Key of Knowledge
Page 41
IF she dreamed, Dana didn’t remember it when she woke in the morning. And when she woke, the drum of rain and the gloom had her turning over, with the plan to go directly back to sleep.
Moe had other ideas.
Without much choice, she threw on clothes, added a fielder’s cap and her oldest boots. Choosing a mug of coffee over an umbrella, she walked Moe in the rain and revved up her system with caffeine.
They were both soaked when the deed was done, forcing her to drag him into the bathroom. He whined, cried, tried to dig his paws into the floor as if she were taking him to slaughter.
By the time she’d toweled him off, she smelled as much like wet dog as he did.
A shower and another hit of coffee helped. She was just about to decide which one of her books to settle in with for the rainy morning when her phone rang.
Ten minutes later, she was hanging up the phone and grinning down at Moe.
“You know who that was? That was Mr. Hertz. You may not be acquainted with Mr. Hertz or Mr. Foy, who are involved in the longest-running trivia contest in our fine county. Apparently, the contestants assumed yours truly was on vacation and therefore unable to play master of ceremonies in my usual fashion.”
Amused and ridiculously delighted, she walked into the kitchen to pour her third cup of coffee. “However, this morning Mr. Foy stopped into the library and was informed I was no longer on staff.”
She leaned back on the counter, sipped coffee as Moe appeared to listen with avid attention. “Questions were asked and answered, mostly answered by the detestable Sandi. Mr. Foy, according to Mr. Hertz, gave the opinion that my departure was, quote, a downright, dirty shame, unquote, and vacated the premises.”
As if riveted, Moe cocked his head and panted.
“Shortly thereafter, the two trivia aficionados held an informal meeting over at the Main Street Diner and decided that if the powers that be at the Pleasant Valley Library didn’t appreciate a treasure such as myself, they no longer wished to have that institution involved in their daily information pursuit. I’ve just been asked if I would continue as emcee on a freelance basis.”
Because it was just Moe, and he was nothing if not sympathetic, she didn’t feel embarrassed when a tear trickled down her cheek. “I know it’s probably stupid to feel this touched, but I can’t help it. It’s just nice to know I’ve been missed.”
She sniffed back the tears. “Anyway, I’ve got to go on-line and find out when Chef Boy-Ar-Dee manufactured its first box of pizza mix.” She headed off, coffee in hand, to her desktop. “Where do they think up these things?”
IT kicked her into gear. Dana decided it was symbolic. She’d received validation of her purpose, her place in the community. The simple fact was, the Valley was vital to her, and this in-between stage—post-library, pre-bookstore—had left her feeling disenfranchised.
It wasn’t the amount of work she had to do but the fact that the work she’d done in the past hadn’t seemed to have any significance to anyone other than herself.
She dived in with a vengeance, placing orders for books, opening accounts, ordering her displays. Her mood was lifted to the point that when she was deep into the key books and the knock interrupted, she wasn’t irritated.
“Time to come up for air anyway.” She pulled open the door, then frowned at the young man who stood there, holding a single red rose in a clear bud vase. “Trolling for girls? You’re pretty cute, but a little young for me.”
He flushed, red as the rose. “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Dana Steele?”
“That’s right.”
“For you.” He passed her the vase, then took off.
Still frowning, Dana closed the door, then tugged off the card tied to the vase.
Reminded me of you,
Jordan
In his mind, Jordan was in the forest of the Pacific Northwest. Hunted. He had his wits, his will, and his need to see his woman again as his weapons. If he could survive for the next five minutes, he could survive for ten. For ten, he could survive an hour.
For the hunter wanted more than his life. It wanted his soul.
Fog slithered, gray snakes along the ground. The blood from the hastily bound wound in his arm seeped through the bandage and dripped into the mist. The pain kept him sharp, reminded him that he had more than blood to lose.
He should have seen it for a trap. That had been his mistake. But there was no going back, no point in regrets, no point in prayers. His only option was to keep moving. And to live.
He heard a sound. To his left? A kind of whispering the fog could make when parted by mass. He melted into the trees, pressed his back against bark.
Flight, he asked himself, or fight?
“What the hell game are you playing?”
“Christ Jesus.” He popped back from the world in his mind, the one speeding onto the screen through the rush of his fingertips over keys.
The speed of the trip had the blood roaring in his ears as he stared at Dana.
She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes full of suspicion.
“This is the little game I call writing for a living. Go away, come back later.”
“I’m talking about the flower, and I’ve got just as much right to be here as you do. It’s my brother’s house.”
“And this is, currently, my room in your brother’s house.”
She gave it one derisive scan. There was a bed, unmade, her own childhood dresser that she’d passed to Flynn when he’d bought the house, an open suitcase on the floor. The desk where Jordan worked had been Flynn’s during his teenage years and was missing one of the three drawers that ran down the side. On it was a laptop, some files and books, a pack of cigarettes, and a metal ashtray.
“Looks more like a weigh station,” she commented.
“It doesn’t have to be pretty.” Resigned, he reached for his cigarettes.
“That’s a brainless habit.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He lit it, deliberately blew out smoke. “Half a pack a day, and mostly when I’m working. Get off my back. What’re you riled up about, anyway? I thought women liked getting flowers.”
“You sent me a single red rose.”
“That’s right.” He considered her more thoughtfully now. Her hair was pulled back, so she’d been working. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, so she hadn’t planned on leaving the house. She was wearing jeans, a very faded Penn State sweatshirt, and shined black-leather boots with a stubby heel.
Moe had other ideas.
Without much choice, she threw on clothes, added a fielder’s cap and her oldest boots. Choosing a mug of coffee over an umbrella, she walked Moe in the rain and revved up her system with caffeine.
They were both soaked when the deed was done, forcing her to drag him into the bathroom. He whined, cried, tried to dig his paws into the floor as if she were taking him to slaughter.
By the time she’d toweled him off, she smelled as much like wet dog as he did.
A shower and another hit of coffee helped. She was just about to decide which one of her books to settle in with for the rainy morning when her phone rang.
Ten minutes later, she was hanging up the phone and grinning down at Moe.
“You know who that was? That was Mr. Hertz. You may not be acquainted with Mr. Hertz or Mr. Foy, who are involved in the longest-running trivia contest in our fine county. Apparently, the contestants assumed yours truly was on vacation and therefore unable to play master of ceremonies in my usual fashion.”
Amused and ridiculously delighted, she walked into the kitchen to pour her third cup of coffee. “However, this morning Mr. Foy stopped into the library and was informed I was no longer on staff.”
She leaned back on the counter, sipped coffee as Moe appeared to listen with avid attention. “Questions were asked and answered, mostly answered by the detestable Sandi. Mr. Foy, according to Mr. Hertz, gave the opinion that my departure was, quote, a downright, dirty shame, unquote, and vacated the premises.”
As if riveted, Moe cocked his head and panted.
“Shortly thereafter, the two trivia aficionados held an informal meeting over at the Main Street Diner and decided that if the powers that be at the Pleasant Valley Library didn’t appreciate a treasure such as myself, they no longer wished to have that institution involved in their daily information pursuit. I’ve just been asked if I would continue as emcee on a freelance basis.”
Because it was just Moe, and he was nothing if not sympathetic, she didn’t feel embarrassed when a tear trickled down her cheek. “I know it’s probably stupid to feel this touched, but I can’t help it. It’s just nice to know I’ve been missed.”
She sniffed back the tears. “Anyway, I’ve got to go on-line and find out when Chef Boy-Ar-Dee manufactured its first box of pizza mix.” She headed off, coffee in hand, to her desktop. “Where do they think up these things?”
IT kicked her into gear. Dana decided it was symbolic. She’d received validation of her purpose, her place in the community. The simple fact was, the Valley was vital to her, and this in-between stage—post-library, pre-bookstore—had left her feeling disenfranchised.
It wasn’t the amount of work she had to do but the fact that the work she’d done in the past hadn’t seemed to have any significance to anyone other than herself.
She dived in with a vengeance, placing orders for books, opening accounts, ordering her displays. Her mood was lifted to the point that when she was deep into the key books and the knock interrupted, she wasn’t irritated.
“Time to come up for air anyway.” She pulled open the door, then frowned at the young man who stood there, holding a single red rose in a clear bud vase. “Trolling for girls? You’re pretty cute, but a little young for me.”
He flushed, red as the rose. “Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am. Dana Steele?”
“That’s right.”
“For you.” He passed her the vase, then took off.
Still frowning, Dana closed the door, then tugged off the card tied to the vase.
Reminded me of you,
Jordan
In his mind, Jordan was in the forest of the Pacific Northwest. Hunted. He had his wits, his will, and his need to see his woman again as his weapons. If he could survive for the next five minutes, he could survive for ten. For ten, he could survive an hour.
For the hunter wanted more than his life. It wanted his soul.
Fog slithered, gray snakes along the ground. The blood from the hastily bound wound in his arm seeped through the bandage and dripped into the mist. The pain kept him sharp, reminded him that he had more than blood to lose.
He should have seen it for a trap. That had been his mistake. But there was no going back, no point in regrets, no point in prayers. His only option was to keep moving. And to live.
He heard a sound. To his left? A kind of whispering the fog could make when parted by mass. He melted into the trees, pressed his back against bark.
Flight, he asked himself, or fight?
“What the hell game are you playing?”
“Christ Jesus.” He popped back from the world in his mind, the one speeding onto the screen through the rush of his fingertips over keys.
The speed of the trip had the blood roaring in his ears as he stared at Dana.
She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, eyes full of suspicion.
“This is the little game I call writing for a living. Go away, come back later.”
“I’m talking about the flower, and I’ve got just as much right to be here as you do. It’s my brother’s house.”
“And this is, currently, my room in your brother’s house.”
She gave it one derisive scan. There was a bed, unmade, her own childhood dresser that she’d passed to Flynn when he’d bought the house, an open suitcase on the floor. The desk where Jordan worked had been Flynn’s during his teenage years and was missing one of the three drawers that ran down the side. On it was a laptop, some files and books, a pack of cigarettes, and a metal ashtray.
“Looks more like a weigh station,” she commented.
“It doesn’t have to be pretty.” Resigned, he reached for his cigarettes.
“That’s a brainless habit.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He lit it, deliberately blew out smoke. “Half a pack a day, and mostly when I’m working. Get off my back. What’re you riled up about, anyway? I thought women liked getting flowers.”
“You sent me a single red rose.”
“That’s right.” He considered her more thoughtfully now. Her hair was pulled back, so she’d been working. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, so she hadn’t planned on leaving the house. She was wearing jeans, a very faded Penn State sweatshirt, and shined black-leather boots with a stubby heel.
