Cover Story Page 17

  And then he left.

  Chapter 15

  I was typing an article on miracle hair removal techniques when Sofia sent an email asking me to pop by her desk. Jumping on the excuse to delay more words on body hair, I weaved through the cubicles to hers. “What’s up?”

  She gestured to an open manila folder. “I think it’s time we officially gave up on the story about the scandal in the senator’s office. Kevin’s always been against it and the contact won’t speak to us. All we’ve got is background research.”

  I dropped onto the corner of her desk and sighed. “I know you’re right, but I can’t let it go. It’s too big a story.” Besides, I had to succeed at something. Lately, all I seemed to do was fail. Finding the gnomicide perp, Simon … I winced as I remembered him walking out my door after all the effort I’d gone to.

  Sofia shook her head. “There are other stories I could use my spare time researching. I want to close the file.”

  “But if our contact—”

  “If she rings in, we’ll open it again. But for now,” she flipped the folder closed, “I’m off the case.”

  Heaviness weighted my chest as I took the folder from her. Sofia’s phone rang and I dragged myself up to leave, but she laid a hand on my arm. “Hang on, she’s here.” She passed the receiver to me. “Front desk is putting a call through for you.”

  I took the receiver and waited for it to connect. “Tobi Fletcher.”

  “Good morning. I’m Madison Quintana from Quintana and Associates. We’re working on an ad campaign for Gardens, Gardens, Gardens and we’d be interested in using the Los Alamos Court gnomes in the promotional material. I wondered if you could give me the name of the owner of the gnomes.”

  There’s a golden rule in journalism about not getting personally involved with people’s stories, but there was something different about Los Alamos Court. Besides, as I explained to Madison, they were communal gnomes and I didn’t really know whose details to give her. Instead, I offered to relay her proposal.

  She gave me the details and I scribbled them down on paper Sofia handed me.

  “Thanks, Madison. I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and stared blankly at Sofia. “Some agency wants to use the gnomes to promote garden products.”

  Sofia laughed. It’s what I would’ve done if it hadn’t seemed quite so … bizarre. I drifted back to my desk and dialed Dot.

  Anna answered and I was passed along to her grandmother.

  “Dot, I need you to set up a street meeting.”

  “Okay, dear. Tomorrow night suit you?”

  “That’d be great.”

  *

  The next night I parked in Simon’s driveway. A crowd had gathered on his stone-paved porch, with a few more people just inside the door.

  I climbed out of my car and was almost mowed down by Martin Sinclair, who seemed to be leaving the party early.

  “Not coming to the meeting, Martin?”

  He whipped around to face me. “I thought it was for something important, but Dot just told me you’d requested it. I don’t have time for whatever fool notion has taken your fancy this time,” he said, sneering.

  I frowned. Something had changed. The man was as arrogant as always and he’d baited me, but for some reason, I wasn’t remotely interested in separating him from his testicles. What was that about? I did, however, remember Rafaella’s entreaty to help save Liz from herself. I’d never met Liz but I had a pang of sympathy for her and for Beverley. No wonder Beverley was consumed by bitterness.

  “I know about your affair with Liz,” I said calmly. Did my interference make me as arrogant as him? The thing was, it didn’t matter. Because, despite knowing I’d probably regret this later, I cared enough to interfere.

  His face twisted. “I knew that woman couldn’t be trusted to keep her mouth shut.”

  “I’ve never met her.” I shrugged. “You might want to have a look at the clues you’ve been dropping yourself. I’m not the only one who’s picked up on them. Beverley seems to have worked out half the story.”

  He huffed and puffed as if he’d like to blow me down. But then he smiled. “You think you’re clever? You won’t be so smug when you figure out who smashed those precious gnomes of yours.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Who?”

  “Simon.” Martin relaxed a little more and rocked back on his heels. “I saw the way you looked at him the night of the damn-fool party. Next time you’re making goo-goo eyes at each other, ask him about his ongoing fight with his father-in-law. Ask him how his wife died. Ask him who he blames. Then you’ll see why he smashed the gnomes at Gerald’s house then his own. And when you’ve finished with your little inquiry, keep your obnoxious nose out of my business.”

  He stormed away and I was left speechless.

  Feeling a little numb, I collected myself and checked I had the paperwork Madison had faxed me. Then I walked through Simon’s gate to the meeting. Anna came running out of nowhere and launched herself at my legs. I leaned down and ruffled her hair, catching myself smiling.

  What had he meant, how Simon’s wife died? Martin was clearly missing more marbles than Gerald. As if Simon could do something like smash a gnome—smash anything!

  I walked the remaining steps with her small hand in mine. It felt good. Davo was waiting at the porch, elbow lifted above his head and resting on a timber post. He winked and made a simultaneous clicking sound with his mouth. Someone really needed to give that boy some instruction. Remembering my altercation with his father not five minutes before, I knew he wouldn’t be getting that help from home.

  “Heya, boss chick. Got any work for me?”

  “Er … no.” Anna continued to swing our joined hands.

  “Shame, but good to see ya, anyways.” He winked again, with the same strange sound, and swaggered off.

  Anna pulled down on my hand. “Tobi, have a cup of tea. Valentina bringed three teapots. She let me pick them. I picked the cat one and the boat one and the yellow one.”

  I let her lead me to a table set up with cups and saucers, sugar and milk, and three teapots. Still ruffled by Martin’s comments, I actually wanted tea for the first time in my life. I claimed a cup and saucer and was deliberating over the pots when I heard a deep voice in my ear.

  “I’d avoid the cat pot, if I were you. It’s Lapsang Souchong. Not for the uninitiated.”

  Simon’s voice sent shivers along my spine and down to my toes. I turned to him. “A teapot in the shape of a cat wouldn’t be my first choice at the best of times.”

  “Try the yellow pot. It’s Earl Grey.” His midnight-blue gaze roamed my face and I felt its touch, gentle yet stimulating. There was no way this man had smashed those gnomes. I might not know everything about him, but I knew that. He had more nobility in his left pinkie than most people had in their entire body. But Martin’s words still niggled and I needed to ask questions about the rest of the story and hoped he wouldn’t hate me for prying.

  “Simon, there’s something I want to ask you.” I poured from the yellow pot, needing to do something with my hands to cover my nerves.

  “Okay.” He smiled, confident and sexy.

  “Not here.” I stirred in sugar. “Can you meet me for lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure. The deli at midday?”

  I lifted the cup to my lips and avoided his eyes. “I’ll be there.”

  He grabbed my free hand and gave it a quick squeeze before moving back to talk to Lukas.

  Dot came over and checked I had a tea before she moved everyone into the lounge room. Dining chairs had been added for extra seating and it seemed the whole street had turned up—except Martin and Gerald. Rafaella gave me a little wave and whispered something to the petite woman beside her. The other woman—I assumed it was Liz—nodded then waved to me as well.

  On one lounge, Valentina, wearing her Granny Clampett blue cardigan, sat bedside Jazlyn—who looked even more pregnant since I’d seen her two days before. Beverley and Ethel sa
t side by side on another lounge, and Dot scooted Cosmo and Anna down the hallway, probably to play in Anna’s room. The boys from the corner house took seats on the row of dining chairs, bedside Simon, who leaned over to whisper something to Pedro before they both broke out laughing.

  Dot rushed back in and took an armchair, then everyone went quiet.

  I cleared my throat. “Thanks for coming. I had a call yesterday that concerns the whole street and I wanted to speak to you all at once about it.”

  My gaze landed on Simon and he winked. In contrast to Davo’s, Simon’s wink gave me goose bumps. I waited until I got my breath back, then I continued.

  “Madison Quintana from Quintana and Associates wants to use the Los Alamos Court gnomes in advertising for Gardens, Gardens, Gardens. She asked me to put her in contact with the person who owned them, but I explained they were gnomads.”

  Everybody laughed.

  “So I have the paperwork here. The offer is a good one, but by the time it’s split between everyone, no one will be rich.”

  “Better than a poke in the eye with a blunt stick,” Valentina called out.

  More laughing. Over the next hour, we hammered out issues such as was the money to be split equally between people or households—they decided people, including Anna and Cosmo—and who’d be signatory to the contract—they chose Valentina.

  By the time we finished, I had a strange sense of belonging in some small way to this group of people. Not really comfortable with the sensation, I made my farewells and left.

  *

  I arrived at the Green Chile Deli five minutes late to meet Simon. Tardiness in all forms had always been abhorrent to me but I’d driven round the block eight times, trying to find the right words to ask such intensely personal questions. I hadn’t found them.

  Simon was waiting outside, leaning against the wall, hands in pockets. He’d seen me before I’d seen him and he tracked my progress with a lazy, sensual smile as I locked my car and wove through the parking lot.

  When I reached him, he held out a hand, still leaning back against the wall.

  “C’mere,” he murmured.

  I let him draw me close until I rested my full weight against the length of his body. His thighs supported mine and I pressed against the chest I’d touched only days earlier on my couch. I could feel his heartbeat through our clothes—and it was racing almost as fast as mine.

  “I wanted to do this so badly last night,” he whispered against my mouth. “But I didn’t think you’d be comfortable in front of the whole street.”

  He had that right. And I knew if I stopped to think right now I wouldn’t be comfortable with this sort of display in front of a crowd of shoppers either. But who could think with Simon Hanson chest to chest, hips to hips?

  He released my fingers and settled his linked hands at the small of my back, adding a touch more pressure to the contact of our hips. I breathed a sigh at the exquisite tingling in all my nerve endings and Simon lowered his mouth to mine.

  The kiss itself was quick and innocent, merely a brushing of lips, but the effect was erotic dynamite.

  I leaned forward for more, but he straightened, taking me with him, and turned us for the door … at which point I realized I was acting like the personification of “yield”. Had I no shame?

  It was Simon and his effect—when he’d held out his hand it was as if I’d turned into a well-trained puppy. Without trying, this man had power over me.

  I stopped walking and had trouble drawing breath.

  I’d lost executive command over myself.

  The thing I’d feared all my life had happened—an external locus of control had appeared. No longer a threat—it was here whether I liked it or not. Now the only question was, what would I do about it?

  Chapter 16

  “The usual?” Simon asked.

  I nodded and watched him order our bagels, a faint sense of panic enveloping me. I paid the cashier for mine, despite Simon’s offer to foot the bill, then made my way over to a vacant table.

  When he’d paid and began weaving his way toward me, the Hollywood-style lust hit me smack-bang in the loins. Then panic rose again. Dammit, I needed a plan. This was ridiculous. The whole having-an-external-locus-of-control was no way to run a life. No, siree.

  But … what if … what if I had a little turn of experiencing what Simon had to offer? Explore this lust fixation? If my physical reactions to him were anything to go by, getting naked with Simon wouldn’t be like sex with anyone else. Which, of course, was the problem. But, if I chose to investigate it?

  Yes … that could work. As had been pointed out to me on numerous occasions, I needed to loosen up a bit. Okay, I got it. And my own pathetic attempt at doing so—the non-seduction of Simon—showed I’d need some help.

  So, what if I stopped either running away or chasing? What if I just waited and let myself be caught? Then I could get used to the whole loosening-of-control thing and afterward get on with my life with a brand new skill.

  Because I needed to get back on track—me and my best friend, control. My friend protected me from vulnerability, hurt, and random karaoke attempts. I wanted control back of my life, my body, and my reactions. The experience with Simon would show me how to loosen up a bit—for future reference—but then I’d walk away and regain executive command of myself. Simon had said he wanted me—so it was a win-win situation.

  Okay, then. Plan made. I’d let myself be caught and have a hot-blooded affair with Simon. Good.

  Pleased with my decision, I gave him a wide smile as he slid into his seat.

  He smiled back. “So what did you want to ask?” He raised his hands in an open gesture.

  “Um …” I thought back over the questions, suddenly feeling awkward. This wasn’t like Martin’s affair or Jazlyn’s pregnancy. It wasn’t about the gnomes or the welfare of the street. This question was about me. Because I wanted to know about Simon’s past. “Um …” I stumbled again.

  “Come on, Tobi, spit it out.” One corner of his mouth quirked, challenging me.

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, here’s the thing. Martin said some things last night. About you. I just wanted to … run them by you.”

  “Did he, now?” He grinned. “Must be juicy for you to be hesitating.”

  “It was about your wife. And how she died,” I blurted with none of the tact and subtlety I’d been trying to acquire.

  He nodded slowly and blew out a long breath through open lips. “I can imagine.” Then he looked up at me and spoke quietly. “What do you want to know?”

  My heart clenched for him and I was torn between wanting to save him the pain of rehashing it and badly wanting to know. “Whatever you want to tell me.”

  He reached across the speckled Formica table and took my hand. “Well, as it turns out, I do want to tell you. Not the journalist—just you.”

  His eyes searched mine and I nodded.

  “Isabel was sick after Anna was born. She had postnatal depression.” I wanted to smooth the wrinkles from his brow, but instead I waited until he spoke again. “I tried to help her, but I was working full time and missing days as it was to look after Anna. Isabel was … too sick most of the time.”

  He broke eye contact and looked at a point over my shoulder. He was so still; the only movement I could see was the rise and fall of his chest.

  “I didn’t really understand how sick she was—none of us did. I asked her parents for help, but Iris, her mother, and Gerald said she’d be fine—it was just the baby blues.”

  “But it wasn’t.” I’d done a feature story on this once, met women with postnatal depression. Knowing the illness even second-hand, I felt a strong pang of sympathy for Isabel.

  “No, it wasn’t.” His shoulders sagged slightly. “I took her to a doctor and told him it was a struggle to get her out of bed. I told him she wasn’t interested in Anna.” Simon’s voice cracked on his daughter’s name. “He gave her some tablets, antidepressants—but Isabel wouldn’t
take them.”

  Our bagels arrived and we pulled our hands apart. I gathered my pickle and my fingers brushed his as I laid it on his plate. He watched the touch and gave me a vacant smile, but didn’t look up.

  We ate in silence until we finished our lunch—bringing up another subject didn’t seem right and I couldn’t push him to speak of Isabel. Then he shoved his plate away and captured my gaze.

  “What happened then?” I asked, realizing he needed the go-ahead to continue.

  He nodded slowly and reached for my hands again. “One day, when Anna was about four months old, I took her in her stroller to the park and,” he cleared his throat, “while we were out, Isabel overdosed on some tablets she’d got from God knows where and killed herself.”

  I’d expected the words from when he’d first mentioned postnatal depression, and from knowing how the story ended. But even so, tears threatened for Isabel, for baby Anna, and for Simon.

  “That’s when your mother moved in?”

  He nodded. “I took a couple of months off, but Anna was a full-time job and I was in a mess of grief. Mom was a Godsend. Between us, we managed.”

  I was overwhelmed with a need to give him … something—this man who seemed to give me so much. But I didn’t know what. I squeezed his hand. “You didn’t just manage, you’ve done a fabulous job with Anna. She’s so confident and happy.” It wasn’t much of an offering but it was heartfelt and true.

  His Adam’s apple worked up and down. “Thanks. That means a lot. You don’t give away compliments very often so I appreciate that you mean that.”

  An unspoken vibe hung between us, suspended on the emotional connection. I’d never experienced anything like it before. Suppressing the urge to walk away from it, I thought about the rest of Martin’s taunt. “Tell me what happened with Gerald and his wife.”

  Simon shifted in his seat but stilled again before speaking. “To my eternal shame, while I was in the worst of my grief, I said some things I shouldn’t have.” His eyes closed briefly and when they re-opened, unmistakable self-recrimination shone there. “Gerald was angry, and grieving too, and he took it out on me. Told me his daughter would never have taken her life.”