Second Time's the Charm

HE’D BEEN LOOKING forward to seeing her all day. With Abe sound asleep in the next room, Jon lay in bed Thursday night with pillows propped up behind him and his laptop computer across his thighs.

He had a paper due the following Wednesday in his freshman English class. A five-hundred-word “how to” piece. He’d been halfway through detailing a French door installation before he admitted that he was working up a plan specific to Lillie’s kitchen—in effect, killing two birds with one stone. She hadn’t called. He’d left a note—had even had Abraham scribble a few marks at the bottom of it. And while he hadn’t specifically asked for a callback, he’d kind of expected one. They’d talked a couple of times since their trip to the zoo the previous weekend. She’d called him on Monday to discuss Abe’s first day care tantr

um of the week and he’d called her Wednesday night to arrange a time to measure her countertop.

And then there’d been the second day care tantrum of the week. Just that morning. They’d both been there when it happened and had dealt with it as a team. Like coworkers. Or parents.

Looking down at his computer, Jon reassessed his situation. According to his word-processing program he’d used up 248 of his 500 words. He still didn’t have the sliding glass door frame removed and disposed of. Hadn’t even placed the frame for the French doors, let alone leveled, squared and shimmed it.

His mind kept going back to Lillie. He wondered if she was at home. Lillie worked all hours of the day and night, which was why he hadn’t been surprised when he and Abe had shown up to an empty house earlier that evening. She’d told him she’d be there unless she got called in to work. Had told him to use his key if she didn’t answer his knock.

He pushed the backspace key, deleting the notation about reciprocating-saw safety. If the existing sliding glass door was affixed with nails instead of screws, the job would require the use of a reciprocating saw to cut through the metal. This was a French door installation how-to paper, not an essay on tool safety.

Abe coughed—the sound traveling through the speaker on his nightstand as clearly as if the toddler was in the room with him. Jon got out of bed to check on him and—satisfied that his son was doing fine—wandered out to the kitchen for a glass of milk. Finishing it in one chug, he rinsed the cup and returned to bed. To his paper.

There had been another break-in the night before. Everyone had been talking about it at the plant that morning. And at school, too. Each time it happened, Jon started to sweat more. He had nothing to do with the crimes, but he knew damned well that if anyone found out about his past... His lungs tightened inside his chest.

His records were sealed.

But they could be viewed by law enforcement in the investigation of a crime.

Clara Abrams knew about his past. Kate had made certain of that. Back before she’d become pregnant with Abe. Back when the only reason she’d started dating Jon was to convince her parents she’d be better off living somewhere else. To convince them to let her move to New York.

He picked up his cell phone. No missed calls or new messages.

Lillie hadn’t called and it depressed him.

What the hell? He was a grown man, not a young kid with unrealistic dreams about a pretty girl.

Scoffing at himself, Jon pushed the speed-dial button temporarily assigned to Lillie.

“Hello, Jon.” She picked up on the first ring, as though she’d been waiting for his call.

“I hope it’s not too late.” If she’d been working, it shouldn’t be. He figured her for a night person.

“No, it’s fine. I got your note but didn’t want to call and risk waking Abe. I know he goes down at eight.”

“He’d sleep through a hurricane,” he told her, not quite buying her excuse.

She didn’t say how long she’d been home. Or where she’d been.

“So you saw my estimate for the tiles?”

“Yes, it’s lower than I expected. You’re sure you figured in the cost of the grout and everything else you’ll need?”

“I’ve got the tools and the grout,” he told her, wishing he didn’t even have to charge for the tile.

“Well, if you’re sure you want to take this on, then yes, I say let’s do it. I’ll leave a check for you in an envelope at the day care,” she told him.

“As long as you’re sure you want to continue helping me with Abe.”

“Of course I’m sure.” Her voice took on a tone of urgency.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You sound...off.”