Double Take
Page 123
Sherlock laughed as she refastened her seat belt. “We’ll see about that, but later. You don’t want to drive my baby?”
“Pul-ease” was all he said.
“I can’t believe how you despise my wheels, good solid wheels—”
He rolled his eyes.
She laughed. “All right. You look ready for an eight-hour nap—so why don’t you lower your flag to half-mast and close down until we get home?”
Savich was asleep before Sherlock turned out of the airport exit.
He felt something on his cheek, heard soft breathing, no wait, there was a slight hitch, then—it was kisses all over his face, warm, wet, smelling of honey. Honey? He opened his eyes, stared into his wife’s brilliant summer-blue eyes.
He cupped her face in his hand. “We’re home? Already?”
“Well, not exactly.” She kissed him again, this time a kiss with her tongue that brought him awake like nothing else could have.
He paused a moment. “Not exactly what? We’re not home yet?”
She shook her head, patted his cheek, and slithered away from him to open the driver’s-side door. “Come on, Dillon, time to get yourself together and face the world.”
He didn’t want to face the world. Not for a long time. It was Saturday morning. He didn’t have to face any world at all until Monday. He wanted to sleep, to make love to Sherlock, play basketball with his boy. He yawned, finally taking in his surroundings.
“What? This isn’t Georgetown?”
“It sure enough isn’t, you’re right about that. Come on, Dillon, we’ve got some things to do.”
He got out of the Volvo, started to get his gear out of the backseat, but she grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t need your stuff, just come with me. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
A surprise? He stood up and looked around him. He was in the driveway of a big shingled house with a huge yard, trees creeping in on both sides, and it was familiar—
“Why are we at the Maitlands’ house?”
“You’ll see. Come on.”
She took his hand and more or less pulled him up the flagstone walk, both sides bursting with more flowers than Savich had ever seen. They were Mrs. Maitland’s pride and joy.
“But—”
Suddenly the front door burst open and Sherlock tugged him inside. At least a zillion people mobbed him, yelling “Surprise,” all laughing and talking at once, telling him he looked like warmed-over toast. Everyone was on him, shaking his hands, both of them, slapping him on the back, the women kissing his cheeks, and finally there was Mr. Maitland, built like a bull, his small wife grinning up at him from beside her husband, flanked by the four Maitland boys, bruisers all of them. He hugged Mrs. Maitland, high-fived the rest of them.
“Papa!”
Sean ran full tilt at him and Savich scooped him up and held him high over his head, Sean yelling, “You’re not going to believe what Mama—”
“Sean, no!”
“Okay.” And Sean started telling him about his new goldfish and how his terrier Astro kept trying to put his head in the fish tank.
Finally Savich managed to get a word in. “Sherlock, are you going to tell me what all this is about? What’s—”
Mr. Maitland grabbed his arm. “Come this way, my friend. I’m going to give you a huge glass of iced tea and a disgusting cold pepper and olive sandwich Sherlock told my wife is your very favorite lunch.”
“Well, I—”
He was pushed and prodded toward the back of the house to a long line of French doors that gave onto the back patio and a long expanse of lawn and oak trees.
The doors opened, and Ollie Hamish said in his ear, “Take a step outside, just one step, yes, that’s right. Sean, my man, come to your uncle Ollie.”
Once his son was safe in Ollie’s arms and swung up onto his shoulders, Savich went down the three steps leading to the patio.
“Dillon, look to your right!”
That came from Ruth, and he grinned toward her, saw Dix and the boys, and slowly, not knowing what was going on, he turned and saw a truly beautiful thing—a brand-new shiny red Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet, sitting splendidly alone in the driveway, a huge red ribbon wrapped around it, a large red bow on the steering wheel.
“Happy birthday, Dillon!”
“It isn’t my birthday,” he said, not taking his eyes off the incredible machine.
“No matter, it is now,” Mr. Maitland said, his hand on Savich’s shoulder. “Sherlock decided you’d been stoic long enough driving that Fort Knox Volvo of hers. She’s tired of all that crying in the dark hours of the night over your burned-out Porsche. Ain’t it a beauty, Savich?”
“Pul-ease” was all he said.
“I can’t believe how you despise my wheels, good solid wheels—”
He rolled his eyes.
She laughed. “All right. You look ready for an eight-hour nap—so why don’t you lower your flag to half-mast and close down until we get home?”
Savich was asleep before Sherlock turned out of the airport exit.
He felt something on his cheek, heard soft breathing, no wait, there was a slight hitch, then—it was kisses all over his face, warm, wet, smelling of honey. Honey? He opened his eyes, stared into his wife’s brilliant summer-blue eyes.
He cupped her face in his hand. “We’re home? Already?”
“Well, not exactly.” She kissed him again, this time a kiss with her tongue that brought him awake like nothing else could have.
He paused a moment. “Not exactly what? We’re not home yet?”
She shook her head, patted his cheek, and slithered away from him to open the driver’s-side door. “Come on, Dillon, time to get yourself together and face the world.”
He didn’t want to face the world. Not for a long time. It was Saturday morning. He didn’t have to face any world at all until Monday. He wanted to sleep, to make love to Sherlock, play basketball with his boy. He yawned, finally taking in his surroundings.
“What? This isn’t Georgetown?”
“It sure enough isn’t, you’re right about that. Come on, Dillon, we’ve got some things to do.”
He got out of the Volvo, started to get his gear out of the backseat, but she grabbed his arm. “No, you don’t need your stuff, just come with me. I’ve got a surprise for you.”
A surprise? He stood up and looked around him. He was in the driveway of a big shingled house with a huge yard, trees creeping in on both sides, and it was familiar—
“Why are we at the Maitlands’ house?”
“You’ll see. Come on.”
She took his hand and more or less pulled him up the flagstone walk, both sides bursting with more flowers than Savich had ever seen. They were Mrs. Maitland’s pride and joy.
“But—”
Suddenly the front door burst open and Sherlock tugged him inside. At least a zillion people mobbed him, yelling “Surprise,” all laughing and talking at once, telling him he looked like warmed-over toast. Everyone was on him, shaking his hands, both of them, slapping him on the back, the women kissing his cheeks, and finally there was Mr. Maitland, built like a bull, his small wife grinning up at him from beside her husband, flanked by the four Maitland boys, bruisers all of them. He hugged Mrs. Maitland, high-fived the rest of them.
“Papa!”
Sean ran full tilt at him and Savich scooped him up and held him high over his head, Sean yelling, “You’re not going to believe what Mama—”
“Sean, no!”
“Okay.” And Sean started telling him about his new goldfish and how his terrier Astro kept trying to put his head in the fish tank.
Finally Savich managed to get a word in. “Sherlock, are you going to tell me what all this is about? What’s—”
Mr. Maitland grabbed his arm. “Come this way, my friend. I’m going to give you a huge glass of iced tea and a disgusting cold pepper and olive sandwich Sherlock told my wife is your very favorite lunch.”
“Well, I—”
He was pushed and prodded toward the back of the house to a long line of French doors that gave onto the back patio and a long expanse of lawn and oak trees.
The doors opened, and Ollie Hamish said in his ear, “Take a step outside, just one step, yes, that’s right. Sean, my man, come to your uncle Ollie.”
Once his son was safe in Ollie’s arms and swung up onto his shoulders, Savich went down the three steps leading to the patio.
“Dillon, look to your right!”
That came from Ruth, and he grinned toward her, saw Dix and the boys, and slowly, not knowing what was going on, he turned and saw a truly beautiful thing—a brand-new shiny red Porsche 911 Carrera Cabriolet, sitting splendidly alone in the driveway, a huge red ribbon wrapped around it, a large red bow on the steering wheel.
“Happy birthday, Dillon!”
“It isn’t my birthday,” he said, not taking his eyes off the incredible machine.
“No matter, it is now,” Mr. Maitland said, his hand on Savich’s shoulder. “Sherlock decided you’d been stoic long enough driving that Fort Knox Volvo of hers. She’s tired of all that crying in the dark hours of the night over your burned-out Porsche. Ain’t it a beauty, Savich?”
