Love Me If You Must

23

I stood a moment on the back porch to get my bearings. The wind had lost its bite, though I couldn’t be sure if it was due to the dissipating storm outside, or the raging storm within.

I’d accidentally turned off the back porch light earlier during my self-tour. Now I had to pick my way back home in total darkness. There was no way I was going back into that mudroom. Not even to flick a light switch.

I looked toward the streetlights out front and decided to take the long way home. I trudged through the snow, in no hurry to arrive at my destination.

The neighborhood looked enchanted in the snowfall. A few homes already had Christmas lights, even though Thanksgiving was still two weeks away. I looked with envy at Dorothy Fitch’s house across the street. Colored lights twinkled on shrubs and eaves.

A curtain in the window moved. I ignored it, chalking it up to Jack Fitch’s obsessive habit.

I walked on, tucking my hands in my jacket pockets. I’d never done holiday lights myself. The life I’d chosen required minimal baggage, and holiday decorations were definitely extra weight. Decorating for Christmas was something you did to make a place feel like home. I’d never lived in a house yet that I wanted to make feel that way. I always figured that if it ever became too homey, it would be too hard to leave when it came time to sell.

This was the first year, however, that a twinge of regret pulled at my heart over the matter.

I had no place to call home.

A car lurched over the tracks in my direction. I squinted in the headlights. The vehicle pulled to a stop at the curb.

A squad car.

The passenger-side window rolled down and the interior light came on.

“Tish.” It was Officer Brad.

What was he doing? Stalking me? He knew this was my night with David. How tacky could a guy get, tracking me down after my date with another man?

I stopped on the sidewalk, hands on hips, and glared at him.

Maybe he couldn’t see my expression in the pale streetlight, or maybe he chose to ignore it.

“How was your night?” His voice carried on the wind.

A blast of snow blew down the collar of my jacket. How rude could Brad get, asking how my date went? I tapped my foot, unwilling to answer.

“Come on. I’m just curious. Did everything go okay?”

Brad probably hoped to hear that I’d had a crummy night. Then he could forever hold over me that I’d turned down a hunky cop for a computer geek.

“I had a wonderful time.” I stepped closer to his car. “In fact, I hated to leave. David has such a beautiful place.”

Brad didn’t have to know that I’d never made it past the dining room.

“Yeah, but does he have a personality?” He looked away, then back to me. “Sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Apology accepted.” I leaned against the car, my head practically in the window. “He’s got more than personality. He’s compassionate and loving and caring . . .” I thought of the blaze brought on by a kiss on the hand.

“Caring enough to walk you home, I see.”

I gritted my teeth. “You are way out of line. I wouldn’t have let him walk me home even if he’d offered. Which he did, by the way.” I threw in the white lie for good measure.

I stepped away from the car and raised my voice proportionately. “Anyway, I don’t need anyone walking me home. And I don’t need you keeping an eye on me, or snooping, or whatever it is you’re doing here. Good night.”

I pivoted. Snow piled into my pant leg. I walked up my frozen sidewalk to the front door.

I closed it behind me and stood in the tiny entry, fuming. I kicked off my wet shoes. One hit the wall, marking up the fresh paint. Great. More work later. The stress of the evening threatened to engulf me.

Things had been going great until Brad pulled up. Why couldn’t he mind his own business? Jack Fitch was doing a good enough job spying on me. I didn’t need Brad Walters trying to scoop me out from under David, just as he had done with Rebecca.

I shivered in my damp socks. There was nothing worse than a big, old drafty Victorian. The house had seemed like a good idea last summer when it was ninety degrees outside. Boy, was I sorry now. I’d been keeping the thermostat at a balmy sixty-five degrees. But tonight it felt all of fifty-five. I wanted to jump in another shower just to get the chill out.

I walked through the parlor toward the kitchen. Every step sent a shiver up my spine, and it wasn’t coming from my bad leg. By the time I got to the dining room, I realized the draft was more than just wind whipping through old windows and siding.

I looked at the thermostat on the dining room wall.

Fifty-seven degrees.

Brrr.

I tapped it, hoping the little pointer was just stuck.

Nope.

Something must be wrong with the furnace.

Nice timing. The weatherman called for a three-day November squall, and I didn’t have heat. I pictured the mess I’d have on my hands if the pipes in my gravity system froze up.

I twisted the controls and hoped to hear the sound of the furnace cycling on.

Nothing.

The problem could be basic, like giving the thing a good, swift kick. Or, it could be more of a nightmare, like needing a new boiler.

Either way, I’d have to go down and take a look at it, just in case I had only to hit the reset button or flip a switch.

I didn’t relish the idea of tackling the basement steps with my bum leg. Sure, I’d been hobbling around just fine all day, but now I was tired.

I yawned. Too late for all that tonight.

I would simply put on a few extra layers and curl up in my sleeping bag tonight. Tomorrow, there would be plenty of sunshine down in the basement so I could see what I was doing. And my leg would be rested up to handle the task. If I couldn’t figure out the problem in the morning, at least it would be business hours so I could call somebody.

I slipped into my shorts-and-T-shirt pajamas and pulled sweats and a sweatshirt over top. I put on fat wool socks, as well, just in case the temperature dipped dramatically during the night. I climbed into my down-filled sleeping bag, snuggled into my pillow, and tried to drift off.

What must have been only a few hours later, I jerked awake. The blast of a train sounded in the distance. The rumble must have woken me.

I looked around the room, bathed in light from the street lamps.

I could see my breath. The temperature in the house had dropped into the danger zone. I tucked my nose into the nylon covers, in hopes of avoiding the icy air.

Then I remembered my dream.

Grandma, again. She lay in bed, dying. In her hand was a red foil envelope. She turned it over and over.

“Let it lie, Tish, let it lie,” she whispered.

I remember a feeling of helpless rage washing over me in my dream as Grandma stopped breathing. Then she was sinking into the cistern. Her features turned to stone as she plunged into the concrete. I was kneeling next to her, clawing at the cement, trying to bring her back. But all I did was break off my artificial nails, one by one, until they looked like pale pink rose petals sprinkled on a grave.

Safe on my cot, I almost laughed out loud at the image. That just went to show how foolish dreams could be. There was nothing pale about my fake nails. They were as neon as a color could get.

I fanned out my fingers, just to confirm that my nail color was really as obnoxious as I’d remembered. The Flamingo Pink almost glowed in the dark.

One of my fake nails was missing. I wondered if I’d lost it at the restaurant, David’s place, my house, or somewhere in between.

I curled my hands into balls and tucked them back under the covers. A girl could get frostbite if she wasn’t careful.

By now, I had launched into an uncontrollable shiver that started at my toes and worked its way up to the muscles in my neck. I lay shaking for a few minutes before admitting defeat. There was no way I would get back to sleep in this freezer. As much as I wanted to avoid it, I had to go check the furnace, if only to give it a good kick. I threw back the covers and put my stocking feet on the carpet.

I put on my ski parka and shoes, then flicked on every light along the way to the kitchen to face the cellar door.

I stopped on the linoleum in the alcove between the kitchen and the bathroom. I stared at the oak-paneled door in front of me, suddenly hot under my layers of clothes.

I slid back the bolt.

I reached for the doorknob and gripped it. The freezing metal burned against my skin. I half hoped I would be stuck there, my sweaty hand frozen to the knob like a tongue stuck to the monkey bars, rather than having to go downstairs.

I listened.

Just the steady hum of the refrigerator and howl of the wind outside.

I turned the knob.