from the other end.