Bowled Over

Chapter Four

"Would you peel a grape for me, Alex?"

"Sadly, no."

"My hero. Jeez."

Saint Just looked up from the mortgage application he was currently perusing to smile at Maggie, who was ensconced on one of the overstuffed couches in her living room, clad in sky blue flannel pajamas with small white sheep on them, and looking delightfully slothful.

Although he might soon politely suggest she find a way to take a shower.

"I wasn't aware you ate grapes, my dear."

"I don't. But if I'm forced to just lie here like a lump, the least you could do is wait on me."

"Thank you. But, again, no. Sterling is doing an exemplary job of dancing to your beck-and-call these past days. I wouldn't wish to depress his enthusiasm by intruding on his joy. Now, I'm afraid I will need your attention for a few minutes. You haven't taken any more of those pills today, have you? Not that I'm even mildly averse to listening once more to all one hundred verses of that ditty you called Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on a Wall."

She shook her head. "I'm still in pain. Agony, even. But I really liked those pain pills, which is why I'm not taking them anymore. I'm being a good little soldier. Stiff upper lip, and all of that. Don't you feel sorry for me?"

"I've been feeling sorry for you for a week, although around verse eighty-six last night, I began to see the benefits of us not sharing the same domicile. At any rate, I believe it's time you began putting on a brave face."

"I don't want to. I want to lie here and play Camille. I've no more new Lee Child books to read, Oprah's a rerun, and the news only depresses me, except for Keith Olbermann, and he's a rerun tonight, too. Nobody works over the holidays. How the heck do you rerun the news? And how could my mother still insist that we show up tomorrow? And she's mad at me, Alex. Like I broke my foot on purpose, just to ruin her life."

Saint Just averted his head. "I do believe I read somewhere that there are those who believe there are no accidents. That, in point of fact, you may have broken your foot in the hope that you then wouldn't have to travel to Ocean City for the holidays."

Maggie struggled to sit up higher on the couch. "That's ridiculous. Nobody breaks a bone on purpose—especially not an important one. Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to get that damn walker through the bathroom doorway? I can't shower because I can't do that on one foot without slipping and killing myself, the cast inside a stupid trash bag. I can't bathe because I don't own a tub, and if you offer one more time to help me with my sponge bath, I may have to hurt you. And this cast? I go to bed with it, I wake up with it—I hate it. I'd have to be a masochist, to break my foot on purpose."

"Then again, there's the rather recent, um, development, between us. A deepening of our relationship, a new closeness ..."

"Whoa. You just hang on a minute, Alex. Are you saying—suggesting—that I broke my foot because you and I have been ... well, you know, and that maybe I'm having second thoughts?"

"It's only a theory," Saint Just told her, amazed to find himself feeling not quite as calm and collected as he would like her to believe he always was. The idea of a true romantic attachment was new to him, completely outside his experience. He was also evolving, as he reminded Maggie whenever possible, attempting to become more his own man rather than simply her creation, and this evolving business had turned out to be slightly uncomfortable. How on earth did people function, feeling insecure about themselves? He much preferred the confidence of a hero.

"Well, you can take that theory and—never mind. I did not break my foot on purpose. I broke it on a doorstop, which is bad enough to admit. Can we change the subject now, please?"

Saint Just, as eager to change the subject as she, held up the thick sheaf of papers he'd been reading. "Perhaps you can fill in these forms, just to take your mind off your misery? For some reason, your bank feels it necessary to know everything about you from the time you were in the cradle, and they want this information all verified by a second party."

"That's because I'm a self-employed woman, and one who actually makes money. Nobody really wants to admit that's possible. Bankers are all male chauvinists, Bernie says so. They'd believe you before they'd ever believe me, and you aren't even real. But you're a man."

Maggie held out her hand for the papers and Saint Just gratefully turned them over to her, and then continued on his way to the drinks table, to pour himself a restorative glass of wine. Maggie was the delight of his life, but all-in-all, it had been a long week.

"Maggie? We could pool our resources, you know, and simply pay over the purchase price. Fragrances by Pierre has been exceedingly kind to me."

Maggie was bending over the top page, frowning. "No, we can't. I need the deduction. And we have to do this in my name only because I was only joking before—your forged documents only take us so far."

"And so far so good, as I've heard the term. I am a most upstanding citizen of this metropolis. I look forward to filing my federal income tax forms in a few weeks."

"Yeah, yeah. Right now you're upstanding in my light while I'm trying to read this. Go sit down."

He did as she had commanded, only because it suited him to sit down—he hoped she was clear on that.

"You know," Maggie said, eyeing the application, "much as I hate to say it, Alex, you did a heck of a job with Miss Kudzu of 1998. What a great price. Do I want to know how you managed it?"

"Charm, wit, my usual undeniable attractions," Saint Just told her, smiling over the rim of his wineglass. "I stand in disbelief of the power a simple kiss on the hand is to you American women. I should really give lessons on the proper way to court the modern female."

Maggie rolled her eyes. "Yeah. You could have your own TV show: Regency Eye for the Hapless Guy. Gimme a break. Oh, hello, Sterling. Flowers? For me?"

Sterling Balder carefully nudged the door closed behind him as his hands were full, holding tight to a rather large crystal bowl filled with exotic cut flowers. "No, Maggie, I'm so sorry, but no. These just arrived for you, Saint Just, but I thought Maggie might like to look at them, shut in as she is."

"They're for Alex? Put them down over there on the table, Sterling, and give me the card."

Saint Just got to his feet. "I believe I'm capable of reading my own card, thank you, Maggie," he said.

But for a woman who spent most of her days with her casted left foot riding the top of the couch, Maggie had become very fleet of arm, and she had already snatched the card from the bouquet as Sterling walked past her.

She swiveled her body so that she was in a seated position and pulled the small card from the small envelope. She read the few lines, then glared at Alex.

"Tell me again. How did you get such a good price?"

"Ah. Then I can assume that those lovely blooms are courtesy of Miss Rodgers?"

Maggie flipped the card in his general direction, and he snagged it neatly out of the air.

Loved working with you, sugar, he read, and then smiled at the three lines of numbers—Kiki's home, office, and cell numbers.

"Oh, stop grinning like the village idiot," Maggie told him, jerking on the walker until she had it where she wanted it, and then got to her feet. "You're impossible."

"On the contrary, I'm irresistible. Just as you made me. Miss Rodgers vows I have a career in selling, and I'd have to agree with her, if it weren't for knowing my title would be reduced from Viscount to Salesman. Posing for photographs cannot really be considered work, not in the least smelling of the shop, an anathema for those of us whose bloodlines can be traced back to William the Conqueror. There are only so many sacrifices one man can be expected to make, you understand, no matter what his altered circumstances."

Maggie jutted out her jaw. "Listen to me, Alex. One more time. You're ... not ... a ... real Viscount. You're a figment of my imagination, you and Sterling both. Got it?"

"Oh, I say, Maggie, that was rather cruel. Wasn't it, Saint Just?"

Saint Just looked to Maggie, who had been in the act of rising to one foot with the aid of the walker. "Maggie?"

She sat down once more. "I'm sorry, Sterling, sweetie. You're real. You really are. And I'm a pig."

Sterling, who had risen to his feet as Maggie tried to stand up, then subsided onto the facing couch when she plopped down, got to his feet once more. "No, you're not. Police are pigs. I remember distinctly."

"Alex?" Maggie pleaded, looking desperately at Saint Just.

"With pleasure, my dear," he said, bowing to her. "Sterling, pigs was a term often used in the Regency Era to describe the local constabulary. Bow Street Runners, Bow Street Pigs. The term was considered offensive then and it is deemed to be even more offensive now. Please do not employ it again."

Sterling's eyes squinted behind his spectacles. "But Maggie just used it."

Saint Just inclined his head slightly to the love of his life. "Punting to you, my dear, as they say."

As Maggie tripped over her own tongue, explaining to the very literal Sterling the ins and outs of modern day slang, Saint Just watched his friend in some amusement.

Dear, dear Sterling. His short, pudgy, balding counterpart, the perfect counterpart, in point of fact, to the sometimes sarcastic, arrogant Saint Just. The foil, the comic relief, the human part of the Saint Just Mysteries. Why, the man had a quite impressive online fan club.

Sterling. The innocent. The always kind, fiercely loyal, never judgmental, Sterling.

They weren't, Saint Just had decided, exactly Batman, Robin, and Batgirl, but, together, the three of them were actually a rather formidable force.

"So you can say you're a pig, or call someone else a pig, but only if that someone else isn't a member of the police force? Like Lieutenant Wendell?"

"Exactly," Maggie said, looking at Saint Just. "And, speaking of Steve, he phoned this morning to tell me that he and his girlfriend are driving up to Stowe for the holidays. They're going skiing, and asked if we wanted to go along. Fat chance of that, huh, with this thing stuck to my leg?"

"And with your parents expecting you at Christmas dinner, yes," Saint Just said, picking up the mortgage application one more time and handing the papers to her. "We really need you to fill these out before we leave for Ocean City."

"We? What we needs me to fill out these papers? You and me, we? You and Kiki, we? The kingly we? What's the hurry, Alex? I checked the listing online again, and the house has been on the market for over eighteen months. That's unheard of in Manhattan. Nobody's going to buy it out from under us a few days before Christmas. It's not like anyone could tuck it up in a stocking, as a last minute Christmas gift."

Women had never been a mystery to Saint Just, until he'd joined Maggie's world. "Pardon me, my dear, but wasn't purchasing this house your idea?"

"I know, I know. But now that I've had time to think, I'm wondering why Kiki jumped at the price you offered."

"Loathe as I am to bring this up again—I am fairly persuasive."

"Oh, shut up. Granted, you're cute and all, but business is business. And Kiki was in a mighty hurry. Did you try turning on the water, Alex? Or the lights? I was so busy being impressed with the size of the place, the woodwork, the stained glass, that I didn't jump up and down to see if the floorboards squeak, or check for faulty plumbing. There's something wrong with the place, right? It's a lemon."

"But that's a fruit."

Maggie wrinkled up her nose. "Sorry, Sterling. Yes, a lemon is a fruit. I think it's a fruit. Maybe a vegetable. No ... no, a fruit. So, maybe the house is a dog—scratch that, too. Alex, do you think something's wrong with the house?"

Saint Just took back the papers. "Perhaps it's haunted?"

"Yes! It could be—no, Sterling, don't look like that. Alex is kidding. Alex, tell Sterling you're kidding, for crying out loud. You are kidding, right?"

"I was being flippant, Sterling. My most profound apologies. And, as I don't believe we're making very much progress here, I think I'll just toddle off to your bedroom, Maggie, and pack for you, as Sterling has performed that kind office for me. Not quite a gentleman's gentleman, definitely not on a par with Sterling, but I believe I'll manage."

Maggie hastily grabbed the walker, struggled to her feet. "The hell you will! Stay out of my drawers!"

Chuckling, and repressing an insane urge—a suicidal urge, actually—to retort that it was too late for that particular warning, Saint Just entered the bedroom a good minute ahead of Maggie and her now gaily decorated walker, and was removing delicate undergarments from her top dresser drawer when she bounded into the room, hopping so fast she ended by falling onto the bed on her back, to glare up at him.

"Comfortable, my dear?"

"I'd be a lot more comfortable if you were in China," she groused. And then, to his profound relief, she burst into tears. He'd been waiting, less and less patiently, for her finally to give in to her emotions.

He was sitting beside her in an instant, stroking her hair back from her face. "And more than time for a good cry, my dear," he told her. "He phoned me this morning, as well."

She stopped crying to look up at him, her Irish green eyes awash in tears. "Dad? My dad called you?"

"After he spoke with you, yes. He's quite maudlin."

Maggie reached for something to use to wipe her eyes, then saw that she was using a pair of lovely ivory-colored silk unmentionables and threw it toward a corner of the room.

"He's going to be all alone for Christmas. Mom disinvited him to Christmas dinner. Maureen barely talks to him, Erin refuses to return his calls. And Tate is just as bad—worse, because he's supposed to be the fair-haired boy. Yeah, right. This is going to be the worst Christmas ever, Alex—and that includes the three years I spent the day with stomach flu. Cripes, my mother took video of me throwing up into the box my Barbie Dream House came in, and she shows it every damn year. I can't go home. I don't want to go home. And now ... now I have to hop there."

Saint Just retreated from the bed long enough to take a box of tissues from the dresser and hand it to Maggie, then sat down beside her once more, bending to place a kiss on her forehead. "He did have an affair, my dear. Not many women can forgive such a thing, not when you Americans all believe in marriage for love, not simply convenience."

Maggie pushed away his hand and sat up. "That was Regency England, Alex. That was rich dukes marrying penniless young beauties and then the two of them falling madly in love by Chapter Twelve. We're not talking fiction, we're talking about my parents. My parents! My own father! He goes bowling. He watches sports on TV. Last time I checked, Mom still trimmed the fat off his meat, for crying out loud. He doesn't have affairs."

"If I recall correctly, Evan only indulged in the affair because he'd learned that your mother had succumbed to the thrill of an ... well, of an adventure outside the marriage vows some years ago."

"Please don't keep giving me creepy mental pictures that will keep me up nights. And that adventure of hers was about, what, ten years ago? Probably a menopausal aberration, and why she finally decided to tell him about it last month amazes me. Happy wedding anniversary, Evan—I had an affair a decade ago. Jeez. Still, wasn't it a little late of Dad to be playing the game of payback's a bitch? These are people in their middle sixties, for crying out loud. I didn't think people in their sixties even had sex anymore. Fat lot I know, huh?"

She grabbed the walker and pulled herself upright. "That's it, it's over. I'm not going. I can't stay in that house, chowing down a big turkey dinner while my father is eating cold baked beans out of the can in his bachelor pad. Don't answer that," she warned tightly when the phone began to ring.

"Hello, Kelly residence," Saint Just said, picking up the phone.

He smiled, held it out to Maggie. "Exquisite timing. Your mother. Now you can inform her as to your decision."

Maggie hopped backward a good three feet even as she shook her head furiously; she really was becoming more proficient with that walker of hers. "Tell her I broke my leg and you had to shoot me."

"You broke your foot, and she probably heard you anyway. I seem to have forgotten to depress the Mute button."

"Oh, hell," Maggie muttered as she hopped back to the bed and snatched the phone from him, pasting a large, patently artificial smile on her face as she said, "Hi, Mom!"

Saint Just returned to his task, that of packing up Maggie while she was powerless to stop him, pretending not to listen to Maggie's side of the conversation, even if she did little more than mumble the occasional, "Uh-huh."

Maggie's mother, if she had existed during the time of the English Regency, would have been a be-feathered matron, tall and rawboned, her proud pigeon chest puffed out, her manner abrupt, condescending, and, to be frank, fairly obnoxious. That she was Maggie's mother was a constant astonishment to Saint Just.

In point of fact, Alicia Kelly was one of the myriad reasons Saint Just had felt it necessary to poof—as Maggie insisted on so inelegantly terming his truly impressive feat—into her life.

He was, he had long ago decided, the part of Maggie that she had felt missing from her life. The confident part, the brave and daring part; a creation of her imagination, one composed of all the elements of herself that she believed she lacked.

And what Saint Just lacked, what Maggie believed she also lacked, had been completed with the creation of their own dear Sterling Balder, who was all heart, and caring, and almost childlike devotion.

What Maggie didn't realize was that she couldn't possibly have created Saint Just, created Sterling, and made them both believable to her readers, unless she herself was made up of all those virtues she felt she lacked.

By herself, Maggie was intelligent, yet unsure of herself. With him—with Saint Just, and with Sterling—she was at last complete. It was the stuff of fiction, but it worked. It worked enough for Saint Just to be able to join her, bringing Sterling along. It worked enough for the three of them to exist together on the same astral plane, or whatever such things were called.

Not that Maggie was a frail flower, but she had never quite mastered how to deal with Alicia Kelly's rather overbearing personality, feeling more attuned to her father, the hapless, straying Evan Kelly. With her father out of the house, cast out of the family, Maggie would be spending Christmas with the strangers who were her mother and siblings.

It was all rather sad.

"Yippee!"

"I beg your pardon?" Saint Just said, catching the tossed phone in self-defense. "Did I miss something, or is that the usual ending to the sort of monosyllabic dirge you've been chanting for the past ten minutes? Yippee?"

Maggie fell back onto the mattress once more, but this time she looked much more the inviting picture than she had earlier. The pout was gone. The tears were gone. "Tate's bringing another couple with him, so Mom says we can't stay at the condo. She can't toss Erin out without her throwing some huge hissy fit, and God forbid Tate and his pals could find a hotel, so I'm the natural choice. We're bunking in with Dad. Isn't that fabulous? Why didn't I think of that in the first place?"

"You're not upset that your mother would deny you a place at the family hearth, giving that place instead to some friends of your brother's?"

"Upset? I'd be doing handstands, if I could. For once being the black sheep of the family is showing some benefits." She turned her head to look at Saint Just, caught in the act of removing a few sweaters from one of the drawers. "And speaking of black, pack the black cashmere sweater, please. You like me in the black cashmere. Oh, I feel so much better."

"How gratifying, I'm sure. So there will be no more pouting?" Saint Just asked facetiously.

"I've still got this thing on my leg. Don't expect unmitigated bliss here. But, no, there will be no more pouting. Tomorrow it's under the river and through the Pine Barrens, to celebrate another Kelly Dysfunctional Christmas. But we'll be doing it mostly from Dad's apartment, not the condo. With any luck, we'll actually get through the next few days with nobody murdering anybody. And for our family? Hell, that'll be ... it'll be like a Christmas miracle."

And now a few words from our Shadowy Figure

lurking in the background ...

Yes! Yes, I've got it.

The perfect way.

The perfect crime.

The perfect answer.

The timing has to be right. Maybe the weather, too, but probably not.

All that I've ever wanted, soon to be mine, mine, mine!

It's coming. My moment.

I probably should get a haircut ...