I'd started twelve-hour shifts six weeks before so Lora could take a lower-paying job at an adult group home. She'd decided to continue her education and get a Ph.D. in psychology, and the experience at the home was invaluable. Longer hours were my way of supporting her, but my body wasn't adjusting well to the change.

Monday nights in the archive room were the worst. I'd already worked thirty-six hours since Friday and been in cla.s.s all morning. To beat it all, seven of my main storage units had stuck drawers, and I had to zap them with WD-40 every time I tried to cram another lab report into the folders.

I yanked at the top drawer of the filing cabinet near the counter. It didn't budge, which added to my frustration. I spent several minutes of pulling, tugging, and cursing before the drawer skidded out with an ear-piercing screech.

There's got to be a better way, I thought, as I peered at the workings. Another half-inch here, better balance there, and it would all be so much easier. Plus, if the thingamabob that connected the whatchamacallit to the doohickey was a little wider, the whole thing would slide like grease on a doork.n.o.b.

Not certain what I hoped to accomplish, I found an old measuring tape in the desk drawer and jotted down the cabinet's dimensions. I then attempted to sketch a design that would solve the sticking problem. At the time, building a better mousetrapor filing cabinet in my case didn't seem like a fork in my career road, only a way to make my shifts more manageable. However, my artistic skills left much to be desired, and the design ended up looking like the guts of a wrecked Chevy. I dropped it on the counter.

127.

I glanced at the rows of filing cabinets behind me. They didn't look much better than my pitiful sketch, like big green dominoes that might tumble down at the slightest provocation.

I took a long breath and sat down at the desk to sort birth certificates. The archive room was always quiet, and the ticking of the old Seth Thomas clock was lulling me to sleep. I put my head on the desk and closed my eyes.

When the door flew open, I jumped and pretended to be busy, but the girl who came in and dropped an armload of manila folders on the counter didn't seem to notice I'd been napping.

"So you're the night girl. I've heard about you," she said.

I stood up and went toward her, observing this stranger. She was pretty, with her hair cut short around her ears and in the back but longer on top. The sandy mop softened her face and brought out her high cheekbones.

"What have you heard?" I asked with a yawn.

"I hear you've got this place in tip-top shape for a change." She leaned over and propped her elbows on the counter that separated us.

Something in her gaze told me I should be wary. We'd never met, but she was reading me like a roadmap.

"If alphabetical order is tip-top shape, then it's far from it." I gathered the folders and placed them on the corner of the desk.

She tapped a finger on the drawing I'd attempted of the filing cabinet. "What's this?"

"I'm trying to figure out how to make these filing cabinets open easier, but I can't draw worth a c.r.a.p."

She picked up a pen. "Maybe I can help. What is it you want to change?"

"The drawers roll fine when they're empty, but the folders weigh them down, especially when they get crammed full like this one." I pointed to the bottom of the open drawer. "This latch catches on the roller. If you moved it over just a little and extended this bar about a quarter of an inch, it could handle the weight, no matter how much we squeeze in there."

"I see what you're saying. I can do that." As she started to sketch, the phone rang and I picked it up "Archive room."

"Hey, how's your night going?" Lora's voice was distant and faint.

"Same. How about you?" I replied, still watching the girl at the counter. She looked at the picture, then at the drawer, and kept drawing.

128.

"Doreen s.h.i.t her bed again. Took me an hour to clean up the mess, and she's still crying about it."

It was beyond me why Lora would rather be up to her elbows in excrement than earning good tips at the restaurant, but she loved her new job. Every night she came home with a story about how she'd worked with a resident, helping her learn to pick up after herself or hugging her after someone had made a rude comment.

I glanced back at the stranger, who was inspecting her work. "I'd better go, honey. Someone's here."

"Okay," Lora said. "I love you."

"Me, too."

When I hung up the phone, I saw the girl watching me, her elbows once more propped on the counter. "Heard that new song by Madonna?"

she asked. The finished sketch lay before her.

"All fluff. In two years, no one will even remember her."

I picked up the picture and was amazed at its quality. In three minutes, she'd created a perfect rendition of what I'd wrestled with for a half hour. "This is just what I had in mind. How'd you do it?"

"Got a knack for drawing, that's all." The girl stood silent for a long moment. She looked at the clock on the wall, glanced at the growing pile of paperwork to be filed, and tugged at the gold earring in her left lobe.

"So where are you from?" she asked.

"Franklin."

"Hmm. I think I've been there once."

She'd never seen me, but in two minutes, she'd scanned me head to toe and seemed to know everything about me.

"Anything I can help you with?" I sorted through the birth certificates that I'd already alphabetized.

"You can go to dinner with me."

I stepped back. "Why would you want me to do that?"

"I like to eat with pretty women."

Good Lord, this girl is crazy, I thought . Spring City wasn't the kind of place to hit on any woman you met; it could be dangerous.

When I didn't answer, she stuck out her hand. "Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. I usually work the mailroom, so most everyone knows me. Name's Tonya. But you can call me Fly By."

"What kind of name is that?" I shook her hand, but let go when she rubbed her thumb along mine.

"I'll explain over dinner." Her confidence bordered on obnoxious, but something in her eyes caught me off guard.

129.

"Sorry, hotshot. Not interested." With a c.o.c.ky tilt of my head, I spun around and returned to the desk, hoping she'd be on her way, but she just stood there looking at me, staring at me. She didn't say anything, but her thoughts were obvious. This pretty, brash girl was mentally undressing me right there in the paper morgue, and I got the impression she would've done the same in the real morgue with sheet-covered stiffs lying all around.

"Anything else?" I asked.

One corner of her mouth turned up, and she winked. "Not right now, but let me know when you need some more artwork. I'll be happy to help." She turned and opened the door, then stopped. "See you later, Claire."

The door slammed behind her, and I let out an exasperated breath.

What the h.e.l.l did she expect? Did she think I'd fall at her feet, grateful for the opportunity to go out with her? What nerve! What utter disregard for propriety.

What legs. What a smile.

A hot flush colored my cheeks. How could I stand there, weak- kneed and heart fluttering over some bimbo with the tact of a charging rhino, while my kind and compa.s.sionate Lora was across town, working her b.u.t.t off with disabled adults? All those eyedrops and WD-40 fumes must've gone to my head. That's what I told myself, anyway.

For the next four hours, I filed medical transcripts and felt guilty.

Lora had always been wonderful to me, treating me with the utmost respect and love. That's what life was all about, not a quick fling with a hot babe.

When my shift was over, I went home and found Lora sitting up in bed reading her abnormal psychology textbook. Only the well-worn sheet covered her body, the skin I knew so well, the flesh I adored.

She looked up and smiled. "Hey, honey. How was work?"

"Usual." I stripped off my clothes and crawled into bed.

She put her book aside and draped the red scarf across the bedside lamp. "I've missed you," she whispered as she snuggled up and kissed me.

If I'd ever had the slightest doubt about my feelings for Lora, it disappeared at soon as she touched me. And even though we both had early cla.s.ses, we made love all night.

CHAPTER 26.

After changing clothes, I grab a bag of popcorn from the pantry, a Sprite from the refrigerator, and fall onto the den sofa. Jitterbug follows, all sniffs and slurps. I punch the remote and flip a few channels before half-watching a cable movie about a crazy investment banker who gets his jollies by disemboweling buxom blondes.

"Don't go in the bas.e.m.e.nt, you idiot," I say.

But I can't stop her. The bimbo with the big teeth and bigger b.o.o.bs goes right on down the dusty steps to meet her untimely end. The expendable cast member squeals, a light bulb breaks, and by the time the scene is over, she's on her way to Denver inside a Samsonite suitcase.

I toss a piece of popcorn to Jitterbug and ask her why I keep watching these stupid horror flicks. She shoots me a weepy gaze and gobbles up the kernel.

It used to work like a charm. Anytime I'd had a bad day or was feeling depressed, I'd throw on a pair of ratty pajamas and settle on the sofa with Lora for a thriller. After a couple of hours with Vincent Price, the slump would be over. Not anymore, though. It hasn't worked in three years, and the reason is plain. Vincent wasn't the medicineshe was. The cure has become the affliction.

Rebecca called an hour ago. She'd checked the office, and panicked when Mary told her I'd gone home sick. "It's not from the wings, is it?"

she asked.

I blamed a migraine and a.s.sured her it would be over in a few hours. She made me promise to call if I needed anything. The poor girl has no idea how deep my needs are, but then, neither do I.

When the doorbell rings, I put my popcorn bag out of the dog's reach and shuffle to answer it. It's Elizabeth. She's smiling when I let her in, but after looking at me, she frowns. "What's up with you? You look like h.e.l.l warmed over."

"Bad day."

We go back to the living room, where all the blinds are closed and the lights are off. The only illumination is coming from the flickering 130 131.

TV screen. Another blonde is about to get whacked. I hit the mute b.u.t.ton on the remote and sit back down on the sofa.

"No wonder you feel bad. It's dark as a dungeon in here." Elizabeth opens the blinds.

"Cut it out, will you?" I squint in the brightness and order Jitterbug off the sofa. I sit up and peek out the window. The backyard is brown and lifeless this time of year, and I wonder if the bulbs and seedpods will ever rouse and fight their way through the frigid sod.

Elizabeth plops down on the love seat. My eyes are starting to adjust to the light, and I see her glare at me. "I've about had it with you, Claire. I thought you were getting your s.h.i.t together, but you're as bad now as you've ever been." Fire flashes behind my friend's eyes. Time for another sermon. "I thought if you went out with Rebecca, you might feel better."

"She's making it worse." I hadn't thought of it before, but it might be true. As long as there's no one in my life, I'm not giving up.

Elizabeth grunts and rolls her eyes. "Rebecca seems great. You should give it a chance. You don't have to fall in love, and it won't hurt you to have some fun."

I see the compa.s.sion on Elizabeth's face. For an instant, I want to kiss her again, to feel her near me, but I force the desire away. I can't have her. She has a husband and a family I adore. I cinch my pajama top to my chest. "The women I want, I can't have. The women I can have, I don't want."

She laughs out loud. "Ain't that the truth? Fly By is so in love with you she can't see straight. All you'd have to do is give her a sign, and she'd be right here, but you won't do it. Last week, you wanted Rebecca. But now that you might have a chance with her, you're chickening out."

"I am not." I look away, knowing she's right. "And as for Fly By, we both know why that would never work out."

"Listen, I don't care if you date Rebecca, or Fly, or anyone else.

Don't date anyone if you don't want to, but whatever you do, get yourself out of this funk. It's been going on way too long." Elizabeth runs her hand through her hair, and it falls back into place perfectly.

"Throw on some clothes and come over. I'm making pork chops for dinner."

"Thanks, but I'm not up for it right now." I stretch out full-length on the sofa and fold my arms across my chest.

"Well, get up for it. You look like a corpse lying there like that."

She gets up from the love seat, grabs my arm, and drags me down the 132.

hall to the bedroom. She opens the closet door and prods my ribs till I go in. "Find something comfortable. The kids might want to take you on in a wrestling match."

Knowing I don't have a choice, I drag my hand along the hangers and snag a flannel shirt and a pair of jeans that have seen better days.

"If you're not there in ten minutes, I'm coming back." Elizabeth scowls at me as she leaves. A few seconds later, I hear the front door open, then close behind her.

When the doorbell rings, I hop down the hall, tugging on a pair of rag socks as I go. "You said ten minutes," I yell. I open the door, and Rebecca is standing there, holding a Styrofoam cup.

"Chicken soup. Good for what ails you."

She's still wearing that red dress from lunch, and I can't help looking her up and down, catching a glimpse of her thigh when a gust of wind flips at her skirt. Nice view.

"An angel of mercy." I motion her in, and she hands me the cup.

Rebecca lingers in the hall, teasing Jitterbug with baby talk. "h.e.l.lo there. Aren't you a pretty girl?" Jitterbug does a quick drop and roll and exposes her pink belly. I quickly set the cup of soup in the kitchen and return, while Rebecca kneels and scratches the dog's stomach, sending Jitterbug into a doggie trance.

"That's Jitterbug, resident pest."

"She's adorable."