“Good morning,” he said and kissed my cheek.
Tammy watched the exchange without a twinge or a blink. Maybe I had the whole two-timing thing wrong.
She was first to break the silence.
“David is looking over some paperwork for me. I hope we didn’t startle you.”
“Well, gosh,” I said, putting a hand over my chest, “I guess getting caught with one hand in the cookie jar did shake me up a little.”
David closed the doors on the armoire. “How about a cup of coffee?” He led the way to the kitchen.
Tammy and I got stuck at the door, undecided as to which of us should go through first. I hung back and let her go ahead, more like a hostess than a guest, I figured. I wasn’t yet ready to give up my claim on David.
David dug around through the cupboards looking for the coffee paraphernalia. I got frustrated watching him, so I jumped in to help him track down the supplies and properly load the machine.
I grabbed the filters from him and set to work. Within minutes, we were sipping delicious hot coffee from expensive pottery.
I asked David the question that hung in the air. “So, what paperwork are you looking over?”
He took a slow swallow of coffee.
Tammy rushed to fill in the silence. “I’m getting a home loan to tide me over.”
“Tide you over until when?” I asked. “What’s going to change that’ll make being over-mortgaged a good thing?” Surely she knew the dangers of being upside down in a home loan.
Her jaw clenched. “I’m discussing my options with David, thank you.”
“I don’t know who did that appraisal, but the numbers are all wrong. They show that my house sold for twice as much as it actually did. That’s a pretty big error. And while it pushes up the value on your place, I can’t see you ever catching up if you go to sell one day. I don’t care what kind of rates Sugar Cane offers you, it’s still a bad move.”
Total silence met my sound advice.
“How long were you here, Tish?” David asked. “I didn’t hear you knock.”
I looked at the floor. “A little too long, I guess.” I caught Tammy’s eye. “I just hate to see you get stuck in a panic that you can’t get out of.”
“Thanks for the advice.” She sipped her coffee and leaned against the counter.
“Okay. I’ve got to go.” I set down my mug and charged toward the mudroom.
David followed me and watched me tie my shoes. He could probably tell from my mood that this was no time to spew excuses all over me. I jerked my laces tight. I could almost hear the list—“I was going to tell you about my job . . . I always meant to go to citizenship class . . . I hope you don’t think I’d only marry you to stay in the states . . .” Blah, blah, blah.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw David shifting his feet.
“Was there something you came here to tell me?” His voice sounded hopeful. Maybe there really was more to his proposal than just an easy way to remain in the country.
I met his eyes. “No. I just came over to say hi.”
Chicken. I’d botched the perfect opportunity to confront him about my suspicions. He could have explained that he loved me deeply and planned to ask my hand in marriage very soon anyway. The letter from Immigration merely made it a more urgent matter than he’d intended.
We stared at each other for a minute. Then I dove out the back door.
I steamed home, dwelling on my cruel turn of fate. Getting married to stay in the country. I guess David wasn’t the first person to have to do it. Still, I’d hoped for something more romantic to launch my new life with him.
I just couldn’t see lining up the kids one day and hearing David explain to them in his sexy English accent, “I love your mother’s beautiful eyes, soft lips, and keen wit, but what I really love is . . . America.”
I kicked a twisting path through the snow. The second I walked in my front door, I dialed Lloyd’s number, just in case I didn’t already have a big enough headache.
He didn’t answer. The connection flipped to his voicemail.
“Hi, this is Lloyd . . .”
I started talking at the beep. “Hi. Tish Amble here. Don’t know if you heard about Martin Dietz, but I’m going to make another try at getting my cistern removal approved. Still available in January? I hope so. I’m pretty sure I can get this thing through. Call me.”
It occurred to me while out kicking snow that there was now a vacant seat on the Historical Committee, a seat I intended to fill. And the first thing I’d change would be the rule that prevented my cistern from coming down.
I might have to leave the house and meet some people. But it would all be worthwhile. The cistern would be gone, my basement would be finished. And I’d be kissing Rawlings goodbye through the rearview mirror, with proceeds from a full sale price weighing down my trunk.
Of course, the whole plan depended on somebody other than me sitting in jail come January.
35
No sense wasting time. I walked down to the village office and requested the necessary forms to run for the latest vacancy on the Historical Committee.
The clerk looked at me with wide eyes. “Aren’t you Tish Amble?”
I smiled. At least I had a reputation of my own now. Move over Sandra Jones.
“Yes, I am. How do you do?” I offered her my hand across the polished wood. Might as well start politicking.
She jutted out her chin. “You know, I can see where you might be upset that Mr. Dietz wouldn’t approve your project. I didn’t like the guy much, either. But to murder him and then run for his seat? That’s just wrong.”
For a moment I was speechless. It hadn’t occurred to me how the general public might view my drive for justice. To have it laid out so bluntly by the Collating Queen knocked the wind right out of me. But I wasn’t about to let her know that.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” I said. I snatched the forms off the counter, twirled, and sped home.
I snuggled into my love seat and read through the application. I had until mid-January before the special election took place. That meant I had to get 51 percent of the voting population to choose me over the next guy.
If there was a next guy. How many people wanted Dietz’s slot, anyway? I mean, the man was murdered.
The thought dampened my enthusiasm, but only momentarily.
I was no Martin Dietz. I had personality and pizzazz. I’d been on the receiving end of an ordinance violation more than my fair share of the time, and I could dole out sympathy and solutions to applicants. And if anyone valued the historic quality of a home, I did. I’d spent my adulthood bringing the structurally dead back to life. And I did it with style.
I stared at the shaggy carpet, anxious for the spring day I could haul the rug and its inhabitants to the curb. The key to my political success would be getting the right sponsor. Someone who had a lot of pull with the citizens of Rawlings. Someone who could introduce me to the movers and shakers of this Podunksville.
Someone like Officer Brad. He had connections within the village hierarchy, among the average Joes, and in the church community. With his backing, I might just get the seat. Then it was bye-bye cistern and bye-bye Rawlings, with cash to spare.
I’d start by inviting Brad to an organizational brunch at the Rawlings Hotel. Then I’d pop the question.
As I dialed Brad’s home number, it occurred to me that I might have to break down and get a landline. With all the phone-calling and schmoozing I’d have to do, it would probably be cheaper in the long run than relying only on my cell.
Brad’s phone rang. I ran my hand along the soft fabric of the love seat and sighed. It seemed my stay in Rawlings would be riddled with broken rules. Still, one piece of furniture and a telephone line hardly constituted a permanent residence.