LITMIR.BIZ

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him around the house, for all the world acting like an enthusiastic bride with no sense of how much work she was proposing to take on with the various projects she had in mind. They’d be busy for weeks renovating this stupid house at the rate she was going. He didn’t even want to contemplate what it was going to cost him emotionally to get through this. It was a job. Just a job. And somehow he suspected he’d be repeating that to himself more times than he cared to count in the days to come.

      “How about we start a little smaller and see how things go?” he finally wedged in between bursts of ideas from her.

      “Party pooper,” she announced.

      “Who’s paying for all of this, anyway?”

      “Jeff Winston. He gave me an expense account.”

      “Yes, but let’s not bankrupt the guy.”

      She laughed. “In the first place, we could renovate the state of West Virginia and not bankrupt Jeff. And in the second, if we do a great job on the place, our lease includes an option to buy. Jeff can buy it and sell it for a profit.”

      “Not in this housing market,” he snorted.

      “You’re too practical for your own good,” she declared. “You need to loosen up.”

      He’d heard that before. But for the past few years, he hadn’t cared. From her, though, it stung a little.

      As they pulled into the parking lot of a home-improvement store a little while later, though, he had to admit her enthusiasm was contagious.

      She exclaimed, “This place is so cool! It’s a time warp, I’m tellin’ ya.”

      He gazed around the parking lot, populated entirely with vintage cars. Frankly, he found it a little creepy. “Come on, June,” he grumbled.

      “Who?”

      “June Cleaver.” He wasn’t completely ignorant when it came to American TV.

      She flashed him one of those heart-stopping smiles of hers. “Ahh, if only you knew what I’m capable of in the dark. You’d never call me that.”

      His heart actually skipped a beat. Her sunglasses today were oversize things with white plastic frames and rhinestones that made him think of Marilyn Monroe. He’d give anything to be able to see past those dark lenses to her eyes right now. Was she just teasing him, or was there an edge of truth to her words? Did he detect a hint of an offer in that flirtatious comment? Did he dare contemplate taking her up on it?

      She looped her arm in his as he headed for the store. She murmured offhandedly, “That chaste little peck you laid on me back at the house doesn’t even constitute a warm-up kiss in my world.”

      Mentally, his jaw dropped. He swore under his breath at the places his thoughts raced off to and refused to come back from. And that was why she probably got away with buying hundreds of dollars’ worth more of paint and light fixtures and curtain rods than they needed. She even managed to cram a half dozen scrawny rosebushes in the back of the Bronco.

      As he pulled out of the parking lot, he grumbled, “You took blatant advantage of my distraction to bankrupt Jeff.”

      “My mother always told me, ‘Honey, if you’ve got it, use it.’”

      He rolled his eyes. “I don’t like your mother.”

      Her voice dropped into a grim, tense register he’d never heard out of her before. “Neither do I.”

      He peered over at her, but she was staring straight ahead and those damned shades gave away nothing. “What’s wrong with her?” he ventured to ask.

      “I would have to know where she is to be able to answer that fully.”

      Whoa. “Did she leave you?”

      “No.” A sigh. “I left her. But by the time I grew up enough to go back and find her, she was gone. Moved away, I guess.”

      “And with all of Winston Enterprise’s resources you haven’t been able to locate her?” he blurted, surprised.

      “Didn’t look.”

      Instinct told him to let the subject drop. She’d run away from home, huh? How young? It certainly explained her harder edges. So who was the soft, sweet Sammie Jo who’d spent the past few hours with him … and who was suddenly and completely absent?

      Although the house was nominally furnished, they still spent much of the afternoon assembling simple furniture and establishing that Sam didn’t know a flat-head from a Phillips screwdriver. She could clean with a vengeance, however, and the little house fairly sparkled before she slowed down enough to help him tape up black-out shades in a bedroom for her. For his part, he stayed busy and did his best not to think at all. Not to remember. Another first house. Another life.

      Sam called him from the living room. She’d unpacked the NRQZ-approved, flat-screen TV he’d carried in for her, but she needed help hooking it to the house’s cable system. The phone, electricity and cable were already turned on, so they got a picture right away. She was in transports of ecstasy.

      “TV junkie much?” he asked as she nearly bowled him over with a hug of thanks.

      Another woman’s laughter echoed in his head. Another woman’s arms around him. He must not remember!

      Sam was speaking. “… have no idea. How else am I supposed to spend my nights?”

      His arms tightened involuntarily around her. “I can think of a few ways.”

      She swatted his arm before he released her and headed for the kitchen. He’d discovered a while back that kitchens were great places to work off a case of panic. Lots of fussy little jobs to do with his hands and attention to detail to distract him. Tomorrow he’d have to go grocery shopping. He already had supplies for a simple spaghetti alfredo in deference to Sam’s vegetarian preferences, and he set about whipping it up.

      They ate a late lunch on tray tables in the living room, which felt cave-like with the windows draped in thick curtains. She’d taken out her contacts, and her eyes glowed an unearthly shade that was more than a little unsettling. He was fascinated, though, by how Sam continuously cycled through no less than four television shows. “You’re going to wear that remote out,” he commented.

      “Get your own if you’re worried about it,” she shot back.

      The tough, mouthy version of Sammie Jo was back, apparently. Which one was the real person and which one the act? It was hard to tell. He had to give her credit for distracting him, though. He’d made it all the way through the meal without one flashback. Small steps, buddy. Small steps.

      “So how do we go about gathering all this supposed intel the neighbors possess?” he asked.

      “Can you bake?” she asked obliquely.

      “What does that have to do with anything?”

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