Читать книгу A Bolt from the Blue - Maggie Wells - Страница 8

The house was still standing. Hope’s attention strayed from the female firefighter to the open front door and back again. The young woman gestured broadly as she spoke to the police officers, but she must have gotten her point across fairly quickly because she turned and jogged to the door to join her team inside. A second later, the patrolman rolled his lights and tweaked his siren again. Drenched and walking on shredded feet, Hope moved aside as the jackass performed a perfect three-point turn. He gave her a jaunty salute as he cruised past.

Hope hauled herself onto the lip of the truck and glared at his taillights. “Protect and serve, my ass,” she seethed. “I’m gonna remember this when it comes time to dole out the bequests, les cochons!”

“Yeah, you tell ’em,” a voice drawled from the front of the truck.

She jumped. “Oh! I’m sorry.” The apology popped out automatically. “I didn’t know there was anyone in here.”

The driver smiled at her. “Holding down the fort.”

Hope finger-combed her rain-flattened hair. Because when a woman is caught running around one of the swankiest bits of Chicago lakefront in nothing but a shirt and underpants, she should try to look her best. “God, what an awful night.”

“Spring,” the young man answered laconically.

Hope stopped fiddling with her hair and pulled the blanket tighter around her. “I bet you’ve had a busy night.”

“Beats watching HGTV.”

She turned to look at him, puzzled. “HGTV?”

He waved the question off. “The captain’s got a thing for home improvement shows. They drive me nuts.” He peered through the windshield toward the house. “Who cares what color pillows they put on a couch built out of plywood and an old mattress? No one’s going to sit there, anyway.”

He fell silent, and Hope had the impression she was supposed to make some kind of response, but her thoughts were logy and she hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about. She wasn’t a television viewer, for the most part. “Right.”

She let her head fall forward. Tangled strands of hair lashed her cheeks, but she didn’t have the energy to fight with them. Her feet throbbed. She moved beyond teeth chattering to full-on body shakes. She checked the space behind her to see if she could stretch out. Settling into the space, she jumped when the female firefighter appeared in the open doors.

The name GRAHAM was written on the breast of the heavy coat she wore. A reassuring smile curved her lips and crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You were right. Electrical fire. Looks like a small one. Burned itself out.” She wrinkled her pert, upturned nose. “I’m afraid we may have caused more damage than the fire itself, but we had to check inside the walls.”

Hope had no idea what she meant by the part about the walls, but she wasn’t worried about the mess. She needed to sweep up the pieces of the shattered mug, anyway.

“Your wiring is messed up. You’ll need a good electrician.”

“There she goes, drumming up business again,” the driver said in a teasing tone.

Confused, Hope tried to make heads or tails out of what they were saying, but gave up. She was too muddled. “Pardon me?”

The first firefighter shook her head. “Never mind.” She reached inside her oversized fire coat and pulled out a quilted black bag. “I hope you don’t mind. I grabbed this and your phone as I was checking the second story.”

Hope stared at the bag for a long moment; then recognition kicked in. Two interlocking C’s. Chanel. Her purse. The young woman had brought her purse. “Thank you.”

She clutched the bag. In a way, the leather satchel was her most precious possession. Her passport was in there. Her wallet. Credit cards. Cash. The plain platinum band John slipped onto her finger many years ago.

She rarely wore the ring but always carried it with her. Usually, she kept the band in the blown glass bowl they bought in Venice, but her pretty glass bowl was safe in France. Here, she opted for her travel default and slipped the ring into the side pocket of the bag.

After plunging her hand into the opening, she closed her fingers around the simple circlet. He’d wanted to buy her something big and flashy. A ring “befitting her station” as his wife. She never wanted to be any man’s wife, and she told him if he wanted her to marry him, they’d have to do things her way. She wore her wedding ring in those horrible days when he lay wasting away, then removed it the moment the last of the mourners left the Chateau.

“May I see some identification, Ms. Elliot?”

Some stubborn, snotty part of her wanted to correct the girl’s form of address, but she squashed the impulse. First, this was America. The woman wouldn’t know a Baroness from a barrette. Second, she never liked the honorific, even when used correctly. After all, she was an American, even if she was twenty-plus years removed, and titles sounded phony to her. Until she met John, she thought only characters in stage plays actually used them.

She pulled out her blue U.S. passport. The young woman squinted at the name printed inside. The American aversion to titular grandeur allowed her to use the name she preferred, Hope Winston Elliot. But the moment Diana and her friends got hold of her, they’d insist on hand-lettered place cards with nothing short of The Right Honourable Hope, Baroness Ashford. Of course, they’d leave the U out of Honorable. Americans were always tripped up by their Americaness. John had often teased her about her own.

“Ms. Elliot, is there someone you can call for a place to stay?”

Hope looked at the mobile phone the young woman held. Her mobile. Or, rather, the temporary phone she bought to use while she was in the States. Diana. Her sister’s was the only phone number saved to the directory. But the last thing she wanted was to rouse her high-strung sister from her bed in the small hours of the morning.

“I can’t stay here?” Like a child, she asked the question, even though she already knew the answer.

“No, ma’am. We shut off the electrical service to the house in case power is restored. Until you can have the wiring checked, you don’t want to risk running any voltage.”

“Right.”

Looking at the phone in her hand, she ran through her options. Staying with Diana and Richard was not one of them. Though she loved her sister, they were very different people. Like their parents, Diana approved of little Hope said or did. And her brother-in-law was even worse. All his life, Richard’s friends had called him Dick rather than one of the many other derivatives of the name. Hope suspected the nickname wasn’t entirely affectionate.

“I’ll check into a hotel. Can I gather some of my things?”

Firefighter Graham hoisted her heavy-duty flashlight. “I’ll take you up.”

Glad to have an escort, Hope slid down from the shelter of the truck. The rain had stopped, but the tree leaves showered the earth at a steady pace. She winced when her left foot touched down, and the younger woman caught the grimace.

A hand clamped on Hope’s forearm. “Ma’am, are you injured?”

Shaking her head, Hope tried to wave her off. “The thunderstorm startled me. I dropped the mug I was holding and stepped on some of the pieces when I was trying to get out of the house.”

Without another word, Firefighter Graham grabbed her by both arms and propelled her back into the truck. “Get off your ass, Bobby. We need a medic.”

The young man in the driver’s seat sprang into action. Hope craned her neck, watching as he practically launched himself from the front seat. The slam of the heavy door made her cringe. Seconds later, he appeared in the bay doors, a flush staining his smooth cheeks. “You’re injured?”

“Only some cuts on my feet.”

Firefighter Graham adjusted the light for the young man to get a closer look. “Why didn’t you say so?” he grumbled as he opened a massive first-aid kit.

She raised one shoulder. The Gallic shrug was one of the few truly French things she mastered in decades of living there. “You didn’t ask.”

The young woman stepped aside to give Bobby better access to Hope. “I saw your suitcase and stuff upstairs. Do you want me to run up and grab your things for you?”

A part of her stiffened at the thought of having a perfect stranger gather her personal items, but she was tired. Weary to the bone. And everything hurt. Not just her feet, but her head and her hip and a host of other body parts making their displeasure known. Bobby applied gentle pressure to the heel of her left foot, and she sucked a sharp breath through her teeth.

“You have a few pieces stuck in there.” He adjusted the light, then reached into the box and pulled out an impressive pair of tweezers. “I can try to get them out here, or we can send you over to Memorial.”

Everything inside Hope froze at the mention of the local hospital. “No.” The answer came out instinctively. “There’s no need for the hospital.”

Bobby inclined his head in acknowledgment. “This will hurt a bit, but I can get you lined out. At least for tonight.”

“Ms. Elliot?” Ms. Graham inquired, prodding her back to the previous topic. “Would you like me to get your things?”

“Yes, please,” Hope said, resigned. “I would appreciate the help.”

“No problem,” she replied, but her attention was diverted.

Hope followed the young woman’s gaze and spotted the other firefighters exiting the house. One gave a thumbs-up signal with his gloved hand, and then the two of them proceeded to the back of the truck and started stowing equipment.

Within minutes, Hope’s feet had been cleared, cleaned, and bandaged. Blue medical tape crisscrossed the tops of her feet. Ms. Graham beckoned from the doorway, and Hope started to scoot down out of the truck, only to be stopped by the young man who’d treated her.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

She started to protest, but her words transformed into a whoop as he swept her up, threw her over his shoulder in the classic rescue hold, then stalked toward the house.

“Gotta keep the dressings dry,” he admonished her. “And be sure you keep applying a topical antibiotic. God only knows what you stepped on out here.”

Hope couldn’t reply. She was too aware her ass had been hoisted into the air for the whole world to see.

“You had a recent tetanus shot?” He ducked carefully through the door and deposited her onto the small settee in the entrance with an unflattering grunt. Rolling his shoulders back as he straightened, he flashed a sheepish smile. “If you haven’t, you should get one as soon as you can.”

“I’m up to date on all my vaccines,” she assured him, pushing the ropy tendrils of her tangled hair back from her face. A beat too late, she remembered her manners. “Thank you.”

“I thought you might like to change before you go?” Ms. Graham touched the large rolling suitcase hauled out of the bedroom upstairs. “I also grabbed your makeup bag and brush out of the bathroom.”

A warm rush of gratitude flooded her. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Bobby smirked and turned to go. “Donate what you would have given the cops to us.”

Hope laughed. The sound was rusty, but she remembered this giddy feeling. Joy. Simple joy for simple things. Dry clothes. A hairbrush. Brave people who rush in where others fear to go. Strangers who dial emergency services for crazy ladies standing in the rain.

Firefighter Graham glanced out at the truck. “Go ahead and change. I’ll have to seal the house until the inspector walks the scene and says the place is safe.” She must have looked stricken, because the young woman was quick to reassure her. “Won’t take long. Probably first thing tomorrow.” One corner of her mouth crooked up. “Things are usually quiet around here. He’ll be excited to have something to do.”

Exhaling her impatience, Hope reached for the suitcase. “Oh. Good. I suppose I’ll need to call an electrician to check the wiring.”

At this, Ms. Graham shifted, looking mildly uncomfortable. Hope looked down at the suitcase. She hadn’t even opened the case, so her unmentionables weren’t showing. Puzzled, she looked at the young woman. “What?”

“My dad’s an electrician. Master electrician,” she corrected, as if repeating the distinction had been drilled into her. “I can give you his number, if you want.”

Hope blinked. Then realization struck her. This was what Bobby meant with the dig about drumming up business. “Oh.”

“He’s booked up most of the time,” the young woman continued, “but he has my two cousins working with him now. All certified. They could at least take a look and give you an estimate.”

Hope smiled as she opened the suitcase and pulled out the first pants and shirt she found. “A reference would be lovely.” Tired, dripping, and far too weary to try to come up with a pen and paper, Hope plucked the mobile phone from her bag and handed it to the girl as she rose, the dry clothes clutched in her hand. “Enter his phone number and the company name.”

The petite young woman in the big, bad firefighter clothes smiled like a girl crowned with a tiara. “Thanks. I know Dad can get you fixed up.”

Hope carefully avoided the mirror over the powder room sink. She didn’t need to see the ravages to know the result was bad. Leaving the sodden jersey and her panties in a twisted heap on the floor, she used the hand towel to dry off before dressing in black palazzo pants and a gauzy peach top meant to go with an equally frothy skirt. She dismissed the mismatched outfit without a second glance. Let the fashion police come after her. This time she was at least armed with her identification and a hairbrush.

She squeezed her eyes shut as she attempted the first pass with the brush. Her normally smooth bob was twisted into tight coils. She was halfway to a new look involving dreadlocks. Working the bristles through the snarled ends first, she managed to free the knots, and eventually made her way to her crown. At last, she screwed up her courage and chanced a look in the mirror.

Big mistake.

The wee small hours of the morning had stopped being kind to her years before. Now she was firmly in the “nothing good happens after midnight” phase of her life, and those hours were even crueler. Even in the funky light and shadows created by the flashlight perched on the vanity, her skin was sallow. The vertical lines between her brows appeared deep as trenches. Her hair, a mixture of the pewter and platinum, hung limp and straggly. Worse, when lit from below, her sleek-cut bob looked to be a plain, old gunmetal gray.

In France, going gray in her thirties made her feel chic and daring. But Americans didn’t celebrate life and love the way Europeans did. They had no appreciation for a woman of a certain age, and even less for one who had the temerity to show their age. She hadn’t been in her sister’s house for ten minutes when Diana had offered to set up an appointment with her colorist.

Once upon a time, their hair color had been nearly identical. Burnt russet, a painter friend once proclaimed. She was sure Diana’s colorist called the color something more along the lines of red number three-sixty-seven. Hope scowled at her reflection, then forced the wide, bright smile she used to paste on to entice hapless American tourists into hiring her for the day.

Di’s hair was the exact shade of vivid auburn it had been the last time Hope had seen her. And the time before. If her baby sister had her way, she would have frozen time back in 1984. The days when Madonna was starting to make her mark and the world was ga-ga about another girl named Diana. To hear her sister tell tales, the days before Hope had run away, were nothing short of idyllic. To Di, they most likely were. But for Hope, they’d been stifling.

And now she was back. Under this roof. Feeling every one of her parents’ rules pressing down on her. Their expectations.

Lowering the brush, she took a moment to pull one long silver hair from the bristles. It glinted in the beam from the flashlight. As much as she missed the vibrancy of her red head, she loved the gleam of her hair now. Yes, her gray marked the years, but the silvery strands were also a symbol of her personal liberation. She’d be damned if she let anyone put her in a box, or change her with their promises of magic in a bottle.

Besides, she never lived up to her family’s expectations before, and she didn’t see much point in trying now. Attempting to rewrite history would only lead to frustration for everyone. She was who she was, and Diana and the good people of North Shore would have to deal with her for a short time.

There was a not-so-gentle knock on the door. “Ms. Elliot? Ma’am?”

Hope grimaced and dropped the hair into the empty wastepaper basket beside the sink. Tossing the towel toward the pile of wet clothes on the floor, she wrenched open the powder room door with more force than was strictly necessary.

“Mrs. Elliot,” she announced.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Elliot.” Firefighter Graham held her mobile phone out for her to take. “I entered my father’s contact information. Mick McInnes.”

Hope blinked, then a giddy laugh bubbled out of her. “Your father happens to be a master electrician named Mick McInnes? I guess I am back in Chicago after all, Toto.”

The younger woman had the good grace to chuckle as well. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be a native if I didn’t know a guy who knows a guy, right?”

Hope stooped to place her hairbrush and other essentials back into her bag, then pulled out the comfortable Tod’s moccasins packed for traveling. Smiling, she zipped the case shut and extended the handle as she rose. “I appreciate your help, Ms. Graham.” She paused a moment as she wriggled her bandaged feet into the shoes. “But you’re not a McInnes. Perhaps I should call you missus?”

The other woman grinned, then gestured toward the door. “I was missus for about five minutes. I’m a mizz now, but I kept the Graham part for my son’s sake.”

“Either way, I do appreciate your service.” Hope closed and locked the door behind her. “You have my mobile number for the inspector?”

“Yes. He’ll be in touch to arrange a walk-through. As soon as he clears the property, you can contact whoever you’d like to look at the wiring. I wouldn’t advise throwing the main switch until someone does, though.”

Hope chuckled and looked up at the night sky. She hadn’t the first idea where the main switch for the electrical service might be, or how one would even go about “throwing” one. Clouds hung overhead, but they were lighter and thinner than before. To the west, polka-dot patches of stars played peek-a-boo with the cloud-hazed moon. Pulling the bag behind her, she dug the key to the rental car from the pocket of her purse and clicked the fob to unlock the doors. She then shoved her suitcase unceremoniously into the back seat.

With one last wave to the firefighters in the truck, she climbed behind the wheel. The beams of her headlights caught the slap-dash X of caution tape Ms. Graham started stringing the moment she turned the deadbolt. She waited for the young woman to climb into her seat in the truck, the engine idling and the heater blowing full-blast.

Behind the wheel of the fire engine, Bobby executed an impressively nimble turn. Seconds later, her rescue unit roared off into the now-quiet night. Sighing, Hope pulled her mobile from her bag and stared down at the display. The absolute last thing she wanted was to explain all of this to Diana and Dick-the-dick.

Pressing the button to activate the virtual assistant, she spoke clearly and distinctly into the handset. “Directions to the nearest hotel.”

Only a couple of seconds ticked by before the automated voice responded. “There are fifteen hotels in a five-mile radius.”

Hope rolled her eyes, beyond all need or desire to make even the smallest decisions. “Closest to my current location.”

A beat passed, then her new best friend chirped up with a perky, “Calculating route to Four Seasons Hotel, North Shore.”

“Yeah, good choice.” Smiling, Hope put the car in gear and cranked the wheel. Once again, she was making an escape.