Читать книгу: «Suddenly Home»
“Let’s get something on those scratches.”
For the next five minutes, Alex sat in one of Taylor’s kitchen chairs as she swabbed his cuts with antiseptic. His own mother hadn’t fussed over him this gently when he’d skinned his knees as a boy.
What made Taylor’s attentions seem so…different? Maybe the way her hands shook, ever so slightly, as she touched the swabs to his cuts. Maybe it was the way her voice trembled just a little when she asked, “Does that hurt?”
And maybe, just maybe, it was the look in her eyes that said even something as insignificant as cat scratches were important…because he was important.
If only—
LOREE LOUGH
A full-time writer for more than a dozen years, Loree Lough has produced more than 2,000 published articles, dozens of short stories—appearing in magazines here and abroad—and novels for the young (and young at heart). The author of twenty-nine romances (including the award-winning Pocketful of Love, Emma’s Orphans and bestsellers like Reluctant Valentine, Miracle on Kismet Hill and Just One Christmas Wish) Loree also writes as Cara McCormack and Aleesha Carter.
A comedic teacher and conference speaker, Loree loves sharing in classrooms what she’s learned the hard way. She lives in Maryland with her husband of nearly (gasp, sputter, choke!) thirty years.
Suddenly Home
Loree Lough
Come home with me, and refresh thyself,
and I will give thee a reward.
—I Kings 13:7
To Elice and Valerie, my daughters,
my friends…may the romance of true love
care for you all the days of your lives.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Letter to Reader
Prologue
Date: December 17
Time: 1600
Coordinates: 17º 22.3 minutes north
66º 45.6 minutes west
Altitude 500 feet
Like blue-green tentacles, lightning snaked along the F-16’s wingtips, brightening the Puerto Rican sky and blacking out the entire control panel. Lieutenant Alex Van Buren had mere seconds to decide: Eject…
Or go down with the fighter.
He jerked back on the throttle, but it was no use. He couldn’t bring the aircraft out of its nosedive. If he abandoned the plane, there’d be no time for his chute to open. Not while flying over the choppy waters at an altitude of five hundred feet.
He hoped for a miracle. There’d been times when, under similar conditions, other pilots’ parachutes had released…right…?
Who was he kidding? He’d been a test pilot a long time. More than long enough to know a guy didn’t bullet through the sky at nearly six hundred miles an hour and survive a crash. But even if he didn’t die, he’d be so broken and battered he’d be lucky to see a cockpit again, let alone manipulate its controls.
Death didn’t scare him. Living—if it meant he couldn’t fly—now, that terrified him. As a much younger man he’d entertained the idea of pastoring a little church in the boonies. But every Van Buren before him had been a naval officer. Who was he to break tradition, especially for something as meaningless as a boyhood dream?
So many thoughts, so many questions racing through his mind….
As the sparkling surface of the water hurtled closer, closer, Van Buren held his breath and closed his eyes, steeling himself for the rib-racking effects of ejection, and did something he hadn’t done in ages.
He prayed.
Prayed he’d pass out, so he wouldn’t hear his bones breaking, his muscles tearing. Prayed that God, in His infinite mercy and wisdom, would let him drown quickly in the warm island waters; better that than go home as something other than the man he’d worked so long and hard to become.
Van Buren felt his body catapult from the cockpit.
And as he became one with the sky, he wondered if he’d survive the impact.
Date: December 17
Time: 4:00 p.m.
Supra-Air Flight 550
In the skies above Puerto Rico
If she spoke, even to order coffee, she’d break down. And so when the flight attendant stopped the drink cart beside her seat, Taylor pretended to be asleep…
And remembered the last time she’d talked to her mother.
Back then, Taylor had been working at a small pub in Houston. As usual, her mom ended the telephone conversation with a warning about what becomes of folks who live in the fast lane. In her mother’s opinion, Taylor—who’d traded her physical therapist smock for a microphone—had spent the past five years doing exactly that.
Taylor wasted no time pointing out that, in her opinion, it was the other way around. Because six months before, her mother had taken up with a has-been race-car driver who, frustrated by a dead-end career, had begun hurtling through life at maximum overdrive….
These past twelve hours had been a crazy, hazy blur: the phone call to her uncle Dave, then booking a last-minute flight from Puerto Rico to Baltimore, packing, hailing a taxi…. Through it all, Taylor fought tears, asking herself why she hadn’t called her mom more often, why she hadn’t visited home more frequently. Because if she’d been there, she could have steered her mother around the hazard signs in the road ahead.
It hardly seemed possible that just the night before, Taylor had been sitting on a tall padded stool at San Juan’s Posada Felicidad, strumming her Yamaha and singing “In Your Arms” when her boss had waved an arm to get her attention, then pointed at the phone, letting Taylor know the call was for her.
A slight frown, a small head shake had made clear what she’d mouthed between verses: “Take a message.”
Later, alone in her hotel room, Taylor had returned her uncle’s call. “For a while there,” he’d said, “your mama seemed to be holdin’ her own. That’s when she asked me to get hold of you.” He went on to explain how, despite the best efforts of the emergency-room team, her mother had died of complications suffered in a fiery car crash.
Would there have been time for a final goodbye, one last “I love you” if Taylor had put down her guitar long enough to accept her uncle’s call? She’d never know. Because now, every chance she had at being a better daughter was dead.
And so was her mother.
Looking out the airliner’s thick window, she watched as lightning sliced through the Puerto Rican sky. Shielding her eyes with the palm of one hand, she steeled herself against the if onlys and what ifs, remembering one of her mother’s favorite sayings: “The road to nowhere is paved with regrets.”
Small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.
In a few hours, when this overcrowded 747 landed at Baltimore-Washington International Airport, Taylor would head for the funeral home to view her mother’s body.
Would she survive the impact of that?
Chapter One
Eighteen months later
BWI Airport
Baltimore, Maryland
From start to finish, the red-eye flight from Ireland had been a nightmare, complete with keep-your-seat-belts-fastened turbulence, crying babies and a grumpy crew. She’d barely cracked the spine of her novel when an over-weight gent tromped on her foot climbing into his window seat. If Taylor had known his first words would be the kickoff to an eight-hour gabfest, she’d have kept reading the scene that began, “His dark-lashed eyes bored into hers with an alarming intensity….” Something told her she’d have to wait until she got home to find out how the heroine reacted to the hero’s scrutiny.
And she’d been right.
Her seatmate, who’d hogged the armrest and spilled coffee on both of them, now left his boot print on her other white sneaker as he joined the mad race to be first off the plane.
After the aisle cleared, Taylor stood and, looking at the space he’d occupied, bit back a groan. She considered calling out to him, “You’ve forgotten something…” so he’d have to shoulder his way back through the crowd to retrieve the peanut packages, napkins and candy wrappers he’d left behind. The flight crew might appreciate her efforts, but all she really wanted was to pick up Barney at Pampered Pets Kennels, brew herself a soothing cup of tea and settle in at home. Stifling a yawn, she reached into the overhead bin for her carry-on…
And collided with the man across the aisle.
“Ooomph,” he grunted.
A feeble “I’m sorry” sighed from her lips.
Shaking his head, he raised one dark eyebrow, reminding her of the passage from the novel she’d been reading. His dark-lashed eyes bored into hers with an alarming intensity….
“No problem,” he said, his voice deep and gruff. Then he grabbed the straps of her bag and dragged it from the compartment. “This one yours?”
Nodding, Taylor clutched it to her. “Yes. Yes, it is. Thank you.”
Turning, he slid his own bag from the bin above his seat and stepped back. With a grand sweep of his arm, he said, “After you.”
She couldn’t tell if the gesture was sincere or not. But Taylor thanked him, and headed down the aisle.
“Don’t mention it,” he growled. “My pleasure.”
She hurried from the plane, and halfway through the tube connecting the jetliner to the terminal, he passed her, aiming a curt nod and a two-finger salute at her. Taylor couldn’t help but notice his pronounced limp. During the flight, as he’d made his way to the lavatory, she’d blamed turbulence for his halting half step. Now she couldn’t help but wonder if an accident or a birth defect had caused him to favor his left leg.
Accident, she decided, remembering his grumpy demeanor; if he’d been born with the limp, wouldn’t he have adjusted to it by now?
He rounded the corner just as a terrible thought occurred to her—had she caused the injury when she’d backed into him? Had she stepped on his foot harder than she’d realized?
Well, surely she’d see him in baggage claim. And when she did, Taylor would apologize. And make it sound a little more sincere this time.
It shouldn’t have been difficult to find him, tall as he was. But she didn’t see him at the baggage claim. Or the taxi stand, either. Not even when she stood on tiptoe, searching the crowd. Taylor gave up looking for him when a cabbie said, “Where to, lady?”
“Ellicott City,” she said as her driver tossed her suitcase into the trunk.
The taxi driver made small talk as he maneuvered through the traffic on I-95. But Taylor barely heard him, because she couldn’t seem to shift her attention from the man with the limp.
She tried thinking about Barney, and how happy he’d be to see her after spending so many days at the kennel.
She tried thinking about all the gossip Mrs. Dansfield would share when she delivered the mail she’d been picking up for Taylor.
About getting back to work—a job far more satisfying than singing for her supper had ever been.
But it was no use. The image of his dark eyes seemed frozen in her mind. He looked familiar, and for the life of her, she didn’t know why. Had they met? But where? And when?
His expression flashed in her memory again. Was he as sad and forlorn as he seemed? Or had it been fear she’d seen in his big brown orbs? Taylor’s heart ached a bit on his behalf, because she’d learned something about that in the past eighteen months. She said a quick prayer, asking God to help the poor guy cope with whatever had painted such a doleful expression on his handsome face.
The familiar facade of her house came into view and she smiled. Not the Victorian she’d always dreamed of, but close enough for the time being.
She paid the taxi driver, shoved her suitcase through her front door and headed straight for Pampered Pets Kennels. Once she and the fat orange tabby were settled in, Taylor would have a day and a half to recuperate from her trip to Ireland. Thirty-six hours to readjust, pick up where she’d left off.
Maneuvering her car through Ellicott City’s side streets, Taylor sighed. Because where had she left off? Better question, she wondered, What did you leave behind?
Other than Barney, regrets mostly. Regrets that she’d spent those last precious months of her mother’s life “finding herself” instead of being the doting daughter her mother had deserved. Regrets that she hadn’t accepted the phone call that night in Puerto Rico.
The big pink-and-white sign that said Pampered Pets came into view and Taylor heaved a deep sigh. Parking in front of the pink-trimmed brick building, she thought again of her mother’s favorite saying: “The road to nowhere is paved with regrets.”
Her mother, Amanda, also liked to say, “Life goes on!”
It had been eighteen months since the accident. And true to her mother’s witty wisdom, life had indeed gone on. A year and a half had passed since Amanda’s death. Eighteen months without so much as a syllable of motherly advice.
Yet Taylor had gone to work, had attended various church functions and social events, and had even gone out on a date or two.
Like it or not, her mother had been right.
Had he gone to Ireland simply to put an end to his mother’s nagging?
Alex groaned inwardly, knowing even as the thought crossed his mind that it wasn’t fair to call it “nagging.” Badgering was more like it. But her insistence hadn’t been the sole reason he’d taken the trip. He’d known better than anyone that a change of scenery had been in order, that doubt and self-pity had pretty much taken over his whole life since the crash, that if he didn’t get a handle on it pretty quickly, there was no telling how he’d end up, or where.
The so-called “vacation” was his last-ditch effort to get back a semblance of the man he’d been before the accident. And to give his mother her due, the trip had worked. Something about the Emerald Isle touched a long-forgotten…something…inside him, and that something had awakened his desire to fully participate in life again.
Now Alex was glad that before departing for Ireland he’d set certain things in motion, because it meant there was no turning back.
Not without losing face.
Soon his life would be fine and dandy. Right as rain. Good as new…
Keep that up, he told himself, you’ll be eligible for the next Channel 13 TV Jingle King contest.
All things considered, Alex believed he felt about as good as a man who’d survived a near-death experience could feel. He’d prove it when he woke up in his new apartment with its spanking new furniture, climbed into his shiny new car and headed for his brand-new job.
“Yippee,” he grumbled under his breath.
The cabbie met his eyes in the rearview mirror. “What’s that, sir?”
He frowned. “Nothing,” Alex replied. “Just…nothing.”
Alex had found that the best medicine for self-pity was thinking of something besides himself. This time, it surprised him when the new subject occupying his thoughts was the young woman who’d crashed into him on the plane. She was petite and pretty, and he’d been watching her from the corner of his eye during most of the flight.
Well, not watching her, exactly, but he’d noticed that when the man beside her spilled coffee on her jacket, she’d casually blotted up the mess with a paper napkin. “It’s okay,” she’d said, smiling. “Time to take this old thing to the cleaners, anyway.” Amazing thing was, she seemed to mean it.
Her forgiving words seemed to invite her seatmate’s jabbering, which didn’t stop for the rest of the flight. What kept her from yawning from boredom as he droned on about his pedigreed Yorkshire terriers, his job as a tech systems analyst, his tomato garden, Alex didn’t know.
He only knew that, from his side of the aisle, anyway, she appeared to be interested in everything the man had to say.
Before he’d crashed his fighter plane, if he’d met a woman like that under any circumstances, he’d be having lunch with her by now, flirting his socks off, working his way up to inviting her to dinner. Wasn’t that what test pilots were expected to do, after all?
Why he felt he’d lost something meaningful when she disappeared from view, he didn’t know. He only knew that she was gorgeous. Kind. Special in ways he’d probably never understand. That look she’d given him when he took her bag out of the overhead bin kept flashing in his memory, a look that said she’d survived some pretty tough stuff in her life, too.
But since he’d probably never see her again, he wasn’t likely to find out what.
The cabbie stopped in front of Alex’s town house, popped the trunk and tossed an already battered suitcase onto the sidewalk.
Alex peeled a twenty from his money clip. “Keep the change,” he said, grabbing his bag.
The meter read $17.50, and even behind the iridescent wraparound sunglasses, the cabbie’s indignant expression was obvious. Tucking the bill into his shirt pocket, he slid in behind the steering wheel. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Trump,” he muttered as he slammed the door.
The sarcasm was lost on Alex, who stood at the end of his walk, staring at the black numbers above his front door. Shaking his head, he took out his new house key and jammed it into his new bolt, hoping the air conditioner was working, because it was uncharacteristically hot and humid for June in the Baltimore suburbs.
A note taped to the brass door knocker flapped in the sultry breeze. “Welcome home,” said his mother’s delicate script. “Remember: Life is what you make of it!”
Shoving open the front door, he stuffed the message into his jacket pocket. “Thanks, Mom,” he grumbled. “Next time I meet a gorgeous li’l gal, maybe I’ll remember your good advice.”
Taylor dropped her purse on the floor and opened the cat carrier. “Good to be home, isn’t it, Barn?” she asked, gathering him near. The gold-striped tabby nuzzled her cheek and chirruped happily, then leapt from her arms and headed straight for the long-fringed afghan at the foot of Taylor’s bed. As she watched him stretch, sadness cloaked her. Because Barney had been her mother’s cat, and wouldn’t be here at all if…
She straightened her shoulders. No point in dwelling in the past. What’s done is done, she told herself.
Taylor hurried into the kitchen and washed down two white pills with a glass of water. Prescription medication took care of Taylor’s allergy to cats, but who would have taken care of Barney if Taylor hadn’t adopted him? The better question was, who would have taken care of her if Barney hadn’t let her adopt him? By now, the cat was far more than a beloved pet; he was Taylor’s only living connection to her mother.
He rubbed her ankles as she filled his bowls with water and cat food. Once he’d finished nibbling at the kibbles, he headed for Taylor’s bedroom. Taylor followed, and watched as he sashayed toward the down-stuffed pillows at the head of her bed and began batting at the fringed trim.
Barely six months old when he lost his former mistress, Barney had quickly adapted to his new life. Taylor, on the other hand, had struggled with the loss every day since the accident.
Sighing, she tried to focus on the cat’s antics. Forcing a smile, she admitted that the pillows’ plumpness did look inviting, particularly after the long flight home from Ireland.
Ireland…
If not for her mother, Taylor probably wouldn’t have gone overseas at all.
After Taylor’s father died, her mother began traveling…and pestering Taylor to get a passport and see the world with her. Amanda visited dozens of countries in the years after Jake’s heart attack, but her favorite place in all the world had been Ireland. “If you go there,” she’d said, “you’ll find yourself drawn back, again and again.”
And just as Amanda had predicted, Taylor had fallen in love with the land and its people. If her budget allowed it, Taylor would return every June to commemorate her mother’s first trip there.
Shaking her head to clear the cobwebs, she decided Barney was right. Those pillows did look irresistible. And they’d look even better after a hot shower and a soothing cup of herbal tea.
Ten minutes later, wrapped in a white chenille robe, long brown hair tucked under a thick towel, she carried a steaming mug of Lemon Clouds into the living room. “Just look at this,” she complained as Barney snuggled up close. “Do you have any idea how many trees had to die so this junk mail could be printed up?”
The cat gave the stack a slant-eyed stare and emitted an expansive yawn.
Grinning, she ruffled his fur. “Where would the rain forests be if everyone had your attitude?”
His response was a bigger, longer yawn.
Taylor smiled. Being needed, in Taylor’s opinion, didn’t get the notice it deserved. Having Barney to take care of, to look after, had made the difference between wallowing in grief and getting back to the business of living. She gave him a gentle pat. “Thanks, Barn.”
He rolled onto his side, as if to say, “Don’t mention it.”
Which was what the stranger on the airplane had said when she thanked him for getting her bag from the overhead bin….
Taylor shook her head and stuffed the junk mail into the pantry’s recycling bin, then gathered the important mail and headed for the home office she’d fashioned in a corner of her bedroom. Laying the envelopes on the desk, she faced her suitcase and groaned. The only thing she hated more than packing was unpacking.
Barney slunk into the room, stopping to sniff the suitcase. Forepaws resting on the handle, he continued his investigation.
“Oh, don’t be such a nag,” she teased when he meowed at her. “I’ll put things away tomor—”
Frowning, Taylor crossed the room. “Hey, where’s my luggage tag?” she wondered aloud. “And my bungee cord?” Her uncle Dave—self-appointed protector and Taylor’s only living relative—had insisted she secure the suitcase with a sturdy strap. “For extra protection,” he’d said.
Why hadn’t she noticed before that it was missing?
Jet lag, she thought, excusing the oversight.
On her knees now, she laid the suitcase on its side and pulled at the lock. It opened easily. Too easily. Ordinarily, it took several hard tugs to pop it. Unzipping the case, she threw back its lid and stifled a gasp.
Inside, where skirts and blouses should have been…
A jumble of rumpled blue jeans, wrinkled T-shirts and rag-knit socks. “Eee-yooo,” she complained, “just look at this mess.”
In her hurry to get home, she’d obviously grabbed the wrong suitcase. Had someone else picked up hers? Or was it still there, going round and round on the belt, waiting to be claimed?
Taylor glanced at the clock. Nearly six in the evening—far too late to call the airline now.
Attention on the suitcase again, she lifted one well-worn running shoe from the pile, held it at arm’s length. “Look at the size of this thing, Barn. Who would have guessed that the Jolly Green Giant was a jogger?”
In response, Barney hopped into the suitcase, purring as his forepaws kneaded the messy clothes inside.
“Get out of there,” she scolded, gently shooing him away, “before you snag something.” Though she honestly didn’t know how any of it could look any worse.
The cat gave an insulted meow and swaggered from the room, tail pointing indignantly toward the ceiling.
Taylor barely noticed. Pinkies raised and nose wrinkled, she searched for a business card, an address book, anything that would tell her the owner’s name.
She felt like Little Jack Horner as she stuck her hand into a side pocket and pulled out a business card. “‘Alex Van Buren,’” she read. “‘2345 Lancaster Road. Ellicott City, Maryland.’ Good. He’s local.”
A second glance at the clock told her it was early enough to call him.
Perched on the edge of the bed, she dialed Alex Van Buren’s number, and counted the rings.
“Alex’s answering machine is broken,” said a deep male voice. “This is his refrigerator. Leave your name and number, and I’ll put the message under one of the magnets he’s got stuck all over me.”
Giggling, Taylor rolled her eyes and waited for the beep. “Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith. It seems there was a mix-up at the airport, and I picked up your suitcase by mistake. Hopefully, you have mine, which, coincidentally, looks an awful lot like yours….”
She cleared her throat. Why was she rattling on this way?
“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade? If you have my suitcase, that is. If not, we can arrange a good time for you to pick up your suitcase.” She recited her phone number and hung up.
Then, stretching, she slid under the covers, remembering his voice. Wholly, soothingly male, it reminded her of someone. Someone she knew.
But who?
The voice continued to echo in her mind until she drifted off to sleep.
“Mr. Van Buren? My name is Taylor Griffith.”
Alex lifted the corners of his pillow and pressed them against his ears. But it was no use. He could still hear her. “I picked up your suitcase by mistake….”
He’d locked up tight and closed the blinds before climbing into bed, intent upon making up for the many nights of sleep he’d lost while in Ireland.
If only he’d remembered to turn off the answering machine.
Groaning, he levered himself up on one elbow and flicked on the light. Eyes shaded by one hand, he squinted across the room. Well, the bag he’d brought home certainly looked like his….
“Would you give me a call, please, and let me know when it’s convenient for us to get together and, um, make the trade?”
Alex turned the volume on the answering machine down, clicked off the light and flopped back onto his pillow. Rolling onto his side, he took a deep breath, hoping to pick up where he’d left off when Taylor Griffith had interrupted his dream.
He’d been strolling along Ireland’s Dingle Coast, staring out at the great expanse of churning gray sea, when a lovely blue-eyed lass had stepped up beside him and offered to share her home-baked brown bread. But it was no use. Instead of accepting a slice, his thoughts returned to the Griffith woman’s message.
Knuckling his eyes, Alex decided the suitcase news wasn’t nearly as interesting as his dream. Punching his pillow, he tried again to return to Ireland and the lovely blue-eyed lass.
But a question popped into his head, disrupting the dream yet again. Its answer was obvious—this Taylor person had gotten his name and number from his luggage tag.
Jaw set with determination, he forced himself to remember Galway Bay. Bunglass Point. The thatched cottage on The Burren where he’d spent his first night abroad, listening to the gentle lowing of Black Angus cows.
But he couldn’t concentrate on Ireland or anything related to it, thanks to one Taylor Griffith.
Alex sat up, threw his bare legs over the edge of the bed and growled under his breath. There seemed to be a conspiracy these past few days to keep him from getting any shut-eye at all.
At a bed-and-breakfast in Ballydehob, the owner’s short-legged dog—named Bruce, of all things—barked the whole night away. In a small hotel in Killorglin, trains that ran like clockwork woke him every hour on the hour. Last night, the darlin’ woman who owned the house near Shannon Airport couldn’t seem to comfort her colicky baby. And now some girl seemed to think she had his suitcase, and he had hers.
He wouldn’t get any sleep until he got to the root of this, so why try?
Heaving a deep sigh, Alex hit the answering machine’s play button and turned the sound up. As the tape rewound, he opened the nightstand drawer, poked around until he found a pen buried under paperback novels and soda straws. Dig as he might, he couldn’t find anything to write on.
He listened to the first part of her message, and when she began reciting her number, Alex scribbled it on the palm of his hand. He’d call Ms. Griffith first thing in the morning, see about straightening out this mix-up she’d referred to.
After tossing the ballpoint back into the drawer, he turned the answering machine’s sound down. For the last time tonight, he hoped.
Then the red, white and blue ID tag on his bag caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it before? He’d lost the original luggage tag soon after buying the suitcase, and had been making do with the paper ones provided by the airlines ever since.
Alex hobbled toward it, rubbing his bad leg and doing his best not to think about how he’d earned the limp. Try as he might, the crash was something he’d never forget, or live down. And why should he be allowed to do either? It wasn’t every day that a test pilot lost a multimillion-dollar aircraft in the middle of the Caribbean.
He grabbed the luggage tag. “Taylor Griffith,” precise black letters spelled out, “142 Old Belle Way, Ellicott City.” Grinning, he thought, She sure didn’t sound like an old belle….
He unfastened the stretchy red-and-yellow band wrapped around the suitcase, then unzipped it. Inside, in neatly folded stacks, lay delicate, feminine articles of clothing in every shade of the rainbow. A tiny, pointy-toed black shoe poked out of a side pocket, and he held it by its long, slender heel. Chuckling, Alex said under his breath, “I guess not all elves live in hollow trees.” Turning it this way and that, he added, “Some of ’em live at 142 Old Belle Way.”
He put the shoe back where he’d found it. At least, he hoped he had. The idea of disturbing the perfection inside bothered him, and he chalked it up to years of rigorous military training.
Training. One more thing to remind him of the man he used to be. It hadn’t been hard, turning deliberately back into the not-so-tidy guy he’d been before enlisting….
Padding barefoot across uncarpeted hardwood, he picked up the telephone receiver. Tucking it between ear and shoulder, Alex punched in the number printed on his palm. Two rings, three, then a melodious “Hello?”
Бесплатный фрагмент закончился.
