Читать книгу Man Behind The Voice - Lisa Bingham - Страница 13

“Do you mind telling me why we’re in such a hurry to get out of Denver?” One-Eye asked as he dropped his duffel bag on the floor and planted his hands on his hips.

“We’re not in a rush,” Jack reassured him. “I just want to catch the first flight this morning, that’s all.”

One-Eye snorted. “There’s another one leaving in three hours. Why wake us both at the crack of dawn?”

Jack didn’t bother to answer the man. After a restless night, haunted by dreams of Eleanor Rappaport, he was in no mood to humor anyone. He wanted to be rid of Denver as soon as possible.

“If you were to ask me,” One-Eye continued without urging, “I’d say your recent concussion must have rattled some of your marbles. You’re as jumpy as a one-armed man in a boxing ring. You ought to relax, see the sights. We could take in a tour of the Mint or one of the local resorts. There’s baseball, or…”

Barely listening to One-Eye’s monologue, Jack packed his belongings into a canvas bag and called the airline to confirm their tickets. Then, after ushering One-Eye from the room, he allowed the older man to drive to the airport, all the while enduring his chatter about the sights they would miss.

Once at the airport Jack paid for the car with his credit card, casting glances at the bold digital clock that ticked off the minutes to his flight. He and One-Eye would have to hurry.

Spurred by his thoughts, Jack rushed to the waiting shuttle bus. “Come on, One-Eye, or we’ll miss our plane.”

“Coming!” One-Eye grumbled, clearly loath to hurry any more than he had already.

Once the bus had dropped them off at the terminal, Jack checked the overhead monitors, then loped in the direction of the underground train, which would take them to the proper boarding gate. With each jarring step, his head pounded more fiercely, and his chest grew tight with something akin to guilt.

But why should he feel guilty? He’d come to Denver, seen Eleanor Rappaport and reassured himself that she was dealing with her blindness. What more could anyone demand of him? He wasn’t indebted to her in any way. The accident all those months ago had been just that…an accident. Even Eleanor Rappaport’s mother had insisted as much, according to the news report Jack had seen the morning after the incident. No charges had ever been filed against any of the people involved, no lawsuits begun.

So he shouldn’t feel anything but relief in escaping Colorado.

As he emerged onto concourse B, Jack heard their flight being announced and breathed a sigh of relief. He and One-Eye had arrived in time to board, but were late enough that Jack wouldn’t have to sit in the terminal and ponder the strange events that had brought him to this place. Within hours he would be in Los Angeles, back in his apartment, back in his normal routine.

Jack dodged around the other travelers, taking the escalator steps two at a time, while One-Eye trotted after him like a devoted puppy.

As soon as they arrived in Los Angeles, Jack would arrange some time off for himself. After a few weeks of rest and relaxation, he would be fine. He was sure of it. He wouldn’t think about Denver. Or Eleanor Rappaport. He wouldn’t wonder what could have happened if he’d stayed for one more day….

Stay. Just one more day, something inside him whispered.

No. He couldn’t. He needed to get back home.

“Your ticket, sir?”

Too late he realized he’d been standing in front of the check-in counter, staring into space while a pretty airline employee waited to process his boarding pass.

“Your ticket?”

“Sure.” He dragged the crumpled documents from his breast pocket, but as he handed them to the flight attendant, he was suddenly loath to let go. He became abruptly aware of the throbbing of his head and the aches of his weary body.

Funny, but when he’d been talking to Eleanor, he hadn’t remembered his injuries. He’d been so involved with her he hadn’t given himself another thought.

“Sir?”

Blinking, he stared at the too-pretty face of the flight attendant. But even as he stared at the woman, he found himself struck with a sudden thought. How was Eleanor going to take care of a child? What steps had she taken for the baby’s arrival? It was obvious that Eleanor had adjusted to a life alone, but what about the challenges of caring for an infant as well?

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I—”

The throbbing in his head increased. A tight band of worry tightened around his chest.

One-Eye touched his arm in concern. “Jack? What is it? You’ve gone as white as a sheet.”

He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. “Nothing, I—”

But he couldn’t finish the sentence. If he left, he would always wonder about Eleanor and her baby. Hell, he didn’t even know for sure if she was alone. He knew nothing about her other than she lived with two elderly women in an aging brownstone.

So who was the baby’s father? Had Eleanor been abandoned? Had she been abandoned because of her blindness?

Nausea gripped his stomach, and his anxiety increased.

Holding the ticket more firmly, Jack tried to extend it again, but as he did the sickness intensified. The clerk nearly tore it from his fingers, but he barely noticed.

Dammit all to hell, what was happening to him? He had no business insinuating himself in Eleanor Rappaport’s life.

The attendant peered at him in concern. “Your friend is right, sir. You do look pale. Are you sure you don’t want me to…”

The words flowed around him like thick honey, but Jack couldn’t grasp their meaning. Not when he was being flooded with an overwhelming dread. In an instant he knew that if he stepped on that plane, he would be making one of the biggest mistakes in his life.

“Dammit,” he whispered to himself.

Go back, a voice whispered inside him. You have to go back to her.

“No.”

Too late, he realized he’d spoken the word aloud, because both the flight attendant and One-Eye were studying him strangely.

Cursing under his breath, Jack turned and strode in the opposite direction.

“Sir? Your ticket!”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t pause. Vaguely he heard One-Eye running after him, but all Jack could think about was that he would have to confront Eleanor Rappaport again. Soon.

JACK HAD ORIGINALLY SUPPOSED that once his decision was made, he would grow comfortable with the thought of seeing Eleanor Rappaport again. But he wasn’t.

That fact alone was completely unsettling. He was a man who was accustomed to putting his life in danger. He made a living from such a practice. So why should a mere slip of a woman unsettle him so completely?

Shying away from an answer he sensed he wasn’t quite ready to examine, he vowed to approach this problem in a logical manner. He would plot each angle, investigate every possibility, just as if Eleanor Rappaport were a stunt to be choreographed.

That planning brought him to a boutique located among the exclusive shops lining Larimer Square.

Jack sipped from the foam cup of coffee he held and shoved his free hand deeper into his jacket. The sky was overcast and threatened more rain. The air hung thick with the scents of spring—damp earth, new buds and grass. A restlessness was in the air, a thrumming anticipation. As if there were something waiting for him, just out of reach.

And then he saw her. Eleanor Rappaport.

She was quite lovely, he had to give her that. She had long, thick hair the color of rich chocolate. Her bone structure was delicate, her carriage ethereal, her body slim and lithe. Even in the last stages of pregnancy, she walked with the grace of a dancer, her hand resting in the crook of her mother’s arm. The two of them were laughing as they came to a stop in front of Regina’s shop. Victoria’s Closet suited them both, with its old-world facade and vintage-style displays.

Jack slouched a little deeper into the bench where he sat. Pulling the brim of his baseball hat lower over his brow, he remained quiet and still, the coffee forgotten, as the women stopped, bussed each other on either cheek, then said their goodbyes.

It wasn’t until they’d parted and Eleanor had made her way nearly a block down the street that Jack stood. From the opposite side of the street, he followed her for a hundred yards to where she stopped in front of an ornate movie theater. He saw her take a ring of keys from her pocket and open the door, then enter and lock up again.

Jack stood there a few minutes more, waiting for the lights to turn on—then realized they wouldn’t be coming on. Why should they? Eleanor Rappaport didn’t need them.

Drinking the last of the coffee, he tossed the cup into the garbage and retraced his steps. It was time he had some information, personal information, about Eleanor Rappaport.

“What’s up, boss?”

Too late he noted that One-Eye had somehow followed him from the hotel and from there to Larimer Square.

“I thought you were going to sleep in?”

“You woke me up when you slammed the door.”

“Uh-huh.”

One-Eye had the grace to look sheepish, but he quickly turned the tables on Jack. “You’ve seen her again, haven’t you? That blind woman you encountered in the restaurant.”

Jack didn’t answer. He began moving quickly down the street, already thinking about his next move.

“Well?” One-Eye demanded, scrambling to catch up.

“Yes,” Jack confirmed shortly. “I saw her.”

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to rent a car.”

“What for?”

“I need to visit her landladies.”

One-Eye halted in his tracks. “Her landladies! What in heaven’s name for?”

ELEANOR STOOD IN THE SHADOWS just inside The Flick. The sensation had come again. That strange feeling of being watched. It had begun only a few minutes ago and hadn’t eased until she’d closed herself in the theater.

Who was watching her? And why?

Growling to herself in suppressed rage, she stomped into the office, reaching for the tiny cassette recorder that was left there each day. Although she’d begun classes in Braille, Eleanor hadn’t yet mastered the skill of reading the tiny bumps with the tips of her fingers, so she had been forced to find other means to circumvent the lists and books and written words she had taken for granted as a sighted person.

“Eleanor, it’s Babs.” The familiar, recorded voice spilled into the silence, filling the room with its warmth.

Barbara Worthington, the owner of The Flick, was a quick-witted, energetic woman who spent her days with her small son, Philip, and her husband, Tom, then worked during the evening hours.

Five years earlier Barbara had reopened the restored movie house under the guise of providing healthy snacks and even “healthier” movies—the films selected from a variety of classics and modern releases that Babs felt were “art.” Because of her dedication to avant-garde films, original promotional ideas, guest lecturers and community college involvement, Babs’s original idea had developed a cult following. Her devoted customers guaranteed nearly full houses for its evening shows and healthy numbers of customers for the matinees, as well.

“We’ve got a shipment of canola oil coming just after eleven. Tell them I won’t take that generic stuff they keep trying to foist on us. As far as I’m concerned, it tastes like axle grease. I want the good stuff, just as we advertise. The best they’ve got. After all, the Bell’s Angels will be coming from the Bell Retirement Villa for the two-o’clock showing of Magnificent Obsession. I can’t have any of them dropping in the aisle from a coronary because they ate the popcorn. Other than that, take care of the usual jobs—stocking counters, filling towel dispensers, whatever else needs to be done. Brian will be in to help you about ten-thirty. He’ll take care of the cleaning and check the projectors. ’Bye.”

Replacing the recorder where she’d found it, Eleanor grimaced and reached for the wraparound apron hanging on the back door. Yet another fascinating day in the world of the cinema was about to begin. She didn’t have time to think about who might be following her.

Later.

She’d think about it once she’d gone home.

ELEANOR WAS JUST CLOSING the front door to the brownstone when she heard the flap-flap of Minnie’s slippers. Minnie invariably exchanged her shoes for fur-edged mules whenever she entered the house, while Maude remained in her support oxfords until she retired for bed. Thankfully, such idiosyncrasies allowed Eleanor to tell the women apart.

“Hello, Minnie.”

There was a heartfelt sigh from the direction of Minnie’s door. “I’m so glad you’re home. I wasn’t sure you would make it in time.”

Eleanor frowned. “In time?”

Minnie took her hand, the elderly woman’s fingers slightly cold and soft as a baby’s. “These came for you.”

Eleanor ran her palm over the familiar shapes of three thick books.

“The art department from the university sent them. They said that you’d agreed to evaluate them for their art history classes.”

“You should have refused their proposal, Eleanor.” Maude’s voice chimed in from the depths of their apartment. “You’re looking much too tired lately.”

“I’m fine, Maude,” Eleanor insisted, raising her voice to be heard. But even as she uttered the words, she resisted the urge to sigh. She had agreed to do this for the university, but it had been so long since the request had been made, she’d forgotten all about the arrangement. If the truth were known, she’d been sure that they would never call. Since her father was a dean at the same university, she’d suspected that the offer was made through good-natured arm twisting and not from any real need.

“A reader will be coming at seven,” Minnie continued, “and it’s almost that now.”

Maude added, “You’ll have to hurry, dear, if you want time to run a comb through your hair.”

“A reader?” Eleanor echoed, wondering how all of these arrangements had been made without her input.

“Yes. Evidently there’s some rush. Something about purchase orders and grants and funding. I really didn’t listen too much to that part. But I did write down that a volunteer reader would be here at seven.” She patted Eleanor’s hand. “I met your reader earlier today. We had a cup of tea together and chatted for a few minutes.”

Eleanor scowled in irritation. She’d been assigned several volunteer readers from the university over the past few months. After dealing with the young students, she’d come to the conclusion that she preferred to choose her own assistants. Some of the kids sent her way could barely read themselves, others had annoying voices or distracting habits. A reader was much like a car. It needed to be test-driven before becoming a permanent part of one’s life.

But Minnie wasn’t to blame for the situation, so there was no sense in Eleanor venting her irritation.

“Thank you for your help, Minnie,” she managed to say. “If you’ll just stack the books on my arm.”

The collection of art history texts weighed nearly ten pounds, but Eleanor was able to make the climb to the third-floor landing without too much difficulty.

Because the four-story brownstone had been altered from its original one-family dwelling into a two-apartment complex, Minnie and Maude had the first two floors for their own use, and Eleanor had the top two.

Twisting the knob, Eleanor entered the living room and dumped the books and her purse on the couch by the door. Although she was not a vain woman, she wished she had more time before the reader was expected. One of the volunteers she’d used a few months ago had commented on the “dustiness” of Eleanor’s furnishings. Until that encounter, Eleanor hadn’t paid much attention to her living quarters. She kept her belongings neat out of necessity, but dusting wasn’t her strong suit.

Her fingers ran lightly over the chair rail along the wall as she hurried into her bedroom, brushed her hair, twisted it into a French knot and secured it with an ornate clip her mother had given her years ago. Then she threw off the sweater and maternity jeans she’d worn to work, exchanging them for a lighter cotton dress. Minnie and Maude liked their apartment to be warm—almost tropical. Even with her own thermostat off, Eleanor’s rooms tended to get quite hot.

She was making her way to the bathroom to attempt a bit of blush and eye shadow when the doorbell rang.

“Blast it all,” she muttered under her breath. Why hadn’t the university at least called to see if this evening would be convenient for such an activity? The last thing Eleanor wanted that night was hours of listening to some gum-popping, barely out-of-high-school teenager stumbling her way through an art history tome.

The doorbell rang again, then was followed by a sharp rap on the panels.

“Coming,” she called out impatiently. If first impressions were worth anything, Eleanor was ready to send the woman packing. After all, this was Eleanor’s home. She shouldn’t be summoned to the door as if she were some sort of inconvenience to this girl’s valuable time.

Piqued, Eleanor threw the door open. “Listen, I realize that you’re new at this, but if the two of us are going to work together, there are a few ground rules you’ll need to follow.”

“Fine.”

The voice wasn’t that of a woman. It was very dark, very low.

And very male.