Saving Alyssa

CHAPTER FIVE

“SWEET DREAMS,” NOAH whispered, pulling Alyssa’s door closed.

He headed for the kitchen, taking care to avoid the loud squeak just outside her room. Three years ago, she could sleep through her mother’s book club meetings, his late-night phone calls, even thunderstorms. Since her mom’s death, it seemed his daughter slept with one eye open and one ear cocked. He understood that, because Jillian’s murder had all but turned him into an insomniac.

A gentle early autumn rain pecked the windows as he checked the back door, which had leaked like a sieve during the last downpour. So far, so good, he thought. But just to be safe, Noah tucked several towels near the threshold. Tomorrow, after dropping Alyssa off at school, he’d walk over to Kaplan’s Hardware for weather stripping.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge, then popped a CD into the stereo and settled into his well-worn recliner. He dimmed all the lights except for the one beside his chair, and as Bonnie Raitt’s haunting, husky voice filled the room, the mood was set.

Noah pried open the brass clasp on the manila envelope. Inside, three smaller envelopes held letters from his parents, his brother and sister.

A quiet knock at the French doors startled him. It didn’t surprise him to see Max through the slight opening between the curtain panels. What did surprise him was that he hadn’t heard her climb the long narrow staircase that led to the apartment.

When he opened the door, she pointed at the porch swing. “Oh, man, I’ve always wanted one of those! Is it new?”

“Yes and no. Taylor’s was having a sidewalk sale, and Alyssa went crazy over it.”

Max hung her leather jacket on the hall tree as he dropped the envelope onto the coffee table.

“And of course,” she said, making herself comfortable, “you couldn’t say no.”

“I just popped a beer,” he said. “Want one?”

She tucked long, copper-red curls behind her ears. “Sure. Why not. I’m off duty.”

He went into the kitchen for a bottle, and when he returned, Max was admiring the porcelain-faced baby doll he’d bought on the same day as the swing.

“I don’t remember seeing this before.” She thanked him for the beer, then leaned the doll in the sofa’s opposite corner.

The recliner creaked when he dropped onto its seat. “It kinda came with the swing.”

Max took a swig, then shook her head.

“What?” Noah said.

“You’d better learn to say no, that’s what, or that adorable kid of yours will be so spoiled by the time she’s sixteen, you’ll find yourself working a second job to pay for her pink Corvette. And a pony. And—”

“No way.”

“You forget how long I’ve had this ‘agent’ gig, Preston. I’ve seen it before. That’s how I know you’ll be sorry if you don’t soon get a handle on your yes-man tendencies.”

He didn’t want to talk about Alyssa, or how hard it was to deny her anything. The 9x12 envelope sat on the coffee table, and he was anxious to read the letters from his family.

Max followed his gaze and picked it up. “So my sources at the agency were right. You did get mail today.” Fingering the envelope’s flap, she added, “So what’s up in the Windy City these days?”

“Don’t know. I was just about to read the letters when you showed up.”

In typical Max fashion, she gave an unladylike snort. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” She toed off her high-heeled cowboy boots and propped both black-socked feet on the table. “Can’t remember when I last heard a Bonnie Raitt tune. Lord, but that woman can sing!”

She leaned into the backrest and closed her eyes. “Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas?”

Noah sighed. The woman knew just about everything else about him. Why not add Watch me fall apart...again to the list?

His mom had stapled a newspaper clipping to her note, and he read the headline out loud. “Gina Judson Takes Six Blue Ribbons in Baking Category.” Beneath it was a full-color photo of his mom, standing in front of the DuPage County Fairgrounds entrance. “Man. I haven’t seen that in years.” He put the article on the coffee table, and while Max looked at it, he read his mom’s letter. Amos Miller next door had finally chopped down the messy mimosa tree that stained his mom’s prized brick driveway, she’d written, and the last of her tomatoes were ripening on the sunporch.

He could picture them, lined up in tidy rows on the glass-and-rattan table, could almost hear his mom scolding his dad for swiping the ripest for a sandwich, instead of leaving it for her famous tomato-watermelon salad.

“She has lovely handwriting,” Max said when he handed her the letter. “You just don’t see that anymore, what with email and texting and social networking.”

While she read, Noah opened Eddie’s letter. His brother, as usual, had started out by lambasting the Chicago Bears’ coaching staff, and went on to grouse that if the Cubs’ management had one functioning brain among them, the team might actually get into the playoffs at some point during his lifetime.

“Clearly,” Max observed, “your mom focused all her ‘neat penmanship’ energy on you, because Eddie’s writing is horrible!” She fanned herself with the pages. “Why doesn’t he type his letters on the computer, so people who aren’t hieroglyphics specialists can read them?”

“Keep it up and I’ll revoke your reading privileges,” Noah said wryly. “And to answer your question, he writes because our mom insists it’s more personal.”

And as he opened Grace’s letter, Max zipped her lip.

Noah’s sister and her firefighter husband still shared their sprawling rancher in Glendale Heights, and her letter read like a to-do list for Stan. The porch needed a coat of paint, and the boxwood hedge hadn’t been trimmed since last summer. Stan’s excuse? That Eddie had borrowed the hedge trimmer and the paint sprayer, and as usual, hadn’t returned either.

Noah hit Replay on the CD player while Max read Grace’s letter. “Another beer?” he asked.

“Better not,” she said. “How would it look if a cop stopped me on the way home?”

Noah tossed both bottles into the recycling bin.

“I’m wondering...do Grace and Stan have kids?” she asked.

“No, but not for a lack of trying. I’m wondering something, too.”

Heavily mascaraed green eyes opened wide. “About?”

“You.”

“Uh-oh...”

“You’re great at what you do, there’s no getting around that. But are all these questions you ask the result of careful training? Experience? Or were you just born nosy?”

Max rolled her eyes. “It’s stuff like that makes me wish I’d set you up at the Comedy Club instead of this bike shop.”

“Well, it’s a natural question. You’re too young to be so nosy.”

“Now there’s a backhanded compliment if ever I heard one!”

“So why aren’t you married?”

Max sat up straighter. “Aren’t you just full of questions tonight.”

“Reading mail from my family makes me nostalgic. So shoot me.”

“Can’t. The agency makes me account for every bullet fired....”

“You’re not getting off that easy,” Noah said. “If you’d had a mind to, you probably could have been a model. So which is it—you’re a workaholic or a man-hater?”

Max threw back her head and laughed. “Neither. I just don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure, and all the good marshals are spoken for.” She shrugged. “But you’re a fine one to talk. Three years in the program, longer than that since your wife died...why are you still unattached?”

Noah frowned. “I can’t believe you’d ask such a question.” For one thing, Jillian didn’t simply die, she’d been murdered. Even if his conscience allowed him to see other women, his fatherly instincts would never permit him to trust anyone to babysit Alyssa.

Max nodded. “Yeah, well, other people in your situation manage it. At least they didn’t become monks.”

A stony silence descended. Max rolled her eyes, then asked, “So how’s that li’l princess of yours?”

“Still a happy, well-adjusted kid,” he said, nodding toward Alyssa’s door. “Mostly thanks to you.”

Max waved the compliment away. “Knock it off, will ya? You know how easily I blush.”

“Yeah, well—”

“If you’re about to go over that same old ‘it’s my fault’ ground again, spare me, okay? Sit down. Read your dad’s letter.” Max paused, softened her tone. “I know you like to save his for last.”

He couldn’t deny that he’d gone down that road too many times to count. Couldn’t deny that he enjoyed hearing his dad talk about the crazy antics of his microbiology and immunology graduate students. This time, however, the letter sounded more like an official report on Senator O’Malley and others affiliated with Noah’s downfall.

“Listen to this,” he said to Max. And then he read aloud, “‘I can’t prove it, of course, but rumors are circulating that indicate a certain slimeball is still cutting deals and calling the shots from his Stateville prison cell. But don’t worry. I’m keeping an ear to the ground.’” Noah met Max’s eyes. “What does he mean by that?”

She sat up straighter, reached for the letter. “Don’t get your boxers in a knot. It’s probably nothing.”

“No offence, but that’s not much comfort. Why do I get the feeling Alyssa is still in danger, even after three long—”

“Shh,” the agent said, pointing at Alyssa’s door. “What if the kid hears you?” Max folded his father’s letter, returned it to its envelope. “Okay if I take this back to the office?”

“Why? I thought you guys read every word before the mail is delivered, so you can black out every name and date.”

“We do. But the letters pass through a lot of hands between here and Chicago. I’d rather err on the side of caution than take any chances.”

“I know that Alyssa and I aren’t the only people you’re assigned to, and that the letters have to pass through three, sometimes four post offices to throw off the bad guys.”

“Hey, don’t knock it,” Max said. “It’s working, isn’t it?”

“So far. I guess. And that isn’t much comfort, either.” Noah inhaled a shaky breath, remembering the alarm in his father’s letter. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. I appreciate everything you and the agency have done for us.”

Reaching across the space between them, Max gave his hand a gentle pat. “There’s a 99 percent chance that what your dad heard is a rumor. The mad rantings of a foolish old convict, shooting off his mouth and thumping his chest to prove he’s still a big shot.” She held up a finger to silence Noah’s protest. “But I’ll look into it. You have my word on it.”

The clock struck the half hour.

“Nine-thirty? How can that be?” Grunting and groaning, Max tugged her boots back on, then shrugged into her jacket. Almost as an afterthought, she gave Noah a hug.

“Relax,” she said, patting the envelope in her pocket, “and let me take care of this. If there’s anything to it, I’ll let you know.”

He locked up, then sat on the edge of his recliner and stared at the scuffed hardwood beneath his bare feet. He was tired. So tired of worrying that every stranger had been sent by O’Malley, to finish what he’d started. Tired of pretending this life they were living was normal.

Alyssa would be disappointed to learn they hadn’t sent anything for her, so Noah stuffed the letters back into the manila envelope, sealed it and placed it in the lockbox hidden behind a row of ancient Reader’s Digest books on the top shelf of the bookcase.

Noah held his head in his hands and tried to think of something about their world that wasn’t a lie. When nothing came to mind, he slumped onto his chair and drove his fingers through his hair. Maybe when he answered the family’s letters, he’d ask them not to write, at least not for a while. It was hard enough holding things together without their black-and-white reminders of what life was like compared to what it could have been: Alyssa sleeping in a tiny apartment above a bicycle shop, instead of her big sunny room in Chicago. A dad who sold bike chains and air pumps instead of putting bad guys into prison. A dad who had become one himself.

If she hadn’t already lost so much, he might be tempted—

“Aw, don’t cry, Daddy,” his daughter said, climbing into his lap. Holding his face in her hands, she said, “I cry, too, when I miss Mommy. But everything is going to be okay. I promise.”

Word for word what he’d said to her dozens of times over the years. But until she’d echoed the phrase, Noah hadn’t realized he’d been crying.

He hugged her tight. Kissed her cheek. Buried his face in the crook of her neck and inhaled the scent of baby shampoo. She deserved better than this. Better than the self-pitying, self-centered coward he’d allowed himself to become.

“I’m okay,” he lied. “Got something in my eye, is all.”

She studied his face and, satisfied with his response, frowned slightly. “I just hate it when that happens. Do you want me to get the eyedrops?”

Standing, he hoisted her onto one hip and carried her back to her room.

“No, that’s okay. But if whatever it is hasn’t worked itself out soon, you can get the eyedrops, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, as he tucked her in. “I like taking care of you.”

Noah pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Sweet dreams,” he said again, heading for the hallway.

She rolled onto her side and hugged her pillow tight as he turned out the light. He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching, listening, wanting nothing more than to be the father she deserved.

“Love you, Daddy,”

He could barely speak. “Love you, too, cupcake.”

CHAPTER SIX

“AREN’T YOU GOING to answer the phone?” Troy asked, leaning over her desk.

The caller ID window read Unknown. Billie rarely answered calls she didn’t recognize, and never picked up blocked, unknown or multiple zero numbers. “That’s what voice mail is for,” she told him.

“Hey. Billie. It’s Noah Preston. From the bike shop?”

She grabbed the handset, hitting speakerphone without realizing it.

“Hi,” she said. “I was beginning to think you’d had to send the bike back to the manufacturer or something.”

“So you didn’t get my message last week? About the parts that were on back order?”

“Oh. Yes, I did. I meant to call, but...” But between Troy and work, she’d forgotten to return the call. “Sorry. I meant to let you know there’s no rush.”

“Oh. Right. The ankle is still messed up, huh?”

“It’s much better, but I won’t be riding anytime soon.”

“Bummer. Guess that means you’ll miss the Tidewater race.”

“Yeah. And the Pocono Challenge, too.” She shook off the moment of self-pity. “But it’s no big deal. There are a couple of races in October.”

“Chambersburg?”

“Right. And Green Lane, Pennsylvania, too. But enough about that.” She giggled, too long and too hard. Groaning inwardly, she said, “Any idea when the parts will be in?”

“Two, three days. But that’s just one of the reasons I called today. Are you still interested in building a website for me?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t sound so eager,” Troy whispered in the background. “He’ll think you don’t have any other clients!”

Frowning, she sent a “Shh” warning his way.

“I’m just wrapping up something for another client. How about if I stop by, spend an hour or so watching you work, see if I can get some ideas for your main page?”

Troy shook his head. Noah cleared his throat. “Well, how’s tomorrow, say, after lunch?” She turned her back on her brother and clicked the speaker off. “Works for me. What time does Alyssa get home from school?”

“I pick her up at three-thirty.”

Billie wondered why he didn’t let her ride the bus like the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, then remembered the guy she’d met at the bike shop that day, who’d implied Noah gave a whole new meaning to the word overprotective.

“I’ll see you between one and one-thirty,” she said.

Billie hung up, then faced Troy. “Look. You’ve been a great houseguest, and I appreciate the way you fixed the deck door and reattached that loose gutter. And your chili recipe is to die for. To be honest, I wouldn’t mind if you moved in here permanently...if you’d learn to keep your nose out of my business stuff.”

“When you’re right, you’re right. It won’t happen again.” With one hand raised in the Scout salute, he said, “Sorry.”

“No need for apologies,” she told him, heading into her office nook. “As long as you stay out of my business.”

Troy saluted. “Message sent and received.”

Billie fired up the computer, clicked her most recent client’s file and began adding photos to the About Us page.

“You can fool other people, kid, but you can’t fool me.”

She swiveled her desk chair to glare at her brother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve been alone long enough. It’s okay to like that guy. You know...like that guy.”

“That guy is repairing my bike, so I’m his customer. If I’m lucky, that guy will like my website ideas, and he’ll be my client. That’s all there is to it, okay?”

“You’re right. It’s none of my business. It’s just, well, your voice changed when you talked to him, so I figured maybe you were interested. Let me make it up to you. Pepperoni-mushroom pizza, or subs for supper?”

Billie did her best to dismiss his “your voice changed” comment. “Pizza sounds great.” There’d be plenty of time to rehash the conversation later.

Troy went back to his online job search as she scanned the internet for other bicycle shops. She wanted to see what was missing from those websites and ensure Noah’s site stood out from the others. It didn’t take long to figure out what she’d change about the examples. Photos on the home page were too large, distracting from the business message. And either there were too many tabs, or those provided didn’t perform a specific function.

She opened a blank page and began typing.

LANDON DESIGNS WEBSITE PROPOSAL

CLIENT: NOAH PRESTON, OWNER, IKE’S BIKES

In recent months, this shop has noticed an increase in competition in the Baltimore vicinity (see list of stores below). A website designed to serve existing patrons, while attracting new ones, will provide people with more accurate comparables.

To effectively capture the market from its competitors, Ike’s Bikes website design must implement a marketing strategy focused on this goal. This will start with a needs analysis session to identify the key elements of the site, different customer types and all necessary calls to action. The session will be followed with a content plan focused on specific goals, and will move into the design phase, which will include the following:

Billie paused and thought for a second before beginning to type a bulleted list of the pages she would include on Noah’s site: Home, Types of Bikes, Bike Parts, Rides/Events, Rentals/Repairs and Contact Us. Each page would include a defining paragraph and photographs.

After supplying a list of similar shops in the area, she printed the proposal onto Landon Designs letterhead, slid it into a hunter-green pocket folder, slapped her label on the cover and set it aside. Tomorrow, when she visited him at the shop, Billie would ask him to turn on his computer so she could show him her own business website. He would be impressed by the number and variety of clients she’d acquired since opening the doors to Landon Designs three years earlier. Feeling suitably prepared, she went back to updating another client’s site.

Hours later, she noticed the clock in the corner of her monitor. How could it be after midnight? Working the kinks out of her neck and shoulders, she walked into the kitchen, and was immediately greeted by a bold black message printed on the pizza box lid: “BUY A TIMER,” it said, “AND YOU WON’T GET HEARTBURN FROM EATING COLD PIZZA AT MIDNIGHT.” And beneath it, a smaller line that read, “Or make your brother eat alone.”

Poor Troy. She had been too caught up in work to even notice the time. Billie grabbed a slice of pizza and bit into the now congealed cheese. Not bad. She took another bite. She’d risk the heartburn.

* * *

BILLIE SHOULD HAVE taken Troy’s advice. She’d tossed and turned all night, waking up and falling asleep more than a dozen times, thanks to dreams of those life-altering moments under the glaring delivery room lights.

She got up and trudged into the kitchen to start the coffeemaker, then grabbed Troy’s sweatshirt jacket from the hook beside the door and carried a slice of pizza onto the deck. A light rain was falling, so she pulled up the jacket’s hood. A motorcycle buzzed by out front, and on Main Street, the squealing brakes of a school bus pierced the otherwise quiet morning. It had rained hard last night and she inhaled the scents that rode the autumn breeze: of roses, planted all around the deck. Damp leaves, fluttering against the fence. Bud, her elderly neighbor, frying bacon. Her coffee, spewing into the carafe.

Leaning into the railing, Billie watched a chipmunk scamper through the mulch surrounding the sunflowers, its cheeks puffed to three times their normal size as it prepared for the winter. She loved it here, in this place she’d bought and paid for with her half of the settlement, arranged by Chuck’s attorney.

An odd feeling engulfed her, something between resentment and melancholy. Even after all this time, Billie still didn’t fully understand why her ex had left. She’d loved everything about being married, even the things that most women complained about, like socks on the floor and toothpaste tubes squeezed from the middle. Living alone all through college had taught her that she wasn’t cut out for a solitary life, so having someone who shared her views on politics, menu changes at their favorite restaurant and what to save their money for had felt like a fairy tale come to life.