Читать книгу Saving Alyssa - Loree Lough - Страница 12

CHAPTER FIVE

“SWEET DREAMS,” NOAH whispered, pulling Alyssa’s door closed.

He headed for the kitchen, taking care to avoid the loud squeak just outside her room. Three years ago, she could sleep through her mother’s book club meetings, his late-night phone calls, even thunderstorms. Since her mom’s death, it seemed his daughter slept with one eye open and one ear cocked. He understood that, because Jillian’s murder had all but turned him into an insomniac.

A gentle early autumn rain pecked the windows as he checked the back door, which had leaked like a sieve during the last downpour. So far, so good, he thought. But just to be safe, Noah tucked several towels near the threshold. Tomorrow, after dropping Alyssa off at school, he’d walk over to Kaplan’s Hardware for weather stripping.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then popped a CD into the stereo and settled into his well-worn recliner. He dimmed all the lights except for the one beside his chair, and as Bonnie Raitt’s haunting, husky voice filled the room, the mood was set.

Noah pried open the brass clasp on the manila envelope. Inside, three smaller envelopes held letters from his parents, his brother and sister.

A quiet knock at the French doors startled him. It didn’t surprise him to see Max through the slight opening between the curtain panels. What did surprise him was that he hadn’t heard her climb the long narrow staircase that led to the apartment.

When he opened the door, she pointed at the porch swing. “Oh, man, I’ve always wanted one of those! Is it new?”

“Yes and no. Taylor’s was having a sidewalk sale, and Alyssa went crazy over it.”

Max hung her leather jacket on the hall tree as he dropped the envelope onto the coffee table.

“And of course,” she said, making herself comfortable, “you couldn’t say no.”

“I just popped a beer,” he said. “Want one?”

She tucked long, copper-red curls behind her ears. “Sure. Why not. I’m off duty.”

He went into the kitchen for a bottle, and when he returned, Max was admiring the porcelain-faced baby doll he’d bought on the same day as the swing.

“I don’t remember seeing this before.” She thanked him for the beer, then leaned the doll in the sofa’s opposite corner.

The recliner creaked when he dropped onto its seat. “It kinda came with the swing.”

Max took a swig, then shook her head.

“What?” Noah said.

“You’d better learn to say no, that’s what, or that adorable kid of yours will be so spoiled by the time she’s sixteen, you’ll find yourself working a second job to pay for her pink Corvette. And a pony. And—”

“No way.”

“You forget how long I’ve had this ‘agent’ gig, Preston. I’ve seen it before. That’s how I know you’ll be sorry if you don’t soon get a handle on your yes-man tendencies.”

He didn’t want to talk about Alyssa, or how hard it was to deny her anything. The 9x12 envelope sat on the coffee table, and he was anxious to read the letters from his family.

Max followed his gaze and picked it up. “So my sources at the agency were right. You did get mail today.” Fingering the envelope’s flap, she added, “So what’s up in the Windy City these days?”

“Don’t know. I was just about to read the letters when you showed up.”

In typical Max fashion, she gave an unladylike snort. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” She toed off her high-heeled cowboy boots and propped both black-socked feet on the table. “Can’t remember when I last heard a Bonnie Raitt tune. Lord, but that woman can sing!”

She leaned into the backrest and closed her eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Noah sighed. The woman knew just about everything else about him. Why not add Watch me fall apart...again to the list?

His mom had stapled a newspaper clipping to her note, and he read the headline out loud. “Gina Judson Takes Six Blue Ribbons in Baking Category.” Beneath it was a full-color photo of his mom, standing in front of the DuPage County Fairgrounds entrance. “Man. I haven’t seen that in years.” He put the article on the coffee table, and while Max looked at it, he read his mom’s letter. Amos Miller next door had finally chopped down the messy mimosa tree that stained his mom’s prized brick driveway, she’d written, and the last of her tomatoes were ripening on the sunporch.

He could picture them, lined up in tidy rows on the glass-and-rattan table, could almost hear his mom scolding his dad for swiping the ripest for a sandwich, instead of leaving it for her famous tomato-watermelon salad.

“She has lovely handwriting,” Max said when he handed her the letter. “You just don’t see that anymore, what with email and texting and social networking.”

While she read, Noah opened Eddie’s letter. His brother, as usual, had started out by lambasting the Chicago Bears’ coaching staff, and went on to grouse that if the Cubs’ management had one functioning brain among them, the team might actually get into the playoffs at some point during his lifetime.

“Clearly,” Max observed, “your mom focused all her ‘neat penmanship’ energy on you, because Eddie’s writing is horrible!” She fanned herself with the pages. “Why doesn’t he type his letters on the computer, so people who aren’t hieroglyphics specialists can read them?”

“Keep it up and I’ll revoke your reading privileges,” Noah said wryly. “And to answer your question, he writes because our mom insists it’s more personal.”

And as he opened Grace’s letter, Max zipped her lip.

Noah’s sister and her firefighter husband still shared their sprawling rancher in Glendale Heights, and her letter read like a to-do list for Stan. The porch needed a coat of paint, and the boxwood hedge hadn’t been trimmed since last summer. Stan’s excuse? That Eddie had borrowed the hedge trimmer and the paint sprayer, and as usual, hadn’t returned either.

Noah hit Replay on the CD player while Max read Grace’s letter. “Another beer?” he asked.

“Better not,” she said. “How would it look if a cop stopped me on the way home?”

Noah tossed both bottles into the recycling bin.

“I’m wondering...do Grace and Stan have kids?” she asked.

“No, but not for a lack of trying. I’m wondering something, too.”

Heavily mascaraed green eyes opened wide. “About?”

“You.”

“Uh-oh...”

“You’re great at what you do, there’s no getting around that. But are all these questions you ask the result of careful training? Experience? Or were you just born nosy?”

Max rolled her eyes. “It’s stuff like that makes me wish I’d set you up at the Comedy Club instead of this bike shop.”

“Well, it’s a natural question. You’re too young to be so nosy.”

“Now there’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one!”

“So why aren’t you married?”

Max sat up straighter. “Aren’t you just full of questions tonight.”

“Reading mail from my family makes me nostalgic. So shoot me.”

“Can’t. The agency makes me account for every bullet fired....”

“You’re not getting off that easy,” Noah said. “If you’d had a mind to, you probably could have been a model. So which is it—you’re a workaholic or a man-hater?”

Max threw back her head and laughed. “Neither. I just don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and all the good marshals are spoken for.” She shrugged. “But you’re a fine one to talk. Three years in the program, longer than that since your wife died...why are you still unattached?”

Noah frowned. “I can’t believe you’d ask such a question.” For one thing, Jillian didn’t simply die, she’d been murdered. Even if his conscience allowed him to see other women, his fatherly instincts would never permit him to trust anyone to babysit Alyssa.

Max nodded. “Yeah, well, other people in your situation manage it. At least they didn’t become monks.”

A stony silence descended. Max rolled her eyes, then asked, “So how’s that li’l princess of yours?”

“Still a happy, well-adjusted kid,” he said, nodding toward Alyssa’s door. “Mostly thanks to you.”

Max waved the compliment away. “Knock it off, will ya? You know how easily I blush.”

“Yeah, well—”

“If you’re about to go over that same old ‘it’s my fault’ ground again, spare me, okay? Sit down. Read your dad’s letter.” Max paused, softened her tone. “I know you like to save his for last.”

He couldn’t deny that he’d gone down that road too many times to count. Couldn’t deny that he enjoyed hearing his dad talk about the crazy antics of his microbiology and immunology graduate students. This time, however, the letter sounded more like an official report on Senator O’Malley and others affiliated with Noah’s downfall.

“Listen to this,” he said to Max. And then he read aloud, “‘I can’t prove it, of course, but rumors are circulating that indicate a certain slimeball is still cutting deals and calling the shots from his Stateville prison cell. But don’t worry. I’m keeping an ear to the ground.’” Noah met Max’s eyes. “What does he mean by that?”

She sat up straighter, reached for the letter. “Don’t get your boxers in a knot. It’s probably nothing.”

“No offence, but that’s not much comfort. Why do I get the feeling Alyssa is still in danger, even after three long—”

“Shh,” the agent said, pointing at Alyssa’s door. “What if the kid hears you?” Max folded his father’s letter, returned it to its envelope. “Okay if I take this back to the office?”

“Why? I thought you guys read every word before the mail is delivered, so you can black out every name and date.”

“We do. But the letters pass through a lot of hands between here and Chicago. I’d rather err on the side of caution than take any chances.”

“I know that Alyssa and I aren’t the only people you’re assigned to, and that the letters have to pass through three, sometimes four post offices to throw off the bad guys.”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Max said. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“So far. I guess. And that isn’t much comfort, either.” Noah inhaled a shaky breath, remembering the alarm in his father’s letter. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I appreciate everything you and the agency have done for us.”

Reaching across the space between them, Max gave his hand a gentle pat. “There’s a 99 percent chance that what your dad heard is a rumor. The mad rantings of a foolish old convict, shooting off his mouth and thumping his chest to prove he’s still a big shot.” She held up a finger to silence Noah’s protest. “But I’ll look into it. You have my word on it.”

The clock struck the half hour.

“Nine-thirty? How can that be?” Grunting and groaning, Max tugged her boots back on, then shrugged into her jacket. Almost as an afterthought, she gave Noah a hug.

“Relax,” she said, patting the envelope in her pocket, “and let me take care of this. If there’s anything to it, I’ll let you know.”

He locked up, then sat on the edge of his recliner and stared at the scuffed hardwood beneath his bare feet. He was tired. So tired of worrying that every stranger had been sent by O’Malley, to finish what he’d started. Tired of pretending this life they were living was normal.

Alyssa would be disappointed to learn they hadn’t sent anything for her, so Noah stuffed the letters back into the manila envelope, sealed it and placed it in the lockbox hidden behind a row of ancient Reader’s Digest books on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Noah held his head in his hands and tried to think of something about their world that wasn’t a lie. When nothing came to mind, he slumped onto his chair and drove his fingers through his hair. Maybe when he answered the family’s letters, he’d ask them not to write, at least not for a while. It was hard enough holding things together without their black-and-white reminders of what life was like compared to what it could have been: Alyssa sleeping in a tiny apartment above a bicycle shop, instead of her big sunny room in Chicago. A dad who sold bike chains and air pumps instead of putting bad guys into prison. A dad who had become one himself.

If she hadn’t already lost so much, he might be tempted—

“Aw, don’t cry, Daddy,” his daughter said, climbing into his lap. Holding his face in her hands, she said, “I cry, too, when I miss Mommy. But everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Word for word what he’d said to her dozens of times over the years. But until she’d echoed the phrase, Noah hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

He hugged her tight. Kissed her cheek. Buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. She deserved better than this. Better than the self-pitying, self-centered coward he’d allowed himself to become.

“I’m okay,” he lied. “Got something in my eye, is all.”

She studied his face and, satisfied with his response, frowned slightly. “I just hate it when that happens. Do you want me to get the eyedrops?”

Standing, he hoisted her onto one hip and carried her back to her room.

“No, that’s okay. But if whatever it is hasn’t worked itself out soon, you can get the eyedrops, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, as he tucked her in. “I like taking care of you.”

Noah pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he said again, heading for the hallway.

She rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow tight as he turned out the light. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, listening, wanting nothing more than to be the father she deserved.

“Love you, Daddy,”

He could barely speak. “Love you, too, cupcake.”