Get in the car

Ben's resolve lasted longer than I thought it would. It was nearly 50 miles before he spoke.

"Kielle?" he asked cautiously.

I suppressed a sigh. Lisa had made me promise I would not be rude to him. He was, after all, doing me a service. I could be indifferent, but not cruelly so. Some sarcasm was inevitably going to creep in, but bitchiness was not allowed. Besides, we were going to have to talk about the elephant in the living room — the death of our relationship — sooner or later, so it might as well be sooner.

Tipping the book to my chest to hide the distracting text, I said, "Yes?"

"Do you hate me?"

Right to the point, as always.

"No. Hate is too much work."

"Have you forgiven me?"

"Not yet."

"Do you think we can be friends again?" He glanced hopefully over at me.

"Right now, I am not so inclined."

He tightened his two-handed grip on the steering wheel. "What would it take to get us back on a friendly footing?"

An act of God and some time travel, I wanted to retort. But that would violate the agreement. Instead, I considered for a moment, then replied as neutrally as I could, "More time and space than we have between here and Atlanta."

When his eyes returned to the road, they looked wet. I went back to my book.

* * * * *

In the late morning heat, I dozed.

The previous night had been a long one. After a tearful long-distance reunion with the Kellys, I sat down at Lisa's computer and checked my e-mail for the first time in weeks. Hundreds of messages had piled up, most of them relating to Nancy's death and the events that followed, especially Quill's laryngitis. Friends and fans wanted to know what I knew of what had happened and how everyone was handling the tragedy. I felt a little guilty for leaving people in the dark, but not much. For a while there, I'd been in no shape to take care of myself, let alone anyone — everyone — else.

Quite a few messages also inquired after, first, my health, then my absence from the Church Basement and the blog, then my sudden departure from the Caravan. Bill had apparently announced, after the questions grew loud and insistent, that I was no longer with the company and had refused to elaborate for reasons of confidentiality. Naturally, this lead to wild speculation about the reason for my departure. The most horrifying theory mentioned was that I was pregnant with Bill's love child and needed bed rest. As if!

Next, I'd visited the Church Basement, figuring simply reading the bulletin boards would not violate my promise never to touch them again. I wanted to see what people knew and what they thought they knew about what had happened. But the site was out of order, crashed. I could not see the posts without going in through the back door, and that I was not willing to do. Instead, I spent hours reading the fans' blogs and websites, and the renegade bulletin board some of them had thrown together when the Basement flooded.

I was very touched by the amount of concern the Caravan faithful had shown for my well-being and did not want to leave them hanging. So I composed a quick message explaining that I had been re-injured, more seriously this time, and that Bill had subsequently released me from my contract. The smart ones would see that euphemism for what it was, and the rest would simply think he'd given me time off to recuperate.

I also described how I'd been out of touch, convalescing at a friend's house, and had not learned of Nancy's death until just yesterday. Stretching the truth a bit, I said I was as upset as they were about it. But, I added, I was on my way to Atlanta to be with the Kellys and promised to write more soon.

I sent the note to a few dozen of the most active fans and asked them to spread the word. That would have to do for the moment.

Then I had spent a couple hours reading news reports to see if Ben had left out any of the particulars of the story. Typically, he had not, and Q and Quin had supplied perhaps more detail than I was ready to absorb. By three a.m., I'd been too sandy-eyed to stare at the screen any longer. I'd stuffed the suitcase with the belongings Lisa had gathered up for me and tumbled into bed.

Anxious to be on my way, I'd already been up when Ben woke at eight. After his hurried shower, we'd hit the road with breakfast in hand. Now, as the sun rose higher, my eyelids sank lower. I drifted into half-sleep that went undisturbed until Ben slowed to exit for a food and fuel break.

Ben fills Kielle in

Ben sat stiffly on the leather couch and accepted a peace offering of water. I eased into the chair facing him with Lisa perched on the arm, unconsciously guarding my injured side. We waited impatiently for him to drain his glass and start his story.

"I didn't even know what had happened myself until a couple days ago," he began. "I've been in Tokyo working for the past month." Judging from his appearance, I would have guessed he'd spent more time in dojos and bars than boardrooms, but I didn't really care.

"All the Kellys tried to reach me, but I was staying at a business associate's house, and his teenage kids didn't relay the messages. Plus, I'd managed to break my cell phone the first week I was there, and rather than take the time to replace it, I'd just been borrowing Taka's — my host's. So I wasn't picking up voice mail, either.

"After about a week of getting no response from me, Q finally called my office and had them track me down. He was frantic by the time I called him back. Thought I was either dead or avoiding him on purpose, and he couldn't decide which was worse.

"So he filled me in on you and Quill getting into that brawl and you taking the hit for him." Ben paused, a concerned look on his face, clearly about to express his sympathy for my injury. But something about the set of my jaw convinced him to scratch that notion and keep going.

"Quill was mighty shaken by that encounter, as I'm sure you know. And he was even more unhappy with Nancy for being so jealous of his attention to you. So he was already feeling torn up when she decided to get her little revenge."

I flinched inwardly, remembering again the deliberate crunch of her elbow against my side, the paralyzing shock of bone piercing flesh, the losing battle I'd fought to draw breath as my lung collapsed. Normally I bounce back fast, but I wasn't over that trauma yet. Not by a long shot. Sensing my discomfort, Lisa rubbed my shoulder reassuringly.

"That was the final straw for Quill. Her deliberately hurting you was bad enough, but nearly killing you, well, that he couldn't forgive. After leaving you at the hospital, he went to Nancy's room to demand his ring back. And he walked in on her and Jimmy."

Lisa and I exchanged a look. I wasn't so sure I'd gotten the worst of Nancy's attentions that day after all.

Ben went on, his voice bitter. "The lovebirds apparently heaped all kinds of contempt on poor Quill — Q didn't elaborate on that part — and sent him away a complete wreck. His brothers thought he was about ready to have a breakdown right then and there, and Q told Bill they were taking the next couple days off. Naturally, that did not go over well."

"Aha," I interrupted, understanding beginning to dawn. "So Bill came to me the next morning — before you even got there," I added to Lisa, "and fired my ass. He also told me that I was not to contact any of the Kellys at any time for any reason, at their request. He said they were so disappointed — that's the word he used, disappointed — in me for disrupting their livelihood and destroying Quill's engagement that they wanted nothing more to do with me, ever. He said that if I cared at all about them, I would honor their wishes."

"So that's why you didn't call," Ben nodded. "Well, the plot thickens. Want to guess what Bill told Q?"

"Oh, let me," said Lisa, her voice dripping scorn. She had never hidden her dislike of my boss and was now only too happy to give vent to it. "He told Q, maybe the whole company, that Kielle wanted nothing more to do with the people who had made her life hell for the past year, especially those who had nearly gotten her killed, and that they were not to contact her for any reason."

Ben nodded again. "Bingo. So they didn't."

Shaking her head and muttering, Lisa rose to refill his water glass and our sangrias. As soon as she had sat down again, he resumed his tale.

"So there's Quill. His fiancée has dumped him to fool around with a guy who'd been like an uncle to him. His best friend is in the hospital, but she's apparently dumped him, too. And he's supposed to put on a happy face and sing joy and praise like nothing's wrong at all.

"Two days later when the Caravan is in Memphis, he gets a text message from Nancy saying, 'We should talk. Come see me.' So he stews about it for half an hour or so, then finally goes to her room. According to Q, the police asked him why he'd answer a summons from a woman who'd treated him so badly. He said he wasn't considering taking her back, but he was hoping maybe she'd explain or maybe even apologize."

"That bitch? Fat chance," snorted Lisa.

"Pretty much," Ben agreed. "When he gets there, he finds the door unlocked, so he assumes she's waiting for him and walks on in. And there she is, laid out on the bed as if in her coffin — dead as hell."

"Poor Quill," I murmured. "Poor, poor Quill."

"He checks her out, finds no pulse, calls 911, and waits for the police. Gives them his statement, puts his head in his hands, and . . . end of story.

"He didn't say anything more that day, and nobody pressed him. It was natural he'd be in shock and not want to talk about it. Next day, same thing. His brothers sat with him, but he just stared out the window. It wasn't until the third day that he opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. He tried to speak several more times, getting more and more upset each time, and finally just collapsed into a chair like a broken doll. He's been that way ever since. Quin describes it as a boat drifting a little farther from shore with each wave that rolls in."

"That's . . . awful," said Lisa. "His beautiful, beautiful voice . . . " I could only nod, my own throat choked with unshed tears. I snuffled for a moment, then firmed up.

"I want to go back. If you think they'll have me," I added, suddenly unsure. If the Kellys believed what Bill had told them, they'd want no part of me.

"They do," Ben said firmly, laying my fears to rest. "Q started trying to find you at the same time he started calling me. By then he'd had some serious words with Bill — he didn't elaborate on that, either — and decided he was full of shit. They'd like nothing better than to see you again.

"Frankly, Kielle, they need you," he went on. "They're taking turns keeping an eye on Quill. Nobody has said it out loud, but they're afraid he might hurt himself. But they can't keep it up forever. They're at wits' end. If you came home and showed Quill you hadn't abandoned him after all, well, it wouldn't be a cure, but it might help."

My eyes narrowed at his use of the word "home." Atlanta was not my home. We had talked at one time about making it my home, at least part-time, but those days were long past. I figured it was fatigue that let him slip back to the old pattern.

Then I backtracked to something else he'd mentioned.

"You said Q had tried to find me. But I never heard from him. — Well, I've been offline for the past two weeks. If he e-mailed me — "

"He did."

" — I never saw it. Yet here you are." My inquiring look invited him to explain.

"Oh. Yeah. That. As soon as Q got a hold of me, he asked if I knew where you were. I didn't, since you hadn't gone back to Minneapolis. And I was too busy getting myself out of Tokyo to do much about it for a few days. I gave it some thought, though — a lot, actually, the whole flight — and after I'd been to see my cousins, I started checking my theories. I finally figured you'd be with Lisa, and where she lived and all that. And . . . here I am," he finished.

"Must be nice for them having a detective in the family," said Lisa.

"You could have called," I pointed out.

Abashed, Ben studied the floor. "Yes'm, I could've. But I didn't know if you'd talk to me on the phone."

"Probably not," I replied coolly. The real answer was "Hell no."

He peeked up hopefully. "I'll drive you back if you want, Kielle. I know you're not supposed to fly for a while because of the thoracostomy. So . . . I could drive you. I know you're not happy with me right now. You probably hate me. But I won't bother you. I'll just drive."

He was quite right. Driving the 1,500 miles from Taos to Atlanta with the man who broke my heart, plus a couple broken ribs, was not my idea of a good time. However, it looked like my best option at this point. He was right about the air travel; car and train were my only current options. Ben was here, and he was willing. If he could keep his mouth shut, or if I could drown him out with headphones, I could tolerate his presence for a few days for a good cause.

I looked to Lisa for confirmation. She nodded.

"All right," I said. "Let's go."

Ben huffed out the rest of his tension and was abruptly overtaken by a huge yawn.

"How long since you slept?" Lisa asked.

Ben went blank for a minute, and I saw just how tired he was. He'd been running on fumes to accomplish his mission of finding me, but his tank was empty now.

"Um . . . couple days? I was awake on the flight from Tokyo, and then I was at Maura's, and the flight here . . . "

"Then you're not going anywhere just now," Lisa pronounced. "Just stretch out there on the couch while Kielle calls Atlanta. We'll get you up in the morning."

He sat there glazed for a moment, then pulled off his shoes and socks, lay back, and passed out.

"That was quick," I observed. We moved into the kitchen so as not to disturb him.

"He came around the world for you."

"For Quill," I corrected.

"For you, too," she insisted. "He could have called and told me why, just like he did at the door, and gotten the message to you a lot sooner. But instead, he came all the way out here in person to get you back."

I shook my head. "No way. He's driving me back, not getting me back."

"But it's pretty obvious he wants you back. FYI."

"Fuck that," I said succinctly. "He had his chance."

"And he doesn't get another one?"

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me," I quoted.

"He could have bought you a train ticket instead of renting a big cushy Lincoln. He's hoping to change your mind."

"Well, he can keep on hoping. It's not going to happen," I said firmly. "Now where's my phone?"

Ben brings the news

[Note: This takes place about ¾ of the way through the story. Kielle and Ben have broken up messily. Kielle is recuperating from that and her brush with death at her friend Lisa's house in Taos, NM.]

By 7:00, the day had cooled enough to make the patio inviting. I lay propped at a 45-degree angle on a chaise, not exactly comfortable, but less uncomfortable than I'd been in a while. I savored the pleasures of the evening: a new Jonathan Kellerman novel in my left hand and a cool glass of sangria in my right. A few feet away, Lisa browsed through accumulated professional journals and sipped from her own glass in time to the mariachi music on the radio. I was beginning to think life and I just might be on speaking terms again.

Neither of us noticed the doorbell at first, but its persistent chiming finally stood out from the music. Lisa put down her Journal of Victorian Culture with a sigh and rose to go answer the door.

Immersed in my book, I didn't notice she'd stepped back onto the patio until she said my name. Her posture alone would have told me something amiss even if the hesitation in her voice had not.

"Who's at the door?" I asked warily, stomach tightening.

"Um, it's Ben. Your Ben," she said diffidently.

"Why that punk-ass motherf — " I began, rocketing from serene to pissed off in less than a second.

Lisa held up a hand to forestall my protest. "Hold on. Hold on. I think you want to hear this."

"What could that asshat pendejo possibly have to say that I would want to hear?" I snarled.

"He swears to God he's not here on his own behalf. He says it's about Quill Kelly, and it's serious."

A new fear squeezed my stomach. "Quill? What happened? Is he okay?"

"Ben didn't go into it with me. Said he'd rather tell you directly. But he also said he'd give me the story to relay if you won't see him." She glanced over her shoulder toward the inside of the house, where Ben was apparently still waiting.

Nice tactic, Shea, I thought. Jolt me with allegedly shocking news, then prove your humility by offering to speak through an intermediary. Don't shoot the messenger, is that it?

"Is he twanging your bullshit radar?" Lisa had a nearly infallible nose for falsehood; she'd pegged my ex-husband for a liar the moment they met and was notorious among her students for being unsnowable. If she said Ben was full of it, he most likely was. But she hadn't sent him packing, which made me think she believed him. And that worried me even more, because it meant Quill really was in trouble.

Lisa shook her shaggy auburn curls. "I think he's being straight. He has news he believes you'll want to hear, whether it comes from him or not."

I was setting my book and glass aside before she finished. "Help me up."

Practiced at it by now, she levered me out of the chair with a hand under my elbow. It was getting easier. I hardly held my breath at all.

"He's on the front porch. And he looks like hell, if that helps," she added. "He looks beat to shit, and I don't think he's slept in a while."

I mulled that over during my few strides to the door. Had Ben and Quill been in an accident? Wrecked their motorcycles or something?

Ben turned to face me as I opened the door. I hadn't seen him in about two months, and Lisa was right, the interval had not been kind to him. His hair was buzzed almost to the scalp. Healing scuffmarks reddened one brow, one cheekbone and most of his knuckles, and I suspected his clothes hid more mat burn.

The T-shirt and jeans hung baggy on his frame. He'd lost at least 10 pounds where he'd had none to spare, which combined with the brutal haircut to make his angular face look gaunt. His eyes were bloodshot and shadowed. He needed a shave. When the breeze shifted, I could smell that he was a few days off a serious bender, and he'd taken up smoking again. Not exactly an endearing image to present if he was hoping to win back my regard.

He weathered my scrutiny stoically, but the hands jammed into his pockets were clenched.

"Kielle," he said politely.

I didn't waste time on small talk. "Lisa said something about Quill. Is he okay?"

"Yes and no," Ben replied slowly. "Physically, he's fine. But he's in a terrible depression. He hasn't said a word since Nancy died."

My mind stumbled to catch up. "Wait, what? Nancy died? Nancy Wainwright? When? How?"

"You didn't know?" Green eyes widened in surprise. "Honestly, you didn't?"

"No. What happened?"

Ben slumped as some of his tension drained away. "Oh," he breathed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Oh. You didn't know. That explains so much."

"Explains what? What the hell happened?" I demanded.

"Nancy died two days after Bill fired you. They told me about that. She — it was suicide. Pills."

"Whoa. . . . Shit," was all I could come up with. There were plenty of times I'd wished the calculating little bitch dead, but not really. Not like that. Then a worse thought occurred to me. "Please tell me Quill wasn't the one who found her."

He sighed. "I'm afraid so."

"Ah, shit. Shit!" I said again. "I can't even imagine how awful . . . you said he won't talk about it?"

"He won't talk, period. He gave a very brief report to the police and then clammed up for good. He hasn't spoken a word since that day. Quill's voice . . . it's gone."

Gone. Silenced. For a few moments, I stood mute myself. For Quill Kelly, whose life was song, to be struck dumb was like a painter losing his hands. The thing that made him himself had died, or at least fallen unconscious with shock. I could think of no worse affliction for his psyche.

"Come inside," I said. "Tell me everything."

Not dead, only resting

If I'd gotten pregnant on the last day I posted here, I would be breastfeeding as I typed right now. That's a long damn time to go without updating. Then again, if I'd gotten pregnant, it would also mean I'd gotten lucky. Damn. Well, real life and real sloth reared their ugly heads, that's all.

I promised myself when I started this project that I would not feel guilty about writing to seldom or too little, and I don't. But I do get annoyed with myself for not making more of an effort. Maybe realizing it's NoNoWriMo reminded me of what I could be doing.

But it's not as I haven't been thinking about the story. I have been, and I do, all the time. There are several more chunks I'd like to bang out when I get — or schedule — a chance. Such as:

• Kielle and Ben's first date
  
• Kielle and Ben's last date
  
• how Kielle gets outed as a non-Christian
  
• the big brawl
  
• Kielle's near-death experience
  
• how Kielle and the Caravan part company
  
• the shocking demise of a certain diva bitch
  
• Quill is struck mute with shock
  
• how Kielle finds out about it
  
• the return to Atlanta
  
• healing wounds, mending fences
  
  

And of course half the sequel, which revolves around Quill Kelly becoming a major Broadway star and . . . stuff.

Anyway. It's interesting to go back and read what's already there. I hadn't forgotten much of it, and I still like most of it. So I guess it's time to get back to work.

copy cat

Writerly blather:

I am at this moment having strong plagiaristic urges to write and podcast sci-fi short stories a la Cory Doctorow.

I have two story ideas bobbing around in my mental crockpot, and I promised myself an early birthday present of the podcast-friendly iLife upgrade with my tax refund. All I have to do now is write the stories and learn to podcast. Easy.

Every once in a while I think about taking 6-8 weeks off from T'ai Chi and dedicating my after-work time to writing. Then I hark back to that month I had free last fall and how little of that time I spent writing and wonder if I'd be similarly unproductive with this arrangement.

Alternatively, I think about putting WRITE FICTION on my calendar in three-hour blocks on Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends. I think about rewarding myself with gold stars on days I keep the appointment, and a dozen stars means I get a prize.

I've been frelling away a lot of my free time lately, waiting for inspiration, or at least common sense, to strike. Do you suppose it just did?

Girl Meets Boy, concluded

Here's the end of the Girl Meets Boy chapter. I didn't write this one longhand, just sat down with the laptop on my lap and a beer at my elbow and typed it out. It took about 2.5 hours. Next, I want to finish up the Backstage Accident chapter.



True to his word, Ben arrived at Maura's house just before 8:00 the next morning. He found us in the kitchen, where Quill, wearing one of his mother's ruffle-trimmed aprons over jeans and a t-shirt, was flipping pancakes and singing opera at the top of his lungs. Maura watched over skillets of bacon and sausage. Thanks to my invalid status, I was in charge of the quiche, which was baking nicely without much help from me. I lounged in a kitchen chair with my foot up, sipping a Coke.

Ben entered the house without knocking, clearly at home there. He greeted his aunt with a peck on the cheek, then laid one on Quill. Though I had no right to be jealous, I was.

"Hey!" Quill protested, smearing pancake flour on his cheek as he wiped it.

"Sorry, little cuz, but I couldn't resist — you look so pretty," Ben laughed. To me he said, "I can't believe you drink that stuff for breakfast." Skirting the table, he delved into the fridge and helped himself to a Coke. He downed half of it in a series of gulps.

"You're going to regret that," I told him.

"No regrets, cherie. I need the caffeine." He lounged back against the countertop, barefoot again, crossed arms stretching the sleeves of a grey t-shirt bearing the logo of the South Atlanta Judo Academy. I noticed the athletic tape was missing from his right hand.

"Yeah, how late did the party go last night?" Quill asked.

"I gave up around 1:30, when the groom's brothers started the conga line around the pool."

"Dear dear," Maura tsked. "Roger's going to be in tough shape this morning."

"Maybe not too bad. He didn't actually drink that much. But he's going to be plenty tired. I brought extra Visine for the photo shoot." He patted the pocket of his faded Levis.

Quill had left off singing and was nodding at his pancakes, a faraway look in his eye. I knew he was thinking ahead to his own bachelor party and groom's dinner, still many months in the future. I had never known a man so eager to get married. Too bad his fiancée didn't seem to share his enthusiasm.

Quill roused himself from his reverie to say, "So you're driving the Jag today, Benjie. How's it running?"

"Purring like a big ol' kitten. Thanks again."

The kitchen windows faced the back of the house, not the driveway. I wondered how Quill had known what Ben was driving, so I asked him.

"I know the sound," he said simply.

"Ever since he was a baby, Quill has been able to identify everybody's cars by sound," Maura clarified. "It's part of that perfect pitch ear of his."

Ben added, "It also makes him an excellent mechanic. He tunes an engine like he tunes a guitar. Keeps all my vehicles running smooth. And that's saying something, because that Jag is as temperamental as they come."

Quill grinned. "My best classes in high school were choir and auto shop."

"Can I make that a trivia question on the blog?" I asked. The girls would go nuts visualizing grease under his manicured fingernails.

"Sure, why not," he shrugged, expertly flipping pancakes from griddle to serving plate.

"So Ben, what did you mean by 'all my vehicles?' Do you have a fleet?" I waited while he polished off his Coke with a satisfied sigh.

"Naw," he said. "Just the Harley, which is my runaround wheels, and the Jag, which I drive to impress clients and for special occasions, and the Honda, which is for being inconspicuous."

"Ben is the most sought-after private detective in Georgia," Maura put in. "He doesn't need that car to impress people. But it sure doesn't hurt." She heaped bacon and sausages, still sizzling, onto another platter.

"Aunt Maura exaggerates," Ben demurred.

"No I don't. If you Google him, you'll see for yourself. Oh, that sounds improper," she giggled.

I was a step ahead of her. In bed with my laptop, I had Googled Benjamin Shea thoroughly the night before while wishing I was in fact doing something else. Maura wasn't just boasting about her favorite nephew; Ben was highly regarded and highly successful. He was high-profile, too, specializing in corporate security and industrial espionage. No wonder he was fond of Coca Cola; the Atlanta-based cola giant was a client of his.

Changing the subject, Ben said, "Well, I didn't come here to talk business. I came to see how Kielle's ankle is holding up. Can I have a look?"

The oven timer dinged, signaling an end to my cooking duties.

"Why don't you get the quiche out instead?" I suggested, tossing him my oven mitt. "And no smart remarks about the eating habits of real men."

"Yes, ma'am." He pulled the baking dish from the oven, inhaling the aroma with pleasure, and placed it on a trivet to cool. "This needs to sit for a few minutes — just enough time for me to take a quick peek at your ankle. Shall we adjourn to the living room?"

Clearly I was not to be let off the hook, so I accepted his supporting arm and limped the few steps into the next room. His unshaven chin brushed against my temple as he helped me settle on the couch. He unwound the elastic bandage as deftly as he'd wrapped it the night before, quizzing me about how much I'd been walking and how much pain I'd had during the night. The answer to both questions was, "Not much."

"All right, then. This looks pretty good." He rotated my foot in all directions, testing the range of motion, then massaged my ankle and lower leg to ease the aches he'd awakened there. His strong hands knew what they were doing, finding tender places I didn't think anyone else would notice. I grew slightly mesmerized by the rhythmic squeezing and releasing.

He glanced up to find me memorizing the curl of his hair. His hands stilled, and for a moment we gazed at each other. Then one of us blinked, or maybe both, breaking the spell. Looking down again, he muttered, "That ought to do it," and began rewrapping the ankle.

Noting that he still held the fingers of his right hand out awkwardly, I nodded at them and said, "Where's your tape?" Up close, I could see that his ring finger was swollen.

"Dani didn't want me looking all rough in her wedding photos, so I took it off for today. And I'll shave at the church so I'm nice and smooth." He stroked his jaw absently.

"How'd you hurt your finger? On the mat?"

Disgust in his voice, he answered, "Yeah. Stupid. I had a poor grip on a stiff lapel and tried to compensate by using strength instead of leverage. Bad idea."

"Not always."

"In judo, it is."

"True enough." I'd done just enough judo myself to know he was right.

"Speaking of bad ideas, I don't like the thought of you walking all over the airport. It'll just cause swelling and slow the healing process. I want you to hitch a ride on one of those golf cart things."

"Those are for senior citizens," I objected.

"Senior citizens and people who can't walk far, and today that's you. Tell me you will."

Mockingly I sighed, "Yes, doctor."

"I mean it, Kielle." When we locked eyes again, his fierce expression was back. I like a man who's intense. If he's intense about me, so much the better.

"All right," I agreed. "I'll ride."

Ben finished his work just as Quill hollered for us to come and get it. We returned to a table piled high with the best breakfast I'd seen in weeks. Hotel bagels and muffins just did not compare.

Quill and Maura joined hands and reached out to us. Ben and I took their hands and each other's, completing the circle, and Maura intoned a brief but earnest prayer. It had taken me quite some time to grow accustomed to the saying of grace at every meal with the Caravaners. While I still wasn't entirely at ease with the practice, I had begun spending the interval on a moment of mindfulness of my own, and that wasn't all bad.

We ate at a leisurely pace. The cozy atmosphere, fragranced with peanut butter, honey, and cinnamon, made me miss Sunday mornings around the table with my family in my younger days. We'd spent some of our best times in those four chairs, talking and laughing just like this. Sunday breakfast had always been my favorite meal of the week, even though it meant getting out of bed too early on a weekend. But now that my sister and I had moved to different time zones and Dad had passed away, those days were never to return.

Sitting back, full, we enjoyed a few more minutes' relaxation before Ben glanced at the clock. Folding his napkin, he rose to leave. He had to report for the photo lineup at 10:00 and needed time to make the drive and change his clothes.

"I'd better take off," he said reluctantly.

"I want to see that impressive Jag before you go," I said. "Give me a hand out to the porch." Gee, that's not a lame and obvious excuse to be alone with him or anything, I thought.

I leaned on him more heavily than I needed to for the short trip to the front door. When we reached the porch, I didn't let go, and he didn't withdraw. Side by side, we gazed at the sleek black Jaguar convertible parked at a jaunty angle in the driveway.

"Nice. Very nice," I said admiringly. I could almost feel the wind in my hair.

"Yes." When I glanced toward his voice, he was looking at me, not at the car. "Next time you're here, I'll take you for a drive. When will that be?"

Oh Lord, he's asking to see me again. Now what the hell do I do?

"We've got a week off, then another week on the road. I'm meeting the company in Tucson for the start of the tour, but the bus will bring us back to Atlanta. So I'll be back in town two weeks from now."

He nodded thoughtfully, then turned to face me, still supporting my elbow. "I'm serious about the golf cart," he repeated. "I want proof."

"Such a mother hen," I teased. "Have you got a picture phone?" He nodded. "Give me the number."

He recited it, and I stored it away. "You'll get your proof."

"Good. Uh, I'd better go. But I just need to apologize one last time for knocking you into the pool."

"It's history. I'm glad we got to meet in person. And thanks for taking care of my ankle."

And then we just stood there for a minute, awkward teenagers at the end of their first date, trying to decide whether to shake hands or make out. I knew which option I'd prefer, but now really was not the time to start anything.

Finally I said, "All right, give me a hug and get going. You don't want to be late."

I went up on tiptoe to slide my arms around his neck. His fit across my back just where they ought to. We held the embrace for a long moment, and I felt him sigh.

Then he pulled away and bounded down the steps to his car. He hopped into the driver's seat without opening the door, revved the motor, and tossed me a cocky salute. Then he was gone.

A couple hours later, I used my picture phone to send him an image of myself perched on the back of an airport shuttle cart. Fifteen minutes after that, I received one of him in his tuxedo, clean-shaven and grinning, giving the thumbs-up sign. I would, of course, remember the picture, so I didn't need to save it. But I did.

the plot thickens?

I thought up an interesting plot twist in the shower this morning. I’ll have to chew it over for a while and see if it works. If it does, it’s going to make me very happy, but I can already name at least three people who will be personally offended off by it. To which I say, Man up, girls. It IS about you.

Also, Ben Shea needs a dog.