Just Around the Corner

Matt meant what he said. But he didn’t feel good about it.

CHAPTER THREE

THINKING IT WOULD BE easier to talk if they weren’t facing each other across a table the entire time, Matt suggested he and Phyllis drive up to Tortilla Flat on Saturday, have a late lunch there, and then return to Shelter Valley. That gave them about five hours to reach some kind of accord.

And then get out of each other’s lives.

Phyllis surprised him by agreeing immediately to the date that wasn’t a date.

Things were awkward at first as she climbed into his Blazer late Saturday morning and they headed out. She was wearing a pair of designer-looking jeans and a thick black velour sweater that only accentuated the slimness of her small-boned frame.

It had been so long since he’d been out with anyone for any kind of social occasion that he’d more or less forgotten how to do it.

“It’s a little disturbing to think that we made a baby and know so little about each other, huh?” She broke the awkward silence, apparently reading his mind.

It was disconcerting how she always seemed to know just what to say to get him started. She’d done that in his office the day she’d come to tell him about the pregnancy. And then again on the phone. Hell, she’d probably done it that day they’d worked together in the Performing Arts Center; he’d just been too busy listening to his libido to hear.

He was going to be damn glad when this day was over and he could go back to being the only one privy to the thoughts of Matt Sheffield.

“So how long have you been a professor?” he asked, taking her comment as a cue.

“Eight years, though I didn’t start out with a full professorship.”

“You like it?” Matt turned the utility vehicle onto the highway that led to Phoenix and beyond.

“I love it,” she said, staring out at the road. He caught a glimpse of the smile on her face as he glanced over.

“Me, too,” he said. They had something in common. He didn’t know if that made the job ahead of them easier—or not.

She turned her head to look at him. “How long have you been teaching?”

This was why he avoided social occasions. And relationships. The questions inevitably led to places that were off-limits.

“Twelve years, on and off.”

“Always at a college level?”

He shook his head, reluctant to remember. “I started out teaching theater technology to junior-high and high-school students.”

“You said you’ve been teaching on and off. What did you do in the off parts?”

“Went to school, for one.” Matt ran his hand underneath the collar of his open black leather jacket. He wished he could shove a towel down his back to soak up the sweat collecting there. “Got my masters in theater technology with an emphasis on lighting design. I also graduated from a certificate program in videography.”

Relieved when there were no further questions, Matt concentrated on getting them through Phoenix and onto the two-lane, winding road that would take them up to Tortilla Flat. Apache Trail, as it had been dubbed more than a hundred years before, was at one time the only wagon trail going up to this part of northern Arizona. Tortilla Flat, though only ten miles up the mountain, was about a forty-five-minute drive. It had been the first stagecoach stopping place on the three-day journey from Phoenix to Roosevelt Dam.

The town, now more a tourist spot than anything, was reminiscent of those days, with most of the six or so buildings preserved in their original state. With its population of six, the town boasted a small store and ice-cream shop, a post office and well-known restaurant-cum-gift shop. The businesses were all run by the six-member family that resided there.

“I’ve never been up here.” Phyllis broke the silence that had fallen around them, a silence that seemed so persistent Matt had begun to wonder if they’d actually get around to discussing anything that day.

He’d almost convinced himself that he hoped not.

“This scenery is beautiful,” she continued.

Matt glanced around at the cacti and rocks, the dark greens and myriad shades of brown, the mountains rising above him on one side, the mile-long canyon on the other.

“I come up here fairly regularly,” he admitted. Especially when he was feeling his worst. The vast miles of deserted landscape always seemed to put things in perspective for him. Reminded him just how small he was—or just how big the picture.

She turned to look at him, making him uncomfortable. Somehow he’d let too much show again.