74 Seaside Avenue Part 21

Twenty-One.

Christie Levitt wasn't sure what to make of Teri's sudden interest in reestablis.h.i.+ng their relations.h.i.+p. As a kid she'd looked up to Teri and followed her like a shadow. Not that it got her anywhere. Teri always lost patience with her little sister, dumping her whenever she could.

It wasn't until Christie was twelve or thirteen that she discovered she had something Teri didn't, and that was beauty. Not that Teri was ugly or anything. But Christie had the looks-the cla.s.sic face and s.h.i.+ny blond hair-and the body to go with them. She'd quickly learned to use that to her advantage, and then she'd gone about proving she could have anything and everything her big sister did. The sense of power and exhilaration she got from stealing Teri's boyfriends was addictive. Christie wanted her sister to experience a little of the frustration she'd felt when Teri used to exclude her. Rejection hurt. This was payback time-and it went on and on. Christie had never been serious about any of the guys interested in her older sister. If she'd felt remorse for her cruelty...well, she ignored it.

Her charm and beauty had never failed her until she met Teri's husband. Bobby Polgar had simply ignored her compliments. Nothing she'd said had any effect on him. When Teri left the living room to check on dinner that first night, Christie had made her move. She'd deliberately stood and walked over to Bobby, claiming she needed help with a b.u.t.ton at the back of her blouse.

Bobby refused, claiming he wasn't good with b.u.t.tons and she should ask Teri. It wasn't so much what he said as the way he said it. Bobby wasn't interested in her. He'd fallen for Teri, and this seemed to be the one man who wasn't susceptible to Christie. He'd shown it that first night and proved it several times since.

"Home, miss?" James asked, breaking into her thoughts.

Christie sat in the backseat of the stretch limo after an early dinner at Teri's. The car was utterly ridiculous, she told herself scornfully, and yet Bobby Polgar wasn't pretentious in the least. So why this fancy car and driver? The driver, especially, was annoying.

"Take me to The Pink Poodle," she instructed. James had what could only be described as a stiff upper lip. Christie couldn't recall where she'd heard that expression-probably some BBC costume drama-but it fit James perfectly. He was devoid of personality and so polite it made her crazy. She could tell him to jump off a bridge and his response would be something along the lines of "Very good, miss."

Twice now-since that disastrous dinner with their mother-Teri had invited Christie to the house. On both occasions she'd sent Bobby's driver to pick her up and afterward deliver her home.

Spending an evening with Teri and Bobby had become surprisingly enjoyable. They might not always agree but they were family-and she hadn't thought of Teri that way in years. Family hadn't had much meaning for her until recently, although she'd always been close to Johnny. So was Teri. They had that much in common, anyway. But until recently, Teri seemed to avoid her and, in all fairness, Christie knew why. She'd made it a habit to be as unpleasant toward her older sister as possible. For the first time since childhood, Christie saw potential in their relations.h.i.+p. They were moving tentatively toward something new, a kind of friends.h.i.+p, and that required concessions from both of them.

Teri's marriage had started it. Christie had never seen her sister this happy, this much in love. Teri's husband was a bit...unusual, but Christie discovered she rather liked Bobby Polgar.

Teri seemed to want to make up for lost time now. She was reaching out to Christie in various unexpected ways. The long-stemmed red rose that had awaited her in the car both nights was a good example. It was a nice touch, thoughtful and rather sweet.

"The Pink Poodle, miss?"

"Yes," she snapped. The tone of his voice told her he disapproved. Well, he could think what he wanted. She didn't care.

Bobby was odd, but that was understandable. He was a famous chess player. As for Bobby's driver-well, James had no excuse. He wasn't even English or anything. He just acted like someone on-what was that old show? Upstairs, Downstairs.

Who the h.e.l.l had a driver in this day and age, anyway? Then again, Bobby probably didn't have a driver's license, which might explain why he'd hired James. What didn't make sense was the way Bobby had James drive Teri everywhere she went. Talk about ridiculous. Still, if Bobby was going to keep the man as a full-time employee, James needed something to do. Driving Teri to the mall. Waiting around. Driving her back. Talk about boring.

Without further conversation, James pulled up in front of the local tavern where Christie spent several evenings a week. She tended to go there when she got off work at the Wal-Mart just outside Cedar Cove. It wasn't as though she had anyone waiting for her at home. The Pink Poodle was a friendly place; the music was lively and she could kick back and relax. James came around to the pa.s.senger door to let her out. He didn't look at her, which irritated her even more. The real reason she'd asked him to bring her to the tavern was to get a reaction out of him. She should've known she wouldn't. Other than the disapproving tone he'd used earlier, he didn't give the slightest indication of...anything.

"Thank you, Ja-ames," she said, drawing out the one syllable of his name. The desire to break through that reserve of his was nearly overwhelming. She couldn't imagine what he'd do if she suddenly kissed him. The thought produced a smile. He'd keel over in a dead faint. Or step on the gas and drive right into a tree.

Climbing out of the car, Christie headed for the tavern door without a backward glance. Most people in the crowd greeted her; she knew nearly everyone there. Without stopping to chat, she went up to the bar and ordered a draft beer.

Larry, the bartender, a middle-aged guy who was also the owner, picked up a chilled mug and automatically filled it from one of the taps. He didn't need to ask which brew she wanted. He knew what she liked.

She sat down on a stool and they chatted for a few minutes until Kyle Jamison strolled in the front door. "Say, what's that limo doing outside?" he shouted.

"What?" Christie couldn't believe her ears. James was still parked outside!

Half the tavern moved over to stare out the smudged, wavy windows.

"Who's he waiting for?" Larry asked, his nose practically pressed against the gla.s.s.

"Good question," Kyle commented as he slid onto the stool next to Christie. She'd dated Kyle a couple of times. He was a local plumber and a decent guy. She liked him well enough but there weren't any sparks, and the relations.h.i.+p had gone nowhere. With most men, it was better just to be friends. She'd crossed the line more than once with guys she knew from the tavern and always regretted it.

"Say, can I get a beer over here?" Kyle asked, growing impatient with Larry, who continued to gaze out the window.

"Comin' right up," Larry muttered.

Christie waited a respectable amount of time, then casually slid off the bar stool and walked toward the ladies' room. Instead of going down the hallway, though, she snuck out the door. Her footsteps resounded on the tarmac as she approached the limo, moving quickly. She wasn't halfway across the lot when James climbed out of the driver's seat and held open the pa.s.senger door.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

He seemed surprised by the anger in her voice.

"I'm waiting for you," he explained, as if that was completely logical.

"There's no need to do that."

James shook his head. "Miss Teri asked me to see you home."

"Go away," she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.

"I'm afraid I can't do that."

Now he was really beginning to annoy her. "I don't want you here."

"Shall I move the car and wait for you around the corner?"

Christie wanted to groan in frustration. "No. Just leave."

He declined again with a shake of his head.

"A friend will drive me home," she insisted.

James remained stubbornly quiet.

"I want you to leave."

"Yes, miss."

Every word out of this man's mouth made her furious. "And stop calling me Miss! My name is Christie."

"Very well, Christie."

There was a silence, and they stared at each other, neither looking away.

"You're going to sit here even if I stay all night, aren't you?" she finally asked.

"Yes."

From the firm set of his mouth, she could tell he wasn't kidding, either. He'd sit in that d.a.m.n car for hours without a word of complaint, patiently waiting for her to reappear.

"Oh, all right," she groaned. "You win." She went back into the tavern, paid for her beer and left.

James remained standing by the pa.s.senger door, holding it for her. She climbed in and reached for the door handle, jerking it from his hand as she slammed it shut. She glanced out at the tavern, hoping no one had seen her get into the limo. She'd never hear the end of it.

Slipping into the driver's seat, James started the engine and turned into the road.

"Now look what I did," Christie complained. "I ruined the rose my sister gave me." In her temper, she'd sat on it and crushed the petals.

"That rose isn't from your sister."

"Bobby gave me the rose?" That didn't sound like something her brother-in-law would do.

"No, miss, I did."

"You?" She was so shocked she forgot to be upset that he'd called her miss again.

"Yes."

"Both times?" she asked speculatively.

"Yes."

Christie frowned. "Why?" He didn't answer, so she rephrased her question. "Is there a reason you bought me roses?" She raised her voice so he'd know she expected an answer.

"I wanted you to have them."

She regarded the crushed bud in her hand. "Don't do it again, understand?"

"Very well."

"I mean it, James."

There was no response. All at once Christie felt the most compelling urge to weep. That happened once in a while, usually when she'd been drinking. This evening she hadn't even finished her beer, so that couldn't be it. Tears gathered in her eyes and she swallowed against the lump in her throat.

"I'm going to tell Teri I don't want you driving me anymore."

"Very well."

She didn't know what made her say that. James hadn't done anything to her and yet she seemed to be looking for ways to offend him.

When he drove up to her apartment building, she practically leaped out of the car. She certainly didn't give him time to get out and open her door. She ran to her apartment and hurriedly let herself inside. Her pulse roared in her ears as she leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. When she looked down she realized she still held the battered rose. A tear fell from her cheek and landed on the red petals.

Twenty-Two.

"We got a postcard from Linnette," Corrie McAfee told Roy when he came into the office after his morning walk. Her voice was a little too cheerful, and he didn't believe it reflected how she really felt.

"Where is she?" he asked. He'd ultimately sided with his daughter about making her own decision, but that didn't mean he approved of the way she'd taken off without a destination, without a plan. Nor did it mean he didn't sympathize with her reasons. Like any father, he hated seeing his child hurt.

"North Dakota," Corrie told him, studying the postcard. "A town called Buffalo Valley. Roy," she said, glaring at him. "She's taken a job as a waitress at a restaurant called 3 of a Kind. She says the owner won the business in a card game about ten years ago. What sort of place is this?"

"Apparently one that needs a waitress," he said in as casual a tone as he could manage.

"After all those years of schooling and medical training, Linnette is working as a waitress?"

"I know." He didn't like the sound of that, either. However, he was willing to give Linnette the benefit of the doubt and wait a few months until she found her footing.

"A waitress," his wife repeated indignantly.

"What I find interesting," he said, "is that she chose to mail us a postcard rather than call."

He and Corrie exchanged a quick, private smile.

Their daughter Gloria had once mailed them postcards, too, but hers had been anonymous with cryptic messages neither of them had understood at the time.

Corrie handed him Linnette's postcard and he read through the tightly scribbled lines. "She seems fairly happy," he said, somewhat surprised. "Apparently the proprietor's included a room with the job."

"Buffalo Bob? I don't like it, Roy. What a ridiculous name!"

"Listen, Corrie, we raised our daughter to the best of our ability. Linnette's got a good head on her shoulders. She's told us about this job and where she's living, so the least we can do is trust her judgment."

"How can you say that?" Corrie cried. "Her judgment ever since Cal broke up with her has been terrible."

"In our opinion," he pointed out.

"Our opinion?" she returned, her eyes narrowing. "You mean to say you thought so, too, and didn't say anything?"

Well, he'd certainly stepped into that one. Roy nodded slowly. "I didn't like the fact that Linnette chose to run away, but she felt she had to make a change, which I understand. We won't always agree with her decisions, Corrie." He put his arm around his wife's shoulders. "That's a given. We didn't always approve of Mack's choices, either. Kids have to learn to fend for themselves. We can't get in the habit of rescuing them every time."

Roy could tell that his wife still had trouble with this, and he didn't blame her. Corrie was a nurturer, someone who tried to fix whatever was wrong, especially in her children's lives. He tended to feel that kids should face the consequences of their actions. Not just kids-everyone. Which wasn't to say he didn't miss Linnette; he did. He wanted her back home. He believed that eventually she would return, but not until she was ready. Not until she'd figured out whatever she needed to know.

Later that same afternoon, he went to the sheriff's office and saw Troy Davis sitting at his desk, the phone held to his ear. The sheriff noticed Roy and immediately gestured him inside. There was a coffeepot across the hall; Roy helped himself to a mug while Troy finished up his conversation.

When Roy came back into the office, the sheriff was off the phone. He picked up his own mug and ambled across the hall for a refill. Roy noticed a haggard, weary look on his face.

"Problems?" he asked.

Troy didn't answer right away. "Remember Martha Evans who died a couple months back?"