LITMIR.BIZ

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She was right back where she’d started.

      The old digital clock clicked as the plastic numerals for 6:25 dropped into place. She tossed off the covers, pulled back the heavy drapes, cranked open two sets of louvered windows and slid back between wrinkled sheets.

      At the foot of the bed, Frasier contentedly gnawed his sock monkey. She rolled across the king-size mattress to stroke his silky ears. The contact was reassuring.

      Suddenly his head popped up. He appeared to listen for signs of activity outside the windows. He began to bark just as she picked up the strong downbeat. She struggled to her feet while Bruce Springsteen informed the world he was born in the U.S.A.

      A glance at the parking lot below gave no clue as to the music’s origin, but it was so close. And so loud. It seemed to come…right through the wall.

      “Rambo! I knew it! I knew that guy was going to be trouble.”

      She yanked on the flowered chenille robe Becky Jo had bought at a thrift store for seventy-five cents.

      With a firm grip on her cane and Frasier hot on her heels, she took the stairs in record time, flung open her front door and closed the space between the two homes. As she drew back to pound on the door, it opened, placing her face-to-face with silver-haired Hank Delgado.

      Frasier scooted past the long legs and slid across the polished wood floor. He made a muffled “umph” sound as he nose-dived into a leather ottoman.

      “Good morning.” Hank cocked an eyebrow at Jessica as if he wondered what she looked like with her hair combed.

      “It was, until somebody gave the order to crank it up.”

      “The boy gets up at the crack of dawn, and he does like his music loud.” He nodded agreement, pressing hands against his ears in an exaggerated fashion.

      She tried her best to seem angry. It didn’t work. She dropped her head to hide the smile that threatened. Acutely aware of her bare feet, she imagined how foolish she must appear, standing in the hallway in the ancient robe.

      “My mama had a housecoat just like that. I think she donated it to the thrift store over on Peachtree,” he said with a reminiscent smile.

      Jessica didn’t even want to consider the possibility.

      “Hey, man, it’s the welcoming committee,” Hank shouted to his partner.

      Drew glanced over his shoulder and his eyes widened in surprise. He gave Jessica’s robe a nod and a cheerful thumbs-up.

      So much for yesterday’s vow never to leave the house again without clean clothes and makeup. She realized that for the third time this guy had caught her at her worst. Of course, he was spit shined and polished already. It wasn’t fair for a man to look so well put together this early in the morning.

      “I know I said I’d have you over, but I thought you’d at least give me a day to unpack,” Drew called.

      Hank reached for the stereo to turn down the volume.

      Drew moved into the doorway to greet his visitor. “Well, don’t just stand there.” He motioned with his hand. “Come on in.”

      She stepped into his home for the first time, admiring the deep muted tones of the rugs and furnishings, the rich smell of new leather and the bookcase filled with handsome volumes. A worn Bible lay atop the sofa table.

      “Did you really move in less than twenty-four hours ago?” She noted how few boxes remained unpacked.

      “I believe in a place for everything and everything in its place.” Drew smiled with pride. “Hey, I just happen to have a fresh pot of Colombian decaf.” He stared pointedly at Jessica’s bare feet. “But isn’t it a little early for you to be paying a social call?”

      “Isn’t it a little early for you to be playing your stereo so loud?”

      “You don’t like the Boss? I suppose you’d prefer something different?”

      “As a matter of fact, Springsteen is one of my all-time favorites. But at this hour of the morning, I do like my music a little more soothing.”

      “For instance?” he asked, stooping to inspect his considerable collection of compact discs.

      “Well, for instance…” She groped for something to catch him off guard. “Rachmaninoff appeals to me in the mornings.”

      “Is that right?” he asked in a “gotcha” tone.

      Selecting a CD from one of several towers, he dropped it into a multidisc player. Within moments the room swelled with the sound of a single keyboard accompanied by a section of violins. He reached to increase the volume, stopping short, hand just above the control.

      She’d never have admitted it at that moment, but he’d impressed her.

      “You like classical music?” she questioned with disbelief.

      “Music lessons were not optional at my house. My sister and I had to choose an instrument in the sixth grade and stick with it through graduation. I chose the piano.”

      “Because of all the great composers?”

      “No. Because I figured since it was too big to carry around with me, I could keep the guys at school from finding out about it. I don’t think I’ve ever said that out loud before.”

      “I promise not to tell your dark secret, as long as you promise to watch the decibel level of your stereo.” She fixed him with an accusing stare. “At least before nine o’clock in the morning.”

      Drew ducked his chin, appropriately contrite. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so loud.”

      “The heck, you say!” Hank stepped down from the kitchen. “I told you it was gonna wake somebody up, but you were too busy singing along to care.” Hank turned to her. “You ought to hear how loud he has Jimmy Buffett blasting through the showroom down at Metro.”

      Drew’s eyes widened. “All you had to do was say something.”

      Hank gestured toward the stereo. “But that stuff right there is kinda nice. Why don’t you bring that CD down to the shop with you tomorrow?”

      “Well, I’ll just have to do that.”

      She glanced from one man to the other, thinking what an odd but colorful team they made, the fifty-something laid back and the thirtysomething uptight.

      Hank offered his mug in salute. “Jessica, I owe you one. Come on down to Metro Muscle and I’ll make you a good deal on an old car.”

      “Thanks, but I already have an old car.”

      “If you change your mind…” He smiled and headed back to the kitchen.

      She turned to leave.

      Stepping between his guest and the door, Drew reached for the knob and then paused.

      “By any chance would your old car be that rusty station wagon with all the gardening supplies stacked next to it?”

      Her trouble sensors went on full alert. She was torn between pride in the beloved vehicle and suspicion for why he was asking. But she answered honestly.

      “That’s my Ruby.”

      “Ruby?”

      “Sure, that’s her name. Ruby Red.”

      He squinted, confusion etched on his face.

      “You seem to care a lot about automobiles. I bet that blue car has a name,” she said matter-of-factly.

      Drew glanced over her head toward his partner. Jessica followed his gaze to see Hank busy with the installation of the clothes dryer. Her neighbor looked back at her, leaning in closer.

      “Okay. Normally when I tell this to someone, I have to kill them. But I think I can trust you.” He lowered his voice. “When

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