Chapter 40 Hope
hope
Those kisses burned on my lips, even after I’d showered and put on my pajamas and applied ChapStick. They burned as I crawled into bed, and as I lay first on my right side, then on my left, then on my back, staring at the ceiling.
It occurred to me that kissing Matt was like getting bitten by a mosquito carrying dengue fever or West Nile virus—it had left me hot and weak and slightly out of my mind.
Unlike a mosquito bite, though, kissing Matt was pleasurable—intensely pleasurable, pleasurable almost beyond description, the kind of pleasurable that barreled into the future, creating thoughts of other things that would feel just as good or even better.
His hands roaming over my body, for instance, or his mouth . . .
I rolled over, tossing the sheet off me, letting the breeze from the overhead fan cool my skin.
It wasn’t as simple as whether or not Matt and I got involved with each other.
There were two little girls to think about—two little girls longing for a mother.
And while I adored those girls, I knew nothing about children or mothering.
Which was a non-issue, I reminded myself, because I was going back to Chicago. I wasn’t one of those people who could leave their hearts out of lovemaking, so there was no point in getting anything started.
Besides, even if I weren’t going back to Chicago—which I was; the job was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I’d be an idiot to pass it up—what were the chances we’d actually end up together?
The odds of marrying any one person you dated were slim—very slim.
I’d seen enough friends date guy after guy after guy, sometimes for months or even years, only to watch them eventually break up.
And those were two free, unencumbered couples, not people recovering from a divorce or—even worse—the death of a spouse.
And Matt wasn’t recovering from the death of just any spouse.
From everything I’d ever heard, Christine was the equivalent of Superwoman.
How could anyone ever live up to the legacy of a woman who was, by all accounts, brilliant, beautiful, tasteful, athletic, the perfect hostess, and a model mom?
Who would even want to try to fill those stilettos?
No, a future with Matt wasn’t something I could even consider. He hadn’t given any indication it was something he was interested in anyway; he’d talked about a temporary relationship. A fling, basically. And I wasn’t a fling kind of girl.
But maybe I should be, just this once. Maybe Kirsten was right. Maybe a little hot stuff was just what I needed—and just what Matt needed, as well. The memory of that kiss made me hot and flushed all over again.
Even if I decided to go for it—which I probably wouldn’t, because deep down, I’m a big chicken—where and when would we make love? Not at his house. Not at Gran’s, certainly. And no matter how desperate I was, I didn’t want to resort to motel rooms in the next town.
No. It was a bad idea, for many, many reasons.
But it was such a danged appealing bad idea that I couldn’t get it out of my head.
· · ·
I dozed off around midnight. Something abruptly awakened me—I thought it was a voice, then decided I must have been dreaming.
The alarm clock on the nightstand said ten minutes after three a.m. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
I rolled over, figuring that I’d confused thunder for a voice, then worried that I might have heard Gran.
I’d better check, I decided. I crept downstairs without turning on any lights and followed the sound of snoring down the hall. By the glow of a nightlight, I saw Gran sound asleep in her bed—the night nurse snoring on the cot beside her.
Thunder cracked again. I started back toward the stairs, then froze. Another sound—one that sounded like the clink of metal on metal—clanked in the backyard. I veered toward the dark kitchen and headed to the window. Oh, dear—lights were moving around in the back of the garden!
My heart galloped. My hand shook as I reached for the phone.
My first thought was to call the police, but then lightning lit the sky—sheet lightning, the kind that doesn’t streak, but just illuminates the clouds like an overhead flashbulb—and in that instance, I saw the distinct outline of three men, digging.
A stream of cold ran straight to my core. It didn’t make sense, but I was sure this was somehow related to Matt’s and my efforts to find the suitcase. If I called the police, I’d have to explain it all to them, and Gran’s secret could come spilling out, and . . .
Without thinking further, my fingers punched in the speed-dial number for Matt.
He answered on the first ring, his voice thick with sleep.
“Some men are digging in the backyard,” I whispered.
I heard the rustle of fabric, and imagined him climbing out of bed and going to his own window. He muttered a low oath. “How many?”
“I think I saw three. I started to call the police,” I whispered, “but . . .”
“I’ll be right over.”
“I’ll meet you outside.”
“No. Stay indoors.” The words were an order. “They might be armed.”
I ran back upstairs, pulled off my pj’s, and scrambled into a T-shirt and shorts, not bothering with undergarments.
No way was I going to cower indoors if Matt was going out there.
I headed back downstairs and, on impulse, grabbed a poker from the fireplace tool set in the parlor.
I watched the hedge—Sophie’s secret gate—and when another flash of lightning lit the sky, I saw Matt emerge from the shrubbery.
I stepped out the kitchen door, closing it quietly behind me. Clutching the poker, I ran to the large oak and hid behind it, watching Matt advance on the men.
“We’re gonna get electrocuted out here,” I heard one of them say.
“Nah. That storm’s still a long ways off,” said another.
“Freeze or I’ll shoot!” yelled Matt.
All of a sudden, a bright light illuminated the men. Only they weren’t men at all; they were teenagers, probably fifteen or sixteen years old. I realized that Matt was holding some kind of large spotlight, the kind you might find at a roadside construction site.
They all threw their hands up in the air and squinted toward him.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Matt demanded.
“N-nothing,” said one of them.
“You can tell me, or you can tell your parents down at the police station.” Matt’s voice was hard. “Your choice.”
“We—we heard there was treasure,” said a tall, gangly boy with buzz-cut hair.
“Where the hell did you hear that?” Matt demanded.
“Mike’s girlfriend works at the snow cone stand, and . . .”
“Don’t use names!” blurted a shorter boy with dark, Johnny Depp–style hair—apparently named Mike.
“Sorry. Anyway, she overheard two little kids talkin’ about how they were helping their neighbor lady find some treasure in her backyard, and we, uh, thought we’d help out.”
“That’s what you’re doing, huh? Helping out?” Sarcasm dripped from Matt’s words.
“Well, yeah. We weren’t gonna keep it or nothin’.”
“Right. Just helping the elderly from the goodness of your heart.”
“Please,” pleaded the third boy, who had blond hair and big, scared eyes. “Don’t turn us in.”
“Yeah,” said the smaller one. “I’m up for a scholarship, and this would ruin everything.”
“Let them go, Matt.” I stepped forward.
Matt’s head whipped toward me, then back at the boys. It was too dark to see his expression. “For all we know, they’re out every night, robbing old people blind, taking things they think they’ll never miss.”
Matt’s light illuminated the blond boy’s chagrined expression. “We wouldn’t do that. We’d never do that. Please. We didn’t mean any harm. We just wanted to find the treasure.”
“Yeah,” Mike mumbled. “Nothin’ exciting ever happens in this town.”
Matt paused as if he was thinking it over.
“Gran would want them to have a second chance,” I prompted.
Matt sighed. “This appears to be your lucky day, boys. Get on out of here—and keep your mouths shut. I won’t be so lenient if I find another group of kids digging here tomorrow.”
The boys scrambled for the fence.
“Wait! Don’t forget your shovels!” I called.
“She means your parents’ shovels,” Matt said.
Only one boy—the one who said he needed a scholarship—came back. “We’re really sorry. Thank you.”
Grabbing the shovels, he tossed them over the fence and scrambled after them. His shorts ripped on a ragged board.
The sound of pounding footsteps receded into the distance. “Thanks,” I said to Matt.
“No problem.” He strode toward me, his light pointed at the ground. “Why didn’t you stay in the house like I asked?”
“I thought I could help.”
“With that?”
I followed his gaze to the poker in my hand. I grinned sheepishly. “It was all I could think of. I didn’t know you’d be armed.”
“I’m not.”
“But you said stop or you’d shoot—and you had your hand on something in your pocket.”
He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket along with a baby monitor. “I couldn’t just go off and leave the girls unattended.”
Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. It was short step from fear to outrage. “You let those boys think you had a gun?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I didn’t know who I was dealing with when I said that.”
“Exactly.” The danger he could have been in made me furious. “So if they’d been armed, they might have shot you.”
“All the more reason you should have stayed in the house.”
“That is not the point!”
“So what is?”
“That you took a huge risk, and you won’t even acknowledge it was dangerous and stupid.”
“Hey, I’m not the one running around with a fireplace poker.”
“You are the most unreasonable, pigheaded, stupidly macho . . .”