Purely Relative (9 page)

Something was off. “How long will you be gone?”

“Three days.” He bit his lip and watched me as if waiting
for me to challenge him. What wasn’t he telling me and did I dare challenge
him?

“Well, I’ll miss you.” I gave him one of my finest kisses I
had been saving for him all day. He showed the proper amount of appreciation,
much to my relief. “Are you sure you can’t stay? I can drive you to the airport
in the morning.”

The kiss he attempted to pass off as his answer wasn’t
cutting it with me, so I pulled away and asked again.

“I can’t. I haven’t even packed, and I’m bushed. If only I
could pack you in my suitcase and bring you with me.” Two doe eyes sought
forgiveness, his forehead pressed against mine.

“I could be your DC mistress!” The idea was erotically
appealing for a few seconds anyway. “Hang out in the hotel like
Pretty Woman
until you return from your training to ravish me in your bed. Oooh ... I like
it!”

He kissed me. “I like it too. Can you fit in a carry-on
though, because I hate to check a bag.”

“Plus I’d need to be in the pressurized and heated part of
the airplane.”

“How would I get you into the overhead bin?”

“Maybe you could cut holes for my arms and legs to stick out
so I could assist you and then later stretch out.” Our banter sent bubbles of
happiness fizzing through me. I gave him another kiss born from that joy.

I knew he wasn’t that bushed. We didn’t even make it to the
bedroom, and I never made it off his lap. Whee! My gal parts adored the regular
and decidedly meticulous attention they received from a pair of investigative
fingers and a rather enthusiastic periscope.

“At the risk of sounding like a real prick for dining and
dashing, I really need to go, but more importantly, I need you to let me
because I’ll never make it out of here if you don’t.” Jon shifted me off his
lap and sauntered into my bathroom, the curve of his rear barely holding up his
unfastened pants.

Part of me speculated on the up side of being a love slave,
especially with Jon as my master.

Sex all the time? You’d get blisters and die! Nobody can
do that. It’s nothing but a silly romantic notion.

It’s a wonderful notion! No job to go to, lie about in
cool cotton sheets and pray at the temple of Jon’s body. What’s not to love
about that? And yes, people can, and do, do this.

Porn stars and sex crime victims maybe. Your brain would
go to mush.

I’ve heard too many orgasms can do that.

Seriously though, you sex-addled twit. He’ll leave you
eventually and then what’ll you do? Who would hire you then? You’d be right
back to living in your car.

God, you’re such a Debbie Downer.

One of us has to be. You’re just woozy because you’re
still tingling. It doesn’t last. It can’t. You really wanna be a blonde bimbo,
and if that’s all he wants, he can find much cuter models than you, honey.

Don’t call me honey.

Okay, I’ll just call you stupid instead.

Jon emerged, all spiffed up. He was leaving and despite what
he proclaimed, I couldn’t and wouldn’t stop him.

I walked him to the door and gave him a kiss goodbye.

“Good luck with your interviews,” he said, hugging and
squeezing me tight.

Into his shoulder I murmured my thanks and volleyed back a
similar platitude about his training before relinquishing him to the big bad
world. Chrissy winked her lights as Jon approached the driver side, hopped in,
and then left.

I showered and crashed into my bed with my ratty old copy of
Tama Janowitz’s
Slaves of New York
. Flipping the pages to find my
favorite stories reminded me of the crossword book drying in my kitchen. I
hadn’t done a puzzle in eons and if Jon enjoyed them, I’d like to do something
that reminded me of him.

I flipped through it, looking for a puzzle he hadn’t
started, antiseptic spray in hand to nuke any lingering toilet-water nasties,
and noticed with horrifying clarity that multiple handwriting filled the book,
most of which was not Jon’s. Jon had claimed ownership; he hadn’t claimed
exclusive usage.

A voice in my head nagged that I’d been a bad guest in the
Cripps house, and Jon had most likely been covering for me, trying to brush off
what I’d done. The truth was I’d been snooping and in doing so had destroyed
their property. Guilt rushed in, swamping my already depressed mood in a
quagmire of sludge. What kind of crappy guest was I anyway?

The replacement I purchased on Thanksgiving had been
forgotten until then. If I had remembered, I would have given it to Jon to take
on his trip. A better idea formed. I’d take it to the Cripps, confess my sins
but clear my conscience. Hopefully they’d be more impressed by the confession
and apology gift than upset by the snooping that caused it.

***

No one but Jon’s mother was home
when I buzzed the gate. To her credit, she didn’t sound the least bit surprised
at my impromptu, uninvited visit. She actually seemed excited to hear from me.

I parked in front; I wasn’t planning to stay long. I
couldn’t. I had an interview to prep for and only an hour to spare. My plan was
to ring the bell, tell my story, hand over the book, and leave.

It didn’t play out that way.

Mrs. Cripps, Julia, answered the door and insisted I come
inside. She wouldn’t hear a word of what I had to say from her front porch.
Then she insisted on giving me a cappuccino and piece of coffee cake. Only
after we sat down and I took a breath to begin my spiel, did I realize that she
too had an agenda.

“Jon is very happy, happier than I’ve seen him in a long
time and I know it’s because of you,” she said.

“Thank you. He’s very important to me too. I—I love
him, if it wasn’t already obvious.” Damn that was hard to say, but it felt good
once it was said. I did love Jon. There had never been any doubt in my mind
once that gear finally slipped into place.

She laughed and flipped a hand. “Oh, yes, yes and it’s
entirely mutual, any fool can see that.”

“Aww, thanks. Listen. I came here to fess up to a bad thing
I did. I would have told you at Thanksgiving, but I panicked. And then the next
time I came over ... well there was too much family stuff going on, it didn’t
seem like the right time to bring it up. I hope it’s not a huge deal to you,
but it weighs heavy on me.”

Julia’s face held a smile the entire time, like she was indulging
a small child. “Is this about the crossword puzzle book?”

My eyes jacked open and my jaw dropped. “You knew?”

“Yes, but it’s not important in the least. Don’t worry
another second about it. Please.” Again she flashed a smile, only this one was
indulgent but sincere.

“Okay. But I did bring you,” I reached in my purse and
pulled out the new puzzle book, “this. I’m sorry for anyone who had a puzzle in
process, and I’m sorry I was too much of a chicken to tell you what I did in
the first place.”

Her laughter swept me up and soon I was laughing, too,
though mine was more from relief and to keep her company than because I found
my predicament funny.

“Oh, Gayle,” she began, wiping her eyes, “you are so
charming.”

I didn’t think I was that charming, but whatever.

The laughter suddenly ceased and she fixed me with a
terrifying stare. “You must do your penance now though.”

I gulped. Though she was my size, she was five times
scarier. “What do you need?”

“I need you to tell me who Jon works for.”

That I was not expecting. At all. “Wha-what? What do you
mean?”

“Who does he work for? It’s a simple question. You owe me an
answer as your penance,” she said, right before she took a sip of her coffee.
Her eyes never left mine, however.

I decided to see how far playing dumb would get me. “We were
both fired from Anderson Blakely. I thought you knew that.”

She shook her head and set her coffee mug down. “I didn’t
ask you who he doesn’t work for, I asked you who he works for right now. Who is
signing his paychecks?”

The coffee cake I’d been nibbling suddenly turned to sawdust
and stuck in my throat, or at least that’s how it felt. I took a sip of my
coffee, stalling as I considered my best response. I got nothing. “Um, I don’t
think it’s my place to say anything, Mrs. Cripps.”

“Very well. How about confirming what I’m pretty sure is the
truth? He’s still with the FBI, isn’t he?” She cocked her head to one side,
eyes narrowed.

“Why do you think that?” It was the best I could come up
with until I could figure out how to run away without permanently damaging my
relationship with her.

“Because that’s who he worked for in DC. He had a job he
loved. I know he moved here for Thalia, but he would have never completely cut
ties with the Bureau. He loves it too much, more than he ever loved Thalia.”

She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t already know,
although I had never considered that his moving back to Dallas might have only
happened with the FBI’s accommodation. Had they not given him the transfer,
would he still be in DC, and still in a long distance engagement to Thalia? “I’m
sorry, Mrs. Cripps—”

“Julia.”

I nodded, as much as my neck muscles would allow from the
tension seizing me up. “I’m sorry, Julia, but I can’t pay my penance this way.
I’ll do your laundry or wash your car or still owe you, but don’t ask me to
tell you stuff about Jon. I can’t do it.” I stood to leave. “I won’t do it.”

She stood with me, stony-faced. “Please.” She motioned for
me to sit. “I’m sorry. I’ve overstepped. I’m sorry. If Jon won’t tell me, I
have no right to bully it out of you. Please accept my apology and consider
your penance served.” Two steps and she was at my side, her hand on my arm. “Not
that you ever owed me any.” And then the smile returned. “I just ... worry. He
may be twenty five years old, but he’s still my boy.”

That almost crumbled me. Almost. Were it not for that little
twitch at the corner of her mouth, the same twitch I’d seen on her son’s face
when he was pulling my leg, I might have fallen for it. Instead I smiled and
said, “I understand.” And that’s all I said before excusing myself and leaving
for my job interview.

I missed Jon. He called me that
first night, tired from his trip, but it wasn’t the same as having him with me
or even knowing he was at his apartment a few blocks away. My heart stretched
into a thin filament, struggling to remain attached to him over the long miles
that separated us. The next night I could hear the strain in his voice over the
telephone. When I asked what was wrong, he mumbled something about work
politics. All I knew was that I wanted him back home, but I still had a day to
go.

My interviews didn’t pan out so well. The businesses I
visited seemed enthusiastic enough, but in all of them, I sensed trouble
bubbling beneath the surface. Drama-free was requirement number one. After all
the issues at Anderson Blakely, I needed, no I craved, normal. Reconciling my
bank account only added to my melancholy.

At five o’clock, three days after he left, Jon finally came
home. When he rang my bell, I threw myself into his arms. Once I dragged him
inside my apartment, I attacked him, fembot weapons set to sexual enslavement.
He was a very good sport about the whole thing, though I could tell he was
tired.

As we drowsed on my bed, he reached over and took my hand. “I
want to take you out to eat. At Rocky’s. I feel like a really good steak and a
world-famous dessert.”

I smiled at the memory that particular restaurant in the
White Rock Lake area of Dallas conjured. Rocky’s was where we had our first
date that really wasn’t supposed to be a date, but kind of felt like one
anyway. We were supposed to be there to spy, but when the objects of our
sleuthing left rather quickly, we made the best of it. I had a fledgling crush
on Jon then. I never dreamed we’d end up falling in love, had actually fought
against the notion, but of course I lost that battle.

“I’d like that. If I’d known back then you were pulling in
two paychecks, I probably wouldn’t have wrestled with you over picking up the
tab,” I said.

“Yeah you would have. Back then, anyway. It’s moot now. I’m
paying.” He pulled me in closer and planted a kiss on my temple. His palm went
possessively to my breast. “You is my woman now. Ungh!” A leg swung over me and
swept me in even closer. “Mine, mine, all mine,” he said, snickering against my
neck, adding soft little nips to the flesh.

Oh, man. He was hitting all my vulnerable spots, especially
with his caveman Jon bit, even done in jest. “Okay Grog, let’s put our fancy
skins on and head on over. I’m starving.”

***

The crowds had died down by the time
Jon and I arrived at Rocky’s, not surprising given it was a Thursday. We
slipped in between the old-fogey early birds and the illicit trysters and
claimed a primo table in the back. Dinner did not disappoint.

Afterwards, we sipped our wine and held hands, rubbing knees
provocatively beneath the table. When he still made no move to whisk us back to
my place for some after-dinner fun, I grew a little suspicious and Jon grew
more visibly nervous.

“What’s wrong?” I asked when his agitation had sparked my
own.

Panic took over at that point. Jon cleared his throat,
glanced around the restaurant and fumbled in his pocket before finally looking
me in the eye.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to drop a bomb on me?”

He cracked a smile but it quickly went back into hiding as
his visible distress rose. “Gayle?”

“Jon.” I hoped we weren’t going to the play the name my
lover game again. I’d already had a run of bad outcomes whenever he did that in
the past.

“There’s no easy way to say this, so I guess I need to
simply do it. It’s not like I’ve never done this before. No, that’s not true.
I’ve never done it with—never mind. What I’m trying to say, but botching
up horribly is....” He stopped, mouth moving but no words emerging.