"Jocelyn Shore must find out who killed the high school tennis coach"
Reviewed by Leanne Davis
Posted September 29, 2012
Mystery Woman Sleuth | Mystery Cozy
Jocelyn Shore is a high school history teacher who is
thrilled that the first day of school has finally arrived.
Her enthusiasm is tempered when she is called to the tennis
courts by some of the students. The head of her department
and the tennis coach, Fred Argus, has died. Fred had
mentored Jocelyn. When the police discover marijuana in Fred's desk drawer,
Jocelyn starts investigating to prove to the homicide
detective that he is wrong in his assumptions about such a
fine man. Besides investigating Fred's death, Jocelyn is dealing with
one of her tennis players who has the lead in the high
school play. The drama teachers are driving the kids to
drop all their other activities. They are also holding
rehearsals long past allowable hours. There is a movie
filming at the high school and the tennis team has been
asked to take a small part. Jocelyn is attacked at the filming and then her best friend
is killed. She has the homicide detective watching her
every move. Ms. Hamrick has some laugh out loud situations among the
more serious situations. Readers will be amused and
entertained as they follow the investigation. Now, I just
have to go back and find the first book.
SUMMARY
When a fellow teacher is found dead, Jocelyn Shore must
find his killer to clear an innocent man's name in Janice
Hamrick's follow up to her award-winning, Edgar-nominated
debut.
The first bell of the school year hasn't yet rung and
Jocelyn Shore is already at the scene of a murder. Friend
and fellow teacher Fred Argus has been found dead on
campus, and it isn't long before Austin Police Detective
Colin Gallagher uncovers evidence that Fred may have been
selling drugs. Shocked by her loss and the insinuation
that Fred got what he deserved, Jocelyn starts asking
questions that make everyone uneasy. And with the school
serving as the setting for a big-time director's latest
film, her investigation couldn't come at a worse time. But
it's only when Jocelyn is attacked while on set that she
realizes someone is determined to make sure that whatever
secrets are hidden behind Fred's death stay hidden.
ExcerptFIGHTS AND FINESThe shouting started just after lunch, angry and loud
enough to make me spring down from the chair that I'd been
standing on to hang posters and race for the door of my
classroom. I burst into the hallway, then stopped confused.
Farther down the corridor, a couple of teachers peered out
of their rooms like meerkats on alert, ready to scatter at
the first hint of danger. Otherwise, the hall was empty.
A furious male voice boomed through the air, echoing
along gray concrete floors and walls, coming from everywhere
and nowhere. In the open building, sounds carried from the
first floor to the second and from one corridor to the next
without hindrance. When two thousand kids were on the move,
the sound of feet on stairs, the talking, giggling,
shouting, and the clang of lockers became an indescribable
din. On this day, the last day of summer vacation, the
school was all but deserted, and, until a moment ago, the
halls had been silent.
White–knuckled, I grasped the railing of the
stairwell and leaned out ever so slightly, trying to see
movement on the first floor far below without really
looking. I loathed heights. Even behind a firm rail, the
drop made me feel a little queasy. A second shout made me
turn. This time I had it. The argument was coming from the
classroom directly across the hall. Fred Argus's room.
Dashing around the intervening stairwell, I threw open the
door with a bang.
Two men turned startled faces in my direction. Fred
Argus, my fellow history teacher, stood behind his desk as
though poised to flee, open hands raised to his adversary as
though in supplication. The other guy was a stranger, a big
man with the thick neck of a fighter, black–eyed and
red–faced. He turned a malevolent gaze on me, and I
felt an unexpected stab of fear. An aura of rage, barely
contained and menacing, flowed from him. Alarmed, I stood a
little straighter.
"What's going on, Fred?" I asked, trying to keep my tone
light but not taking my eyes off the newcomer.
"Nothing that concerns you," the stranger answered for
him. His was the voice that had been doing the shouting, a
deep bullhorn of a voice, the kind that could carry across a
crowded room or shout down a mob.
I ignored him. "Fred?"
Fred gave me a look of mingled fear and hope, like a
beaten dog receiving a pat from his master. He didn't quite
come out from behind the shelter of his desk, but he did
straighten a little from his crouching position.
"Mr. Richards has concerns about the tennis team," he
said, shooting a nervous look at the stranger.
"The tennis team?" I repeated blankly.
Of course I knew that Fred was the tennis coach,
something I'd always found a little ironic, considering he
was on the wrong side of sixty and smoked at least two packs
of cigarettes a day. The sight of the white toothpicks that
he called legs flashing from beneath a pair of spandex
shorts had been known to cause convulsions in even the
strongest of women. I also knew that our tennis team,
although possibly the worst in the league, was one of the
few high school teams which every kid, regardless of
experience, was welcome to join. What I didn't know was why
anyone would need to raise his eyebrows, much less his
voice, for anything remotely related to the Bonham Breakpoints.
Mr. Richards took a step toward me, and again I felt a
small flash of fear, so out of place in a bright classroom
on an August afternoon. I knew from Fred's return to full
flight–or–fight stance that he felt it
too—this man was very close to violence.
"Is your child thinking of joining the team, Mr.
Richards?" I asked quickly, trying to keep him talking so
that he would focus on something, anything other than his
anger. He reminded me of a bull at a rodeo. He'd thrown his
cowboy and was now waiting for the clown to get a little closer.
His eyes narrowed, and he shot a glance at Fred that
could have stripped paint from a wall.
"My son IS the team. The only real player you've got. And
this old son of a..."
I cut him off. "Did you know Coach Fred started the
tennis program here at Bonham, Mr. Richards?"
This distracted him for an instant. He looked at me like
I was crazy. I went on in the most cheerful voice I could
manage.
"Yes indeed, Coach Fred is the reason we have a tennis
team at all. He was the one who lobbied to get the courts
built. And he did all the paperwork and lobbying to get us
into the league. We wouldn't have tennis at this school if
it weren't for him."
I could have gone on like this forever. I was watching
Mr. Richards's face, hoping to see the redness vanish or at
least fade, but he drew in a deep breath in preparation for
another tirade. Where in the world were those other teachers?
"Get out!" he shouted in a voice that practically blew my
hair back from my face. He took another step toward me, and
I felt a chill run down my spine.
"No." I stood my ground, holding his gaze with one of my
own. My best teacher look, in fact, complete with the
all–powerful lifted eyebrow. It was a look that could
quell thirty teenage boys, and now it made this arrogant
bully pause. I seized the moment.
"It's time for you to leave, Mr. Richards. If you have
anything further you'd like to discuss about the tennis team
or any other subject, I'd suggest you make an appointment
with Mr. Gonzales, our principal, who will be happy to
address your concerns."
For a moment none of us moved. In the silence a clock
somewhere in the room ticked out the seconds. Mr. Richards
hesitated another instant, then erupted with a bellow,
kicking a desk out of his path. It toppled over with a
crash. I jumped but held my ground.
Glaring at me, he halted inches from my face, at the last
instant deciding not to strike me. He tried to stare me
down. I stared back, partly in defiance, mostly just frozen
with shock. Either way, it finally worked. He backed down.
"I'll do that. This isn't the end of this conversation,"
he said to Fred. "You fucking bitch," he added to me as he
stomped by.
"Mr. Richards," I said, my voice quiet.
He half turned.
"Don't come back. If I see you in this hall again, I'll
call the police first and ask questions later."
He didn't bother to reply. Cautiously, I followed him out
the door, watching to make sure he actually went down the
steps and out the double doors to the quadrangle. He did. I
heard the crash the double doors made as he slammed through
them, sending them banging in unison against their
doorstops. He was halfway across the courtyard before the
springs drew the doors shut again with a muffled clang.
Silence returned to the hall. Not one teacher bothered to
look out again, the cowards. I drew a deep, shaky breath,
then returned to the classroom.
Fred had collapsed into the chair behind his desk,
looking curiously shrunken and defeated. He stroked the
smooth wood of his little desk clock with fingers that
trembled as though with cold. The clock had been a parting
gift from his coworkers when he'd left his original career
to become a teacher some twenty years earlier. I wondered if
he was feeling sorry he'd made the job switch. Noticing my
glance, he set the clock back in its usual place on the
corner of his desk, then let his hands drop into his lap.
"You know, I thought he was going to hit me," he said in
a wondering tone.
I pulled up a chair and sank into it, taking the clock
into my own hands, admiring it. It was a pretty little thing
made of polished mahogany, about the size of my two fists
held together, standing upright like a miniature grandfather
clock. Along the bottom was a small drawer complete with
lock and tiny key, and on the back an engraved plaque.
Now that the argument was over, I could feel a reaction
of my own setting in. My fingers trembled enough that I
decided to put the clock down.
"So what did he want anyway?" I asked.
Fred answered slowly, as though puzzled. "I'm not even
sure. Something about wanting his boy, Eric, to be team
captain. Which is ridiculous because I don't have anything
to do with that. The kids vote for team captain. I don't
think Eric even signed up to be in the running."
"What does the team captain do?" I asked.
I didn't care, but I didn't want to leave him just yet. I
didn't like the gray hue of his face or the way he slumped
in his chair—it made me wonder about the condition of
his heart for the first time. For years he had been the head
of our team of history teachers, a vibrant, passionate man,
completely dedicated to his students and to the school. He
and I argued occasionally over things like lesson plans, but
I usually deferred to him in the end. I liked to tell him it
was because I figured he'd been an eyewitness to most of the
things we taught. But until now, I'd never thought of him as
being old.
He didn't answer for a long moment. Then finally he
looked up as though confused. "I'm sorry. What did you ask?"
I repeated the question.
"Ah, that. It's nothing much. The captain is responsible
for little things like maintaining the calling chain and
acting as my assistant for the away games. It's mostly just
an indication of the other players' respect. I suppose it
might look good on a résumé," he added as an afterthought.
I frowned. "Then I don't see what he wanted. If he tries
to bully you again, Fred, you need to call someone.
Preferably the police."
"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," he said, not
quite meeting my eyes. "A one–time occurrence, tempers
getting a bit out of hand. Nothing to worry about."
"Nothing to worry about? Fred, that guy was two seconds
from hauling off and hitting you. What exactly is going on?"
"Nothing. No, it's nothing." He rose abruptly, glancing
one last time around his classroom, taking in the rows of
desks, the whiteboards, the newly hung maps and posters on
the walls. Everything appeared neat, clean, and ready for
the first day of class tomorrow. Even the air held the scent
of lemon polish and new books, the smell of a new school
year, sweet with promise. "I'm going home. Nothing left to
do that can't be done tomorrow."
Always a gentleman, he held the door open for me, leaving
me no choice but to precede him into the hall. He pulled the
door shut behind us, locking it and then nervously scanning
the hall, then the stairwell.
"Fred—" I started, but he cut me off.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Jocelyn." He walked to the
stairs, then turned. "Thank you for ... well, just thank
you." Then he hurried away, pattering lightly down the
stairs. Maybe he wasn't getting old after all.
I watched him go, feeling dissatisfied.
There should be a special place in purgatory for whoever
had designed James Bonham High School. In the main academic
building, the upper–floor corridors were lined with
painted metal railings and provided a perfect view of the
floor below, which in a high school was just an open
invitation to spit. The architecture reminds
first–time visitors of something they can't quite
place—I was there a whole year before I figured it
out, and then only did because I'd just seen The Shawshank
Redemption. Contracts to build schools go to the lowest
bidder, and in this case the winning bidder's most recent
project had been the state correctional facility. And it
showed in every loving detail, from the concrete floors to
the cinder–block walls to the unheated and
un–air–conditioned hallways. You could practically
hear the clang of the bars and the shouts of the guards.
I suppose to the casual visitor, it might not seem so
bad. The campus was spacious, liberally sprinkled with trees
and consisting of four main buildings that enclosed a
central concrete courtyard. Closer observation revealed that
these main buildings were surrounded by what we less than
fondly referred to as portables, which were basically
double–wide mobile homes, each stripped of appliances
and other niceties and divided in half to make two
uncomfortable classrooms, poorly heated in the winter,
poorly air–conditioned in the summer. Of course, this
wasn't much worse than in the permanent structures. Only the
administrative building had central air–conditioning.
The rest had individual heating and cooling units in the
classrooms only, leaving the hallways to the mercy of the
Texas weather. In fall and spring, the heat was stifling. In
winter, the cold and damp turned fingers blue and cheeks red.
Now, I fought back the feeling of vertigo that I get from
heights and leaned over the rail for a moment to watch
Fred's little white head disappear through the same doors
that Mr. Richards had barged through just minutes ago. I was
just straightening when a number of strangers walked in, led
by the principal, Larry Gonzales. I leaned out again with
interest.
Larry was doing his Lord of the Manor walk, which meant
these were visitors of particular importance. All the
teachers could tell the exact status of a visitor by Larry's
walk, and my friend Laura and I had set up a rating system.
The all–purpose Brush–off was used for students
and teachers alike—long quick steps, eyes focused on a
sheaf of papers or a cell phone, a pretense of deafness. The
Brush–off got him through the halls with minimal
interruption and maximum efficiency. The PTA or
"Tight–ass" walk was for parents—short quick
steps, arms stiff against his sides, stern gaze focused on a
vague point on the horizon. This walk conveyed a sense of
mission and importance, although the shortness of the steps
allowed a determined parent to keep up without breaking into
a trot. The Concerned Administrator was reserved for groups
of parents or teachers with actual grievances who needed to
be "handled" to avoid unpleasantness, which meant anything
from bitter letters to the editor to full–blown
lawsuits. It was hardly a walk at all and involved slow,
measured steps, a lot of head nodding, and the occasional
sensitive touch on the shoulder or forearm, which let you
know what a great and concerned guy Larry was. And finally,
there was the Lord of the Manor—head thrown back, arms
gesturing expansively, voice booming—the walk Larry
reserved for visitors who needed to be impressed, which
meant visitors who could do something for Larry.
I wondered who they were and what Larry wanted from them.
Unlike the usual Lord of the Manor candidates, these three
weren't terribly impressive at first glance. A skinny blond
guy with a ponytail was holding some sort of electronic
device at arm's length and swinging it this way and that. He
walked beside an earnest–looking young woman with
serious black–framed glasses that she apparently did
not need because she kept pushing them down to the tip of
her nose and looking over the top of the frame. And finally,
a slightly older man in jeans trailed behind about ten
paces, making notes on a legal pad. As they moved directly
beneath me, I could hear the woman saying, "Yes, this will
be absolutely perfect. Just fantastic."
Then they turned a corner, and I decided to go back to my
room instead of following them, feeling sure I'd hear about
it sometime soon. Anything that rated a Lord of the Manor
walk was bound to make its presence known and probably bite
the rest of us in the ass.
I picked up the chair, which I'd knocked over when I
raced out, and returned to the poster I'd been hanging. I'd
saved this one until last, putting it in the corner where it
could be seen by all my students. It was a picture of
lemmings jumping off a cliff with the words, "Those who
cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."
Stepping off the chair, I looked around with
satisfaction, feeling my room looked almost as nice as
Fred's. Of course, mine didn't smell of lemon polish because
it would never have occurred to me to dust with more than a
damp paper towel, but still everything looked pretty good.
Tomorrow was the first day of the new school year, August
24. A little later this year than in past years, but still
the height of summer. Long days, cloudless skies, sizzling
heat. There wasn't a kid on the planet who wouldn't have
rather been at the pool, but at least I was ready for them.
I returned to my desk and started looking over the lists
of student names again. This year, my day was made up of
four history classes, two French classes, one planning
period, and one lunch period. Which meant I had about 180
students. Going through the lists in advance made it easier
remembering who was who when I finally met them all. I
prided myself on my ability to know every kid's name by the
end of the first week. I was just going through the list a
second time when the door to my classroom opened, and my
best friend Kyla Shore walked in.
Although most people assume we are sisters, Kyla and I
are first cousins. Our fathers are identical twins and we
look enough alike to be twins ourselves. Maybe not identical
twins, but we'd been mistaken for each other before, a fact
that drove Kyla absolutely crazy. She would never admit
there was anything more than a remote family resemblance.
For my part I would have been happy if we looked even more
alike, or rather if I looked more like her. Because,
although I wouldn't break mirrors, Kyla was drop–dead
gorgeous—the kind of beauty that made men stop in the
middle of the street to pick their jaws up off the ground.
She was no fool either, and was fully aware of the effect
she had on men. In fact, she shamelessly used it to her full
advantage, telling me once that she hadn't bought a drink
for herself in five years. It might have made her obnoxious,
but she was also completely charming. And to be fair, it
didn't seem to mean much to her other than as an
entertaining diversion. She'd graduated with honors in
computer programming and now worked as a lead developer for
a software company, raking in money and bonuses.
Today she looked glum. And beautiful, of course. And
stylish and elegant. August in Austin, Texas, meant the
temperature outside was at least ninety–five degrees.
It meant that touching a steering wheel could leave grill
marks on your palms. It meant that the thirty seconds it
took to dash from an air–conditioned building to an
air–conditioned car could leave your shirt clinging to
your back like a professional wrestler's. However, in her
white and yellow sundress, Kyla looked as cool and together
as an ice sculpture. Even her dark hair curled and bounced
around her shoulders with a life of its own. My own hair was
pulled back in a limp ponytail, and I looked sourly down at
my denim capris and oversized T–shirt. We could have
been the Before and After shots in a makeover commercial.
Now, she dropped her purse on my desk with a thud and
flopped dramatically into a chair with a groan.
"That doesn't look like good news," I said. "How did it go?"
Kyla had recently had a little trouble with the law.
"Pretty good. I guess. I got community service," she
added with a frown.
I whooped. "Hey, that's great! You couldn't have hoped
for much better than that."
She looked at me sourly. "The best thing would have been
for them to give me a fucking medal for protecting myself
and the public in general."
"Well, yeah. But you pulled a concealed weapon on Sixth
Street. They couldn't exactly let that go," I pointed out.
A look of outrage lit her sapphire eyes. "I don't see why
not. Was I supposed to just let those assholes carjack me? I
don't think so."
"No, of course not."
"If it wasn't for me, those little bastards would still
be out there, taking someone else's car, maybe hurting
someone." Her finger jabbed the air at every word.
Now she was glaring at me like it was my fault.
I held up my hands. "You know I'm one hundred percent on
your side. It's just that carrying a gun down in that area
is illegal. They had to do something. Think about
it—community service is really just a slap on the
wrist. It's a good thing."
"I don't see what the good is of having a
concealed–carry license if you can't carry around
bars. That's exactly where you need to have a gun," she
grumbled.
"Yeah, maybe everyone should just walk around with
holsters and six shooters on their hips."
I was being sarcastic, but she considered it. "Not a bad
idea. An armed society is a polite society."
"Robert Heinlein," I responded, impressed she knew the quote.
She rolled her eyes. "Whatever. Anyway, you'll never
guess what I have to do."
From her tone, it was pretty nasty. "Pick up trash on the
highway? Clean urinals at the bus station?"
"Worse. I have to teach a six–week seminar about
girls in technology. You know, encourage high school girls
to go into the sciences."
I stared at her blankly. "You get arrested for carrying a
concealed weapon, and the punishment is teaching children?"
My whole life, my whole career, reduced down to a
community–service penalty.
Kyla was oblivious. "Yeah, does that suck or what? But
here's the good part. I got them to let me do it here."
I choked a little. "Here?"
"Yup. Twice a week for six weeks. And you have to help
me. I don't know what to say to the little monsters."
Which probably meant that she expected me to do it for
her. I threw up my hands. "I have a full schedule. You know,
my own classes."
"Yeah, yeah. It'll be right after school, so your classes
won't interfere. We can go get dinner and drinks after," she
said by way of bribery. "It'll be fun."
I sighed. "I'll help with the first one, but then you're
on your own."
She decided not to argue, but I could see she was already
thinking of ways she could get me to do the whole thing.
She's devious that way.
The afternoon sun threw golden rectangles of light across
the desks and floor, lighting up tiny motes that twinkled in
the glow like fireflies. Outside, I could hear the roar of a
mower accompanied by a dull thumping of rap music from the
groundskeeper's radio. I consoled myself with the thought
that the owner could look forward to an adulthood of early
deafness and pounding headaches.
"So how's Alan doing?" Kyla asked, changing the subject.
Conversations with her often bounced around with very little
in the way of segues.
I winced a little as though at a sore tooth, then
shrugged. "Okay, I suppose."
She looked at me. "That doesn't sound good."
Alan was my ... well, boyfriend, I guess. I felt a little
old to have a boyfriend, but there didn't seem to be a
better term in the English language. What do you call
someone whom you've been dating for a few months, but who
lives in a different city and who never seems to be around?
I'd met him when Kyla and I had taken a tour of Egypt, a
tour that had gone disastrously wrong and ended up with both
Alan and me almost getting killed. That kind of experience
usually draws people together, I suppose, but I had to admit
I wasn't completely happy with the way things were going
right now. For one thing, Alan had not yet moved to Austin,
although he kept saying he was going to as soon as he could
make the arrangements to move his travel company from
Dallas. For another thing, because he was the owner of
WorldPal Tours, he seemed to be on the road a lot. He was
extraordinarily attractive, which made up for a lot, but on
the other hand, I was still spending most of my evenings
alone, with only a glass of wine and my fat elderly poodle
for company.
I finally admitted, "I haven't seen him in three weeks,
but we're going to Port Aransas for Labor Day."
"That sounds fun," she said with patently fake
enthusiasm. "Wait, no it doesn't. Why Port A? You can do
that any time. Why doesn't he take you somewhere awesome? He
owns a tour company, for God's sakes. You guys could go
anywhere in the world."
I gestured to the empty desks around us. "Not in three
days. I have a job, remember? Besides, I want to pay my own
way. I can afford Port Aransas."
"Pay your own way?" she said with outrage. "Why? Is he
that cheap? He sure isn't racking up any boyfriend points,
is he?" She looked thoughtful, as though struck by a sudden
idea. "Are you going to kick him to the curb?"
"What, are you waiting to snap him up?" The question
wasn't quite as far–fetched as it sounded. She'd had
her eye on him when we'd been in Egypt, although admittedly
since I'd been dating him, she'd been strictly hands off.
Now she snorted. "Ew. I don't need your sloppy seconds,
thanks very much. Especially not some cheap bastard. But
there's this new guy in my office who's sort of cute, and I
could introduce you. You might like him."
"Alan's not a cheap bastard, and no, I'm not kicking him
to the curb," I said. But even I could hear the uncertainty
in my voice.
Kyla ignored this. "It wouldn't hurt you to meet this
guy. Just for drinks or something. It's not like you and
Alan are exclusive."
I frowned. Of course we were exclusive ... weren't we?
Thinking about it, I supposed we'd never formally talked
about it. No promises on either side, that sort of thing.
Part of it was the distance. When you only got to see each
other a weekend or two each month, things tended to move
pretty slowly. It seemed like we spent half our time each
visit getting reacquainted. Not that the reacquainting
wasn't a lot of fun, but I was getting tired of the dry
spells in between.
"No, I don't think so. Alan and I are doing okay. At
least," I added, "I want to give us a chance to do okay."
She shrugged. "Think about it. Sherman's a nice guy. And
smart. And funny."
"His name is Sherman?"
"He can't help that. Besides, he's a hottie. Or he would
be if he had someone to tell him how to dress."
"Why don't you want him?" I asked suspiciously.
"I thought about it," she admitted. "But I have to work
with him. It would be awkward, especially since I'd have to
make him buy a new wardrobe and change his name. You know I
could never go out with a guy named Sherman."
I decided to leave it at that. We spent the next hour
going over what she could say in her first class. I made her
take notes and reminded her that she'd have to do it on her
own, but we both knew I'd be doing most of the real work. By
the time we left, I'd already forgotten about Larry and his
VIP guests. And about Coach Fred.
* * *
Austin is the best city in the world, I thought for about
the millionth time as I drove home. On this August
afternoon, the sun was gliding slowly down to meet the blue
tops of the hills to the west and throwing a brassy golden
light over the dusty live oaks and cedars that filled every
undeveloped bit of land. Heat pulled color and shape into
the air above the road, and made it shimmer and undulate
like miniature underwater reefs. With the air conditioner
blasting icy air in my face and my radio playing Brad
Paisley's "Mud on the Tires," I didn't care. Like most
Texans, I'd take a miserably hot July and August over a
miserably icy January and February any day.
I'd been born in Texas, although I hadn't grown up there.
Until his retirement, my father had been in the diplomatic
corps, and my two brothers and I had spent much of our
childhood in France, Italy, and Spain. Moreover, my mother
was French, and as a result I was fluent in French and
Italian, and had a fairly decent grasp of Spanish. We'd
returned to Austin at the beginning of my high school years,
and I'd been able to go to school with Kyla, which had been
a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand, she'd resented
me for looking so much like her and had stolen my very first
boyfriend for no other reason than to prove she could. On
the other hand, we'd somehow managed to become best friends
anyway. We'd roomed together at the University of Texas, and
even after we'd graduated and gone into separate careers, we
still spent most of our spare time together.
The phone was ringing as I walked through the door, and
my fat little poodle was barking and spinning in circles. A
present from my parents for my sixteenth birthday, Belle was
a small blob of black curls who weighed about ten pounds
soaking wet and who had apparently been purchased without
the optional brain pack. Knowing that no command of mine
would stop the yapping, I grabbed the phone on my way to the
back door and ushered her to the back door, where she
galloped across the dry grass, intent on patrolling the
perimeter, making the yard safe from squirrels. One of the
evil ones liked to sit on the fence and chitter at her, a
pastime that never got old for either of them.
"Hello?"
"Hi. I was just about to hang up." The deep voice was
that of Alan Stratton. I loved that voice.
I smiled. "Just got back from school. How was your day?"
Actually, I could just as easily have asked, "How was
your week?" He didn't call as often as I would like, but I
didn't want to be one of those clingy women. I glanced
through the door to my bedroom where my suitcase lay on the
floor, already half–packed for our trip to the coast.
"Better, now that I'm talking to you," he said gallantly,
"but not good overall. Vittoria has broken a leg, and she
was supposed to start the "Tastes of Italy" tour on
Saturday. She'll be out of commission for at least six
weeks, and I have no backup. It means I'll have to go to
Rome myself."
"That's terrible," I said, trying to feel sympathetic for
someone forced to go to Italy. Then I did a mental double
take. "Wait, you mean this Saturday?" The Saturday that he
and I were supposed to go to Port Aransas for a beach
weekend? I held my breath.
"I'm afraid so. I'm really sorry." His voice was sincere
and full of regret, but it didn't help much.
I thought about banging my head against the wall. "Me,
too. I suppose you couldn't postpone the tour?"
"No, all my clients have booked their tickets, either
through WorldPal or on their own. Nonrefundable,
nonchangeable. I suppose you couldn't get away and come with
me?" he asked. "I could really use someone who could speak
Italian. All expenses paid, salary thrown in," he added
persuasively.
So tempting, but so impossible. It would mean not only
losing my job but never working in Austin as a teacher
again. And I liked my job. Bitter disappointment made me
speechless.
He must have thought I was considering it because he
added, "You know, you could work for me permanently. It
would be so great to have you based here in Dallas."
"You know I can't. I have a job. With a contract. I can't
just give two weeks' notice and scamper off, even if I
wanted to. And anyway, I thought you were in the process of
moving down here," I reminded him.
Silence on his end. My stomach sank to my toes, bounced
up against my esophagus, and then settled down to a wicked
churn somewhere in the middle.
"Yes, I am. But it isn't as easy as I originally
thought," he said at last. "I've been looking into it, don't
get me wrong. But it might be easier if you could come up here."
Yeah, easier for him. "We've had this conversation
before," I said finally. "Maybe we need to spend some more
time together before either of us uproots our lives."
"No, don't say that. I don't mean it that way," he
protested. "Damn, it's impossible talking on the phone.
Look, I'll come down there the minute I'm back from Rome. We
can figure out what we're going to do then, all right?"
I agreed, and we left it like that, neither of us happy.
Funny how you can hear the death rattle of a relationship so
clearly when you know what to listen for. I'd clung to the
corpse of my first marriage for months after I'd heard that
sound, and I wasn't going to go through that again. Like
seeing the future in a crystal ball, I knew he would come
visit, we'd talk, he'd get angry, I'd cry, and then it would
be over. No harm, no foul. At least I wouldn't be stuck in a
strange city when it happened, with no friends and no job.
Much better this way, really.
I went to the back door to let Belle back inside and got
a beer from the fridge. Passing the suitcase filled with
brightly colored shirts, beach towels, and a swimsuit, I
gave it a kick and then burst into tears.
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