*some mild profanity

Tracings

A Sequel to Mysteries on Ice

by Laura H.

 

James James
Morrison Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great
Care of his Mother,
Though he was only three.
James James
Said to his mother,
"Mother," he said, said he:
"You must never go down to the end of town,
if you don't go down with me."

 

Chapter 1

When she looked back on all that happened, she always wondered just what led her to Golden Gate Park on that unusually bright April day. Was it really just that sunshine after days of fog enticed her out of her shell of self pity? Or did she somehow know she needed to be there that particular afternoon? What prompted her to tug open the heavy hotel drapes, take a shower for the first time in days, pull her camera from the drawer she'd tossed in it in three weeks ago? Why did go to Golden Gate Park rather than Fisherman's Wharf?

The day did not begin well. She spent hours wandering through the Japanese Tea Garden and the Arboretum, but there was no temptation to even take her camera from its case. No peace, no tranquility, just screaming school children and gawking tourists. And lovers, young and old, walking hand in hand.

Finally, she sat on the cold stone wall in front of the DeYoung museum, shivering in the wind that, typical of San Francisco breezes, was blowing straight through her light jacket. Candy wrappers skipped past her and the purple and gold banners advertising the "Art of Puppetry," flapped loudly with each gust of wind.

The tears started in earnest then, hot tears rolling down her cold cheeks. No one was there to see them. She could fly home any time, flee to the loving arms of her family; she could be back in Sleepyside by this time tomorrow, Mummy taking her shopping, Daddy praising her beauty, her brothers threatening to track down Trent and rip his arms off, her friends standing by with comfort and love... and pity for poor Diana Lynch, who never could quite get things right, not even love. Especially not love.

She knew she should be practical. If she didn't ask Daddy for money soon, between her bill at the Hyatt, the room service, and the new clothes she'd had to buy, her tidy savings would soon be gone.

"No! I won't ask for money, I'll get another job, I'll take kiddie portraits at K-Mart, if I have to. I probably need good honest work right now," she told herself fiercely, but it was going to be hard to swallow her pride quite that much. One last tear rolled down her cheek. She was too cold to cry anymore. Time to find a cab.

Her purse felt heavy as she stood. Her whole body felt heavy. She had no energy to look for a cab, much less to look for a job. She fingered the Ghirardelli chocolate bars in her purse, one of the best things about San Francisco. With no attempt at resistance, she pulled one out, ripped off the wrapper and sank her teeth into the fragrant smoothness. The dark chocolate almost tingled on her tongue and she felt immeasurably better. Heartbroken people were supposed to have no appetite, but Di found all she wanted to do was eat. And what difference did it make anyhow if she got fat anyway? She pulled out another one and wolfed it down.

Licking her fingers and wiping them surreptitiously on her jeans, she was moving in search of a taxi, when she heard a commotion from behind. As she turned, she saw a short, wiry teenager with an expensive camera dangling from his hand, running toward her at top speed. He was pursued by a lady posting a pretty respectable sprint herself.

"That's my camera! He stole it!" The lady was falling back, but her voice easily carried above the wind. Tourists and children stared, but no one moved.

Taking no time to think, Di ran directly into the youth's path, smashing into him like a football player and they both toppled to the ground. She lay motionless, more stunned by her action than at any hurt, while he rolled to his feet, called her a few choice names, and tried to jerk her purse from her shoulder. She screamed loudly, angrily, and the youth glanced over his shoulder and fled, dragging Di a few feet before giving up on her purse.

A small crowd gathered around her, but no one went after the purse snatcher. "I'm fine," she tried to tell the people around her, who were all talking at once and not in English. More tourists, obviously. "Please, I'm fine" she asked, sitting up on the cold asphalt, "Someone go after that guy!"

A clear voice answered her, "No, no, there's no point, he's long gone." It was the first victim, who was crouching next to Di, while the crowd gradually dispersed.

"Serves me right for being so careless!" The lady, who plopped right down on the asphalt next to her, had a beautiful voice, every word spoken as clear as a bell. Her smooth blond hair, which had a few streaks of gray, was drawn back into a ponytail at the back of her neck. She had three earrings in her right ear, which seemed odd for a lady who appeared to be in her mid 50s or so. Her eyes were her best feature, Di thought to herself, a dark brown, holding both warmth and intelligence and the laughlines around them were crinkling as she smiled ruefully. Although she did not look Latina, she was dressed in an embroidered peasant blouse and a gloriously colored skirt reminiscent of Mexican style clothing. The effect was somewhat ruined by the shabby black cardigan sweater she was pulling off.

"You really took a wallop, did you hit your head? Should we call an ambulance, or the police?" the lady was asking anxiously.

"Please don't do that on my account, I'm fine," Di insisted, realizing that in fact, she felt better now than she had in the last three weeks. She'd taken action, even if she hadn't save the lady's camera, at least she'd tried. A little surprised at herself, she realized it was the kind of thing Trixie would have done and she felt a little glow. "I just wish I'd been able to get your camera back! What kind was it? Are you going to call the police?"

The kind brown eyes were now assessing her and Di found herself flushing. What did she see? Tearstains? Swollen red eyes? The extra pounds she'd put on, a smear of chocolate on her jeans? Di was starting to feel wretched again, when the lady spoke, her rich voice full of humor, in spite of the situation.

"My dear, I have no idea what kind of camera it was, just that I paid too much for the darn thing. I guess I'll file a report with the police and museum security later. It wasn't insured though, I may not bother."

She stood and helped Di up, as she continued, "I miss those little pocket instamatics we had in the '70s. Or was it the 80s? I've been using those disposable cameras from the grocery stores, till my former assistant told me I should get a real one. Of course, that was before he left me in the lurch, eh"

Di winced at the thought of disposable cameras, and then blushed with embarrassment that the lady was tucking her own sweater around her. She protested, but the lady gently persisted. "You're cold. You need a hot drink, which I can provide, and a job to do, which I can also provide!"

Di had an odd but firm conviction that this lady was reading her mind. It should have been weird, but it was comforting.

"A job?" Di asked, not displeased with the idea.

"Just a little one, my car is over there, let me tell you about it." Hoping the unusual woman was not an axe murderer, Di felt oddly compelled to follow her across the courtyard and down the street to an ancient, beige Rambler station wagon.

The lady was saying chattily in her beautifully clear voice, "I'm Tiffany Crystal Smith-Lovelace. It's a mouthful, I know, but it's my real name, if you can believe it! Most people have to make theirs up, but not me! I actually like it, but it is a bit long. You can call me TC. I do need help, if you can oblige me. I'm performing tonight and it's a pretty big deal. I was hoping to get some photos of my glorious self at the grand event, and what does my assistant do but run off to Reno and get married! Said she was in love! Some nerve, eh? And now my camera has flown the coop too!"

"Performing? Are you a singer?" Di inquired, thinking that explained her lovely voice and her odd comment about people making up their names.

TC snorted with laughter, then apologized. "I'm sorry, I'm only laughing because my childhood dream was to be a folk singer. Problem is, I can carry a tune and you can hear me from one end of the country to the other, but no one particularly wants to her it. At the moment, I'm a puppeteer, or really a storyteller. In my publicity, I refer to myself as a wandering minstrel which is corny, but pretty accurate. Tonight a bunch of puppeteers are performing as part of the exhibit. There's going to be a troupe from Japan using Benraku puppets and of course, several Punch and Judy shows, which I don't care for much; anyway, it will be fantastic. I'm very lucky to be included tonight and I want to have some photographs I can use for publicity shots and so forth."

She unlocked the back of the car and lowered the tailgate with a flourish. Inside, Di saw a number of trunks and plastic milk cartons neatly arranged. One carton held a pile of books, the top one being a very worn copy of AA Milne's "When We Were Very Young." There was a ukulele and a tambourine standing neatly on their sides in another. And behind the cartons, Di caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a pirate's treasure chest. She blinked. She must be mistaken.

"So when I saw you," TC was still talking, "and your camera, I thought maybe you could take some pictures and I'd pay you, and buy you a nice dinner, too. I love coming to San Francisco, all I eat are those crabs! And that bread, sour dough bread, positively heaven! I never was one for lobster, but I can eat crab till it come out of my ears."

TC dragged the brown box onto the tailgate and Di saw rather bemusedly that it was indeed a huge treasure chest, made of wood with brass fittings and a padlock. As TC lifted the curved lid, Di half expected to see gold doubloons and ropes of pearls but the contents included a sombrero, an old fashioned looking telescope, a stuffed lamb and a stuffed wolf, and a rather battered thermos. TC poured steaming hot coffee from the latter into a Winnie the Pooh mug, saying, "Just Yuban, I like cappuccino and all that, but it's awfully expensive! I brewed this up a little while ago in my hotel room."

Di, a little overwhelmed, but feeling a smile on her face for the first time in ages, sipped the coffee and ran a gentle finger over the wolf.

"You can try him out, he's irresistible, isn't he?" TC picked up the wolf and Di saw it was a large puppet. TC held out it out and Di realized TC was right, the wolf was irresistible. She put the mug down on the tailgate and put her hand into the soft, gray fur, laughing delightedly at the wolf's long pink felt tongue and rolling eyes.

Di was enchanted. "Oh my gosh, he's terrific, he makes you laugh just to look at him!"

"Thanks, that's what I was aiming for. This fellow has been one of my favorites for years, his name is Senor Coyote, by the way. Not very original, but it tells the kids he's not a wolf anyway."

"I thought it was a wolf, too," Di confessed as she made the coyote's tongue hang out of the side of his mouth. Luaghing, she spoke to the puppet, "You are so cute, Senor Coyote!"

"You like him! Let me show you my favorite! I'm not using Janine tonight, but you've got to see her," TC said eagerly. From a rough burlap sack, she pulled out a huge green dragon puppet, fully three feet tall, and put her own hand into it. The dragon's red mouth open and a tart, gravely, but somehow feminine voice informed Di, that this was "Mean Janine, the green eyed dragon."

Di managed a reply as "Mean Janine" rested her huge head on Di's shoulder, "How do you do, Mean Janine, you don't seem very mean to me!"

Mean Janine burst into rusty sobs, "That's my problem, I keep trying to be mean, and then suddenly I find myself helping little old ladies across the street!" Mean Janine blew her nose on Di's shoulder and Di burst out laughing, then patted the crying puppet and told her, "I think you are better off being nice, and you have beautiful green fur!"

Mean Janine looked from Di to TC and said, "Ooooo! I like her, she thinks I am beautiful! can she stay with us, TC?"

Di was a little embarrassed to realize she'd been talking to the puppets instead of TC, but TC looked thrilled as she patted Mean Janine too, and said, "We'll see," then gently put her back into the sack and turned to Di.

"Well, would you like to join us? I mean me. I know I seem nuts, I suppose I am nuts, but you have to believe they're alive or the audience won't. I promise I'm pretty normal most of the time. Would you take some pictures for me tonight? And maybe for the rest of my stay in San Francisco?"

Di was shocked at how much she wanted to say yes. "Well, you don't even know my name, or if I am a good photographer, or anything."

TC scrutinized her again through narrowed eyes, cocked her head to one side and asked quietly, "ARE you a good photographer?"

Di found herself standing tall as she said, "I am a damn good photographer. And my name is Diana Lynch."

TC shook her hand and spoke gravely, "Well, Diana Lynch, I would really like you to join me. Would you please?"

And it was then that Di made the decision that was to change her life. "I would be delighted, Tiffany Crystal Smith-Lovelace."

As she shook hands with the older woman, her broken heart seemed to ache just a little bit less.

 

Chapter 2

Trixie ran the four flights of stairs instead of walking or taking the elevator. "Not bad!" she told herself. "Not even out of breath!"  She burst into her office and tossed her purse in her desk drawer with a flourish. A quick glance at the empty desk next to hers made her cheer softly. Jeff wasn’t around, that could only make her birthday better.

She couldn't help comparing today, her 26th birthday, to recent birthdays. Last year she'd been off in California, studying madly for finals, writing and rewriting her papers and theses, far from her hometown of Sleepyside in upstate New York. It had been good for her to be alone, though in general she did not possess a solitary nature.  But this year, what a difference! It was wonderful to be back home, following her life’s work in New York City, and being with her family and friends and, well, Jim, who had become something more than a friend.

She touched the silver necklace she was wearing and smiled softly. Jim had sent it to her last year. The tiny magnifying glass pendant had made her both laugh and cry when she'd opened it in her dorm room. Trixie was not big on jewelry, but she’d  vowed never to take this tiny treasure off. She would see Jim in about four hours and he had promised her a big surprise. She suspected she knew what the surprise might be and a surge of nervous excitement shivered down her spine to the tips of her toes.

It was almost impossible to force her mind to work, but she checked her watch. She had taken longer than she'd expected at lunch and needed to get upstairs to her appointment, but surely she had time to open the big Federal Express package on her desk. After all she was the birthday girl.

Chanting "I am the birthday girl, I am the birthday girl!,” she ripped open the package and forced herself to read the enclosed card first. It was from her youngest brother, Bob.

"Dear Trixie,

Happy Birthday, Big Sister! The big Two-six!!!!  Whoa! Hope you like your
present, it's not just from me, it's from Amelia and Rosita and Heather and
everyone! These are Rosita's old skates, and she signed them, and then so did
everyone at Skate Connection And then Amelia brought them to all her
competitions this year. They both say happy birthday and hope you come to
Skate Connection soon to say hello! Have a great day!

Love,

Bob

P.S. Take a close look at the autographs, there are some surprises there!"

Touched and surprised, Trixie unwrapped a pair of small white skates covered with signatures. She had met Rosita Ting, a nine-year-old Novice figure-skating champion, last year, at Skate Connection, a skating rink in Sleepyside. The rink, a training facility for several famous skaters, had been plagued with increasingly serious incidents of vandalism. It had become a pretty dangerous situation until Trixie and Bob had been able to uncover the criminal and her motivation.  Trixie shivered faintly, thinking of how close one of the skaters, Tempest Smith, had come to being killed by Julie Summers, who had since been committed to a state psychiatric hospital.

She picked up one of the skates and her eyes widened to see Peggy Flemming's autograph. Bob and Amelia had obviously been planning this for sometime. And next to Peggy Flemming’s signature was that of Tempest. She traced it with her finger. She had gone on a date with Tempest, before he’d won the gold medal. He’d turned out to be a sweet and funny young man. It had been a thrill to see him give his amazing Olympic performance, but oddly enough her strongest memory of him had been the last time she’d seen him in person, when he’d been so disapproving of her decision to be a private detective.
 
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. It was Latisha, the receptionist. "Your first appointment is here, Trixie!"

"Thanks, Latisha! Be right there!" Trixie exclaimed, putting aside the skates, hanging up the phone and trying to smooth her curly blonde hair all at the same time.

She raced up the stairs to what her boss (and best friend) Honey Wheeler called the reception rooms. Comfortable furnished but functional; attractive, but not so opulent as to be intimidating. On Trixie's first day, Honey had told her, "Lots of times, clients choose private detectives instead of the police because they are afraid, or intimidated. When they are comfortable they tend to give more useful information."

When Trixie had started working at the Wheeler Detective Agency, a little less than a year ago, she'd been determined to be just any other operative working for Honey. Honey had objected strenuously, even ferociously, to Trixie's insistence on starting at entry level.

"Trixie Belden! For heaven's sake, I know what you can do, you don't need to prove anything to me. I need a partner and I want it to be like we always dreamed, The Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency!"

As teenagers, Trixie and Honey had indeed planned to be the partners in a detective agency. With that end in mind, they'd started college together, majoring in criminal justice. Then, in Trixie's junior year, tragedy intervened, a tragedy Trixie had blamed on herself, her impulsive nature, and her propensity for getting into trouble. Frightened, she'd changed her mind and her major, starting all over at a university in California, planning to become a history teacher.

Honey, however, had stuck with the original plan. After graduating Summa Cum Laude with a degree in business as well as criminal justice, she used a legacy from her grandmother to buy a small but renowned detective agency under the condition that the retiring owner, an ex-police captain, would stay on for a year. During that year, she essentially served as an apprentice to him. This excellent plan had taught Honey the ropes and allowed her to retain the contacts he'd built up over the years. Honey had been able to expand the agency and make it her own in a relatively short period of time.

As for Trixie, the events at Skate Connection last year demonstrated to her that her dream had never really died. She had felt alive, making a difference again. Although she loved the idea of teaching, she realized it simply was not her calling, while helping people in trouble satisfied her soul. It had been harder than she'd expected to ask Honey to take her on and even harder to insist on starting on the bottom rung. Trixie suspected it was only through Jim’s intervention that Honey agreed to Trixie’s conditions. Jim Frayne, Honey’s adoptive brother, had a great deal of influence on his sister.

It had been the smart decision, however, to be just another employee. When they were kids, she'd never thought much about the inequity between her white collar origins and Honey’s background of great wealth. If all had gone like they'd planned as teenagers, Trixie probably would have readily agreed to become partners without contributing anything financially to the business, but now, it just didn’t seem right. She had to earn her way and learn the business from the ground up.

She'd learned a lot in the last year, much more in fact, than she'd anticipated. She'd found herself taken slightly aback to develop an even deeper appreciation for her best friend. If she was completely honest with herself, she had to admit she figured she'd come in like gangbusters and earn her rightful place next to Honey easily. Instead her initiation to the glamourous and dangerous PI world had consisted of rather tedious cases: trailing errant husbands and wives, catching sales associates appropriating merchandise or cash, tracing missing relatives, nothing she could really prove herself with.

Trixie set her jaw. Right now, she needed to concentrate on the job at hand. Her newest client, sipping coffee across the freshly varnish table from her, was impressive, weighing close to 200 pounds, all of it hard muscle. Pale skin, clipped mustache, dazzlingly white shirt and discrete dark suit. Mr. Clive, an antiques dealer with shops in several cities in the US and abroad, possessed both a self important air and a Gucci briefcase.

He certainly made Trixie aware that her decision to "dress down" today was a bad idea. Most missing persons cases seemed to be Auntie Zelda looking for her long lost second cousin Zeb. Wearing heels and a high powered suit (which Trixie hated anyway) was usually too intimidating. But her more casual outfit of slacks, low heel, cashmere sweater and her silver pendant was clearly unimpressive to this man who almost sneered at her over his mustache. She stifled a sigh and began.

A few hours later, she'd taken down information to trace a customer of his who'd absconded with several priceless bracelets along with her legitimate purchases. The mustached man never dropped his sneer, but Trixie was able to congratulate herself on keeping a cool, professional demeanor with him. She even persuaded him to send the security camera videotape of the customer in addition to the fuzzy still photograph he’d produced from that elegant briefcase.

As she shook hands with him, and felt his cold, but firm grip, she was suddenly ready for her date with Jim. After she’d seen him make his stately way to the elevator, she hurried past Letisha, thanking her again for the coffee, and dashed back down to her cramped office to file her notes before Jim arrived.

At her desk, she was relieved to see that Jeff was still absent. A burly ex-cop, Jeff Johnson was openly hostile to Trixie and never lost an opportunity to refer to "the boss" being her best friend, or to the fact that Trixie was dating "the boss's brother." Exactly what privileges he thought Trixie was raking in was beyond her. If she ever was tempted to use her friendship with Honey, it would be to request a new office-mate. As it was, she gritted her teeth, ignored his nasty comments and applauded herself on her maturity in controlling her temper.

She tossed her notes on a pile of files on her desk. They promptly slipped to the floor, and some of the manila folders came along for the ride. Now she was really glad Jeff was absent, his sarcasm was not what she wanted to hear on her birthday. She crawled under her desk to retrieve them and as she presented her posterior to the door, she heard it open. Oh great. Jeff the Jerk right on schedule.

"I'm not in the mood, so don't say a freakin' word!" she spoke firmly, stopping just short of using a stronger "f" word. It was the only language Jeff seemed to respect, but she couldn't bring herself to make it a regular part of her vocabulary.

Her face burned when, instead of Jeff's rather nasal voice, Trixie heard a deep voice, full of laughter. "Happy Birthday, Trix!"

On her hands and knees, she crawled in a half circle to peer out from under her desk. A beautiful bouquet of roses were dangling in front of her. It would have been romantic if she hadn't been caught in such an undignified position.

Well this was a great way to start a special date! Why was she so clumsy? She stood hastily and was instantly sorry as she banged her head on her desk so hard she saw stars. She was suddenly tempted to use Jeff-type language but managed to control herself.

Jim Frayne, her boyfriend, was unsuccessfully trying to stifle his laughter as he gently took both her hands and helped her up. She sighed and thanked him. Was she doomed to look like a clown in life's sweet moments?
 
However, as Jim kissed each hand lightly, and then moved to her lips, she decided that it didn't really matter. When you got right down to it, nothing really mattered, but this handsome and dedicated man who been an increasingly important part of her life for so long. She reached up and caressed his jaw as she returned his kiss wholeheartedly. When he eventually released her, she thanked him for the roses. He was smiling back at her, and it struck her that he also looked a little nervous. It seemed to rub off on her, and although it was rather unusual for them, they were silent.
 
The phone rang on her desk and Trixie jumped. It was Moms and Dad. They were in Cleveland while Mr. Belden attended a convention. She signaled to Jim to sit down and she leaned on the desk, thanking them for their present, a something or other; she knew she was not making much sense as part of her was still enjoying the warmth from Jim's kisses. After a few minute’s chat they said good bye and she turned to Jim, still smiling, ready to resume their previous activity. "Finally!" she exclaimed.
 
She felt miffed when Jim didn't answer right away. He was looking at the skates on her desk, a frown between his lowered brows.
 
"Jim," she said more sharply than she intended, her nervousness manifesting itself in a very unromantic irritation. He started and smiled, but this smile had a certain lack of romance behind it. It looked quite sour, in fact. He stuck out his jaw, seized her hands again, his fingers tracing the diamond ring she wore on her right hand and then, unexpectedly he pulled it off her right hand, and grated out, "Marry me!" His hands were cold and he fumbled as he put the ring on her left hand.

Baffled and angry and thrilled at this rough proposal, she opened her mouth to answer him and then they both jumped as a sarcastic, nasal voice filled the small room.

"Aw, isn't that sweet?" Jeff the Jerk had returned.

 

Chapter 3

Honey Wheeler paused on the terrace, and as the morning sunlight shone on the table set for two, she allowed herself a moment of self satisfaction. In fact if she were a cat she’d be purring right now. She had just enjoyed a flirtatious, romantic early morning phone call from her fiance, a tall dark and handsome doctor named Brian Belden. Her private detective agency was growing and gaining recognition, and she was getting ever closer to completing her dream. Yes, Honey reflected, as she felt a fresh breeze fan her cheek, life could be beautiful sometimes. It was true, she wished Brian was back instead of finishing up his residency in Michigan, but soon he would be home.

In the meantime, she had something else to look forward to. Any minute now, her brother Jim would join her for breakfast and Honey was fully expecting him to confirm his engagement to Brian’s sister, Trixie Belden. Honey had waited for this moment too long. Her own romance had gone so smoothly, she’d felt impatient, almost angry with Jim's slow courtship of Trixie. Even though he was her own full blooded adopted brother, as she used to say, she had to admit that Jim could make a simple thing too complicated.

Honey watched a robin hopping across the lawn as she remembered when Jim had finally told her he'd been in love with her best friend Trixie for years. Honey laughed again. As if it had been a big secret! She and Brian had wondered since high school when Jim would finally realize his own heart. The temptation had been strong to meddle, but she knew the couple had to find their own way. And after all, Trixie and Jim had faced some serious issues. Her smile faded.

Guilt had been the barrier between her brother and her best friend. Trixie had only meant to save a dear friend from Jason, her vicious boyfriend; Jim had only meant to save Trixie from Jason’s dangerous wrath. Cornered, he’d had attacked, Jim had almost been killed and Trixie, in defending him, had put Jason in a hospital for life. Both Trixie and Jim had each blamed themselves for the tragic outcome, failed to discuss it between themselves, and darn near had ended their entire relationship.

But last year, everything had turned out all right. They'd gotten their friendship back on track and Honey had been watching with impatient pleasure as they'd dated, grown closer. She'd seen with delight the sparkle in Trixie's eyes and the spring in Jim's step. Last night, Trixie's 26th birthday, Jim had planned to propose to her. He'd been nervous, so nervous he'd actually come to his little sister for advice.

Honey Wheeler, owner of the Wheeler Detective Agency, squealed like a child, literally jumped up and down, thrown her arms around him and told him any plan would be fine for Trixie. He'd wanted to do something romantic, however, and had run through his plan for a romantic dinner, flowers, champagne. "And then," he paused, looking closely at his sister to see her reaction to his idea, "I thought would, well, take her hands, and ask her, and if she said yes, I would move her ring from the right hand to her left."

The ring he referred to was an heirloom diamond ring he'd given to Trixie in friendship when they were teens. Trixie hadn't worn it for a long time after the incident with Jason, but Honey had noticed with delight that Trixie was now wearing it everyday.  Honey reiterated that anything Jim could do would be perfectly perfect, but she could see he was not convinced. Well, the only thing that would convince him was Trixie's acceptance, of which Honey had no doubt.

She hummed dreamily to herself, picturing Trixie and Jim living near her and Brian, their children growing up together.  Celia, who had been the maid at Manor House, the beautiful home of Jim and Honey's parents for years, chuckled under her breath as she brought Honey the mail. "I recognize that look, Miss Honey, I’m sure I had that look thirteen years ago, thinking about Tom. I think I wrote Mrs. Celia Delanoy over every piece of paper in this house."

Honey smiled back. The whole world was happy this morning. "You two still have that lovebirds look, Celia. Isn’t it wonderful to be in love?"

"It's the greatest gift for a man and woman," Celia was suddenly earnest. "I know you and Brian will be as happy and Tom and I have been."

Honey thanked her in a touched whisper and the women were silent, Honey suddenly feeling a bit teary. To hide her emotion, she reached for the envelopes Celia had placed next to her place setting. "Another letter from the Red Cross for Mother," she remarked, "good thing they are coming back tonight." The Wheelers were fond of traveling the world together and, though both Honey and Jim had apartments, they often spent the night in what Trixie’s and Brian’s brother, Mart Belden, called “the ancestral abode.”

"Yes, we miss Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler," Celia replied, "but it is so nice to have both you and Mr. Jim home for a while. My goodness, some things never change, he was up and out before dawn this morning on Jupiter. I caught a glimpse of them disappearing into the preserve at breakneck speed. It was a joy to see him. He got back a little while ago and said he’d be right down.

That was a bit of a jolt. " He? Who? Jim? Jim's already up?" Honey stammered incoherently. Celia, verified this, while pouring her a cup of coffee. Honey lapsed into puzzled silence and Celia soon left Honey to her mail. She frowned, feeling that a cloud had crossed a perfectly blue sky. She flipped through the mail, not really seeing the invitations, letters, and post card. Jim must have come in late, odd that he'd be up so early. She stared at the post card of the Pacific Ocean a full minute before realizing it was from her other best friend, Diana Lynch.

The post card had been sent from Crescent City California, which was odd. Di had recently written saying she was traveling and taking some time to think. Honey's spirits were dampened a little more. Di's words, though loving, said very little else. Di had been living in San Francisco with her fiance, the owner of a modeling agency, but they had suddenly "decided they were not right for each other after all." Di had given no other details and Honey and Trixie were both quite worried about her. For all her beauty, Di had always been shy and somewhat vulnerable. Once Honey had Trixie and Jim squared away, she’d tackle Di and get to the bottom of this broken engagement.

But all thoughts of Di flew from her mind as Jim stepped onto the porch opened. She scanned him anxiously and saw that he was going to be hard to read this morning. He didn't look unhappy, but he was clearly not walking on clouds either. He looked, well, thoughtful as he said a subdued good morning and poured himself a cup of coffee. Maybe he was just trying to keep her in suspense.

Fine, she could play that game... NOT!

“Well, well, how did it go?” She grabbed Jim’s arm, almost causing him to spill. “What did she say? Did you do it like you planned?”

Jim looked down at her and her heart sank. His green eyes held a strange expression, what did it mean? It was certainly not joy. Trixie loved Jim, Honey knew it. She must have said yes. She wouldn’t have said no.

“Did you ask her?” she asked in a very small voice.

He nodded his head, or perhaps bobbed his head was a better description. Jim always moved with confidence and panther-like grace, it was odd to see him move jerkily to the dainty round table and sit as though he weren’t sure the chair was behind him. “Trixie couldn’t have said no,” Honey told herself firmly.

“What did she say?” Honey hated herself for acting like an inquisitioner, but what was she supposed to do, pretend everything was all right when it clearly wasn’t? Unable to stop herself, she asked yet another question.

“Did she say no?” the words sounded strange to her ears, as though she were speaking a foreign language.

He blinked as if she’d awakened him from a deep sleep and FINALLY spoke, “No, she didn’t say no...”

Honey wanted to jump up and squeal, but the cautious look on his face stopped her. She was starting to get annoyed.

“Did she say yes? Come on, Jim, quit playing around, what did she say?” Honey almost shrieked, jettisoning her famous tact with no hesitation.

His eyes fell and he seemed almost to be talking to himself, “She said yes, then she said no. And then she said she didn’t know.” He looked at his sister for the first time and asked, almost pleading, “What does that mean, Honey? I know how I feel about her, I thought she felt the same. If it were up to me, I’d marry her right now and spend my life trying to make her happy. But she said she needed time to think.”

Honey felt the blood drain from her face. It was not a good thing when a woman told a man she needed time to think. She was completely at a loss as to what to say. She slammed her slim fist down on the flowered tablecloth, startling both of them and rattling the coffee cups. Her clients never would have recognized the calm, soothing Ms. Wheeler with hazel fire burning in her eyes

“I don’t believe it, Jim! What happened, did it go like you planned up till that point?”

One corner of his mouth twitched up. “Well, not exactly. I, uh, well, the date started off ok...” His green eyes were suddenly dreamy and Honey, not a detective for nothing, correctly guessed the preliminary activity.

Jim snapped out of his dream and continued as though there had been no pause, but a blush remained on his cheeks as he said, “We were still in her office, we were about to leave for the restaurant, when her folks called.

“And while she was talking I saw...” Jim’s voice cut off abruptly, he pressed his lips together over the words and Honey realized with astonishment that his old temper was alive and well. What on earth had happened?

“Jim? What did you see?” she almost stammered, baffled.

He leaned forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “Did you know Trixie was, was, still friends with Tempest Smith? You are so close to her, you must have known, why didn’t you warn me?

His anger was directed at her! This was so unfair, and the news was so unexpected and unwelcome, Honey’s mouth hung open for a full minute before she rallied.

“What are you talking about? He went back to Canada and he’s never been back, how could they still be friends?” She used Jim’s word, “friends” but she had always worried Trixie had stronger feelings for the world champion figure skater who come into her life briefly last year. Judging by his anger, Jim felt the same way

“How could they still be friends?” he almost bellowed. “E-mail, telephone, carrier pigeon, how should I know? All I know is that he sent her a really special present for her birthday and she’s never even mentioned his name to me in passing.” Jim’s anger passed and the hurt in his voice was loud and clear. “Why would she keep it a secret if they are just friends?”

“Wait a minute,” Honey moderated her voice. “How do you know this?”

“I saw the present on her desk while she was on the phone to her parents.” Jim said flatly. “A pair of skates, autographed by all the big skating stars, and his name the most prominent.”

Jim’s lip curled as he glared at the inoffensive coffee cup in his hand. Honey was silent, trying to untangle this web. Tempest Smith was nice, she knew that. A figure skater from Canada, he’d come to train for the Olympics at Skate Connection, the new state of the art skating rink in Jim and Honey’s hometown of Sleepyside. Was that really almost 2 years ago? Trixie had been home from college and her youngest brother Bob, who was a hockey player at the same rink, introduced them. Ironically Tempest had asked Trixie for a date the very day Jim had confided in Honey that he loved Trixie.

Honey knew it was unfair, but from the moment she met him, she had looked at Tempest as a barrier to her friend’s (and her brother’s) happiness. Things had gotten more complicated, too. Skate Connection had been the target of increasingly savage vandalism and the owner, Mr. Lynch, father to Di, had asked Honey to investigate. Honey felt herself flush. She had uncovered the vandals quite easily, but she’d utterly failed to realize the vandalism was a cover for some more serious and dangerous crimes aimed at Tempest.

But it had all worked out perfectly, no thanks to her. Trixie, who had always dreamt of being a private detective, then changed her mind, had been able to put the pieces together and corner the criminal a semi insane woman named Julie Summers before she killed Tempest. Honey had been concerned that this would bring the two closer together at Jim’s expense, but Tempest had gone back to Canada, won the Olympic gold medal and as far as she knew, Trixie had had no contact with him since then. Instead, she’d come to work for Honey, and started dating Jim. Honey had been sure she would have Trixie for a partner in the agency and a sister before the end of the year.

Jim stood abruptly and started pacing around the tiny table. “I just blew it, Sis,” he spoke roughly. “I saw those skates, it was like he was bragging about his medals and his fame and his...” Jim’s voice dropped to a whisper. You know? I got to thinking. What did I have to offer her, after all, and I, well I just rushed it, I grabbed her hands and I ripped the ring off and I, I guess I kind of demanded that she marry me!” He ran his hands violently through his red hair, and stared up at the sky, “How could I be so stupid?” His despair touched Honey’s heart and she put a hand on his shoulder. “Is that when she said she needed time to think?” she asked gently.

“What? Oh, no, if things weren’t already bad enough, that bas-, that idiot, Jeff came in the office in time to hear. We listened to his guffaws for a few minutes and then went to dinner. That’s when Trixie told me she needed time to think about it.” He was silent, his anger spent for the moment, looking into a scene Honey couldn’t see.

“Note to self,” Honey thought. She felt a tight smile curve her lips as she vowed this was not the end for her brother’s hopes. She no longer felt like a cat, she felt like a panther ready to pounce.“ Note to self: Have a little talk with Ms. Trixie Belden. Then find out just what Mr. Tempest Smith is up to these days. Oh, yeah and one more thing. Fire Jeff Johnson.”

 

Chapter 4

He searched the lady’s face and tried to answer her question, then gave up in confusion. "I don't know, I don't remember,” he told her. How could he not know what day it was? He'd remember in a minute, wouldn't he? His head was splitting and the glaring lights were stabbing into his skull. He seemed to be in a hospital emergency room and he was trying hard not to panic at the sharp pain in his right knee.

"It's ok," The lady’s voice was low and soothing. She was a good looking woman; with sleek dark hair pulled back, and those thin fashionable glasses on her straight nose, she looked too young to be a doctor, but that was how she was introducing herself, "I'm Dr. Elliot, and you are..."

"I'm Tempest Smith, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said, automatically extending his hand to shake hers. An IV pulled slightly on his arm.

She didn't seem to find his response strange, just shook his hand and answered, with a faint smile,  "It's nice to meet you too. Do you know what happened to you?"

He tried to concentrate. He was in a hospital. His head and his knee were injured. It seemed logical that he'd fallen, maybe on a jump, but that didn't seem quite right. He remembered a room with a mirror,  saying good bye to someone.... and a name, Trixie.

He gasped and tried to sit up. Bad idea. His head seemed to explode. Gentle hands helped him lie back against a rather hard pillow, and in a few minutes, when he could breathe, he had remembered.

He realized his father was there, his father looking old with exhausted eyes and new lines in his face. "Hi, Dad," he said, surprised to find he was whispering, "I'm ok." It was probably the biggest lie he'd ever told, but he couldn't bear to see the fear in Dad's face. Unfortunately, Dad didn't look noticeably reassured as he touched Tempest's hair briefly.

"Right, Champ, anyway you will be soon," Dad told him. "You have a concussion, but you'll be fine, I could have told Dr. Elliot you have an exceptionally hard head." The laugh that proceeded this speech was a good effort, but Tempest wasn't fooled.

"Dad, it's OK, I remember what happened now. I'll be ok, don't worry." It was easier to speak now. He should ask about his knee, what damage the bullet had done, but he was afraid to; he wasn't ready to hear the truth. Right now he could foolishly hope maybe the bullet had just grazed him or something. Except that was impossible, Julie had kept the barrel of the gun pressed into his knee, except when she'd been caressing his thigh with it. Julie, laughing. And Trixie had seen it all. He shuddered, then felt nausea rise in his throat.

Dr. Elliot moved fast and for the next few minutes, Tempest discovered that a  person could be worried about one's health, one's career, and even one's father and still feel humiliated to be vomiting into a bedpan. Time passed. The pain eased suddenly. He drifted and gradually was aware of moving down corridors and into a small dim room. When he reached out, he felt his father's warm hand grasp his immediately. "Please don't tell the press yet," he murmured before sleep overtook him.

Shadow and light had changed when he awoke and his head was much clearer. The pain was still there but bearable. Dad was still by his bed and he looked better too. He'd shaved, Tempest noticed, oddly comforted by this prosaic fact.

"So I have a concussion, eh?" Tempest said conversationally.

"Yep, not mild, not severe, just in between." Dad's smile held relief. "I always said you were tough."

Tempest braced himself. "Well, ok, I'll be tough right now, what's the deal with my knee?" He was shaking deep inside his stomach as he looked directly at Dad.

Dad returned the direct look as he spoke,"Just a sprain, a bad one, but not career ending. Either you're really tough, or you bounce."

A sprain didn't make sense, but thank God there was no mistaking the truth (and relief) in his father's voice. "How did it get sprained? Did the bullet miss? How could that happen? Julie had it right on my knee."

Dad looked down, hiding his thoughts. "Dr. Elliot says it is normal for a person with a concussion to have some memory loss. That seems to have happened to you. Julie’s attack on you was, well, some time ago. You’re here because you, um, had an accident last night. You had everyone in the emergency room totally confused when you kept talking about a gunshot wound, when what happened is, you fell down the stairs." Dad paused, to let him absorb that and handed him a glass of water. "Take a couple of sips, see how that goes down."

Obediently but cautiously, he drank through the straw, puzzling over what Dad had said. "What stairs? Those marble stairs at Skate Connection?

“No, those stone stairs at home going down cellar. I saw it, you hit every single one, very thorough.” Dad’s smile had almost disappeared now and his eyes closed briefly.

“I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Drink your water and don’t apologize,” Dad snapped and wiped at his eyes quickly, “You didn’t fall on purpose, after all. Take another sip, how do you feel?”

How was he feeling? Tempest wasn’t quite sure; feeling guilty for scaring Dad, and starting to panic as a new thought struck him. “Um, better, my head doesn’t feel so bad.  How bad is this, will I be able to go to the Olympics?”

“Think you can keep down some tea?” Dad wasn’t answering and Tempest’s heart sank. Dad must think it was out of the question. Well, he’d find out otherwise.

“I’ll be fine for the Olympics, Dad, they are still two months off.” he said defiantly.

Dad handed him a cup of weak, lukewarm tea and sighed. “What’s the last thing you remember, Tempest?”

The last thing he remembered was telling Trixie goodbye. And telling her that he wasn’t going to lose anything more. There was no way he going to tell Dad that. “A party,” he said finally. “A Christmas party.”

“Drink,” Dad commanded.

Tempest drank and felt a little better.

“Tempest, that party you remember, was it at the Wheelers' house in Sleepyside?” Dad’s voice sounded odd, but Tempest nodded, concentrating on keeping the tea down and the Olympics in sight and his father continued.

“That party was 18 months ago, you don’t remember anything since then? You don’t remember the Olympics?”

Shocked, Tempest stared at his father. “The Olympics already happened? How can that be? I’m still training for them! Ed said I was in good shape.”

Patiently, and making an obvious (and unsuccessful) effort to hide his concern, Dad repeated, “That was 18 months ago. You went to the Olympics a year ago February.”

Tempest leaned back, not noticing when Dad removed the sagging cup. He closed his eyes and tried, but couldn’t visualize anything, not the Olympic Village or the arena or the ice, or any interviews or parties or team mates.

How could he not remember?

He felt an arm slip around his shoulder and he opened his eyes. His father looked gray. Realizing anew how much his father loved, him, Tempest leaned against Dad’s shoulder murmuring, “It’s ok, Dad, it’s ok.”

That was a long day. Dr. Elliot came in later and was not able to offer any assurance that he’d eventually remember the Olympics. She told him not to try, that usually made things worse, and just to relax. “You are actually a little run down. Even before this accident you probably needed a break, looks like you’re going to have one. Go somewhere sunny and do nothing.” He’d asked her when he could go home and she said they needed to keep him at least till tomorrow “for observation.”

An orthopedist came in and examined his knee, repacked it with ice, and an Ace bandage, elevated it a little higher and said to give it a month before he put his skates on.

He’d begged Dad to bring him some sweats or something other that those icky hospital gowns to wear. Looking a little better, Dad grinned a bit, saluted and marched out. Finally alone, Tempest had ignored Dr. Elliot’s suggestion not to try to remember, but the best he could do was to relive the nightmare of what seemed like no more than two weeks ago, when an insane woman named Julie Summers had held a gun on him and threatened to “put a bullet though his knee” so that he couldn’t compete at the Olympics. Dad said that had happened last year? He remembered now, that she hadn’t succeeded, which was something indeed to be grateful for. A beautiful, smart and brave girl named Trixie Belden had stopped her. Tempest had lost his heart to Trixie, but she had become engaged to her childhood sweetheart at that party, the other vivid memory he had.

Great. He could remember the fear and the pain, but not the Olympics. You are so stupid, Tempest, he told himself. It was no wonder Trixie had turned to Jim, after witnessing him just sitting there like a complete coward while Julie threatened him and ran her fingers down his jaw and the gun up and down his leg. His head started throbbing. Stop it, he told himself. Dr. Elliot said not to try and remember, this was obviously why.

There was a knock on the door and eager to disembark this train of thought, he called out “Come in!” He was nonplused when a stout, balding man with heavy dark eyebrows, gray skin and circles under his eyes entered. The man was wearing a plaid bathrobe and battered, old fashioned slippers. Either Tempest had never met him, or he had met him in the past year. Not sure of how to greet the man, he tried a simple, questioning, “Hello.”

Not shy, the man shuffled over to his bedside and shook hands, “Tempest Smith, I knew it was you! I been in the hospital a couple a days. Mild heart attack you know? Now they tell me stop smoking and take baby aspirin right? Oh yeah, and 'Terry', the doctor tells, me, ‘you should retire, your job is too stressful!’”

The man laughed and waved his arm. Tempest could almost see a phantom cigarette in the man’s hand. His headache was worsening and he wasn’t sure if he was acquainted with his visitor or not. He half expected a request for an autograph, but there was something a little strange going on.

The man didn’t give him a chance to investigate, he rambled on seemingly at random, but Tempest was wary of a certain shrewd light in the man’s sunken eyes. “So I tell the doctor, hey, pudge-ball, you weigh twice as much as me, tell me you’re not at a higher risk for a heart attack than me!”

Tempest laughed politely, then tried to break in, “I guess...”

“Yeah doctors,” the man continued, “They’re all alike, though yours is quite a looker, eh? So Tempest, what’s the scoop, what are you in here for? I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw them bring you in. The sports writers are all chomping to get in here, and a little heart attack puts me on the spot for maybe the biggest story of my life, a little out of my line, I usually cover the crime beat, but I always miss out on the good stuff.”

His voice changed and he asked briskly, “So what happened, Tempest, car accident? Were you drinking? What injuries do you have and are they going to affect your career?”

A reporter.  Oh God. Tempest thought some choice words and said firmly, “I’m ok, but I am not prepared to give any interviews at this time. Sorry. You can come by my room tomorrow, if you like, Mr... uh.”

The man swore cheerfully. “Judson, Terry Judson. I’ll take you up on that, Tempest, don’t sneak out on me, eh?”

He shuffled out leaving Tempest torn between annoyance and amusement. Geez, was he going to have to hold a press conference and say he fell down the stairs? How embarrassing. And it was doubtful they’d believe him.

Feeling depressed and sore, he again searched for any new memory to no avail. This fruitless exercise was again interrupted by a knock on the door. He was tempted to feign sleep, but was glad he was honest and true and called "come in" when his father came back in with a backpack. There was no dignity in a hospital, Tempest decided as his father helped him into sweats and a t-shirt. and then helped him hop to the bathroom to take care of some other pressing needs.

When Tempest was back in bed, Dad observed, “You’re starting to look human now. Could you stand a visitor before your delicious hospital dinner?”

After his last visitor (which he knew better than to tell his father about) Tempest was not thrilled by the idea. He started to indicate his disinclination, but Dad was already opening the door.  Tempest was astonished to see his visitor was Bob Belden, Trixie’s little brother. Bob looked at Tempest’s dad a minute, then came in.

His blue eyes, (so much like Trixie's) looked solemn as he said, “Hey, how are you feeling? I’m glad you’re ok!”

“You’re visiting me!” Tempest exclaimed, triumphantly “I remember! You were on a cruise with Amelia and you stayed a few days in Vancouver. You had me sign some skates for Trixie. I know what day it is! It’s May 1st! Did you get the skates sent out?” He was so relieved that he remembered something, he almost laughed out loud.

Bob came a little closer. “Well you’re close, it’s May 2nd actually. I think Trixie must have gotten the package yesterday, hopefully, anyway.”

Bob picked up Tempest’s backpack glanced at Dad and gestured with it. Still smiling but suddenly looking tense, Dad said, “Go for it, Bob, it was your idea!”

Bob looked uneasy at these words, but he squared his shoulders and pulled large, flat jeweler’s box. This was obviously supposed to mean something to Tempest, he felt uncomfortably like a specimen on a slide under a microscope what with the penetrating glances aimed at him by Dad and Bob. Wordlessly, he took the case from Bob and opened it.

As he looked at the softly shining contents, he realized he had not asked Dad something, he hadn’t asked how he’d done at the Olympics. Now, looking down at the gold medal in the jeweler's case, he felt curiously empty. He’d won gold at the Olympics and he had no memory of it.

 



James James
Morrison's Mother
Put on a golden gown,
James James
Morrison's Mother
Drove to the end of the town.
James James
Morrison's Mother
Said to herself, said she:
"I can get right down to the end of the town
and be back in time for tea."


Chapter 5

Di nervously adjusted the clip-on microphone on her collar.  TC's voice easily filled the library's community room, filled with 150 children and a row of grown ups along the back. It was hot and cramped in the puppet theater, and Di could feel beads of perspiration on her forehead and noted tendrils of hair escaping TC’s ribbon trimmed cap.  TC brought a bearded troll puppet up into sight of the audience and drew in her breath sharply. Seconds later a hoarse bellow echoed through the room ("I never need a microphone indoors," TC had told Di with more than a touch of pride)

"WHO'S THAT CROSSING OVER MY BRIDGE?"

A very young child screamed in unison with the troll puppet, and kept on screaming. Di wasn’t sure what to do, the shrieks were of an increasingly loud decibel. Panicking, she looked at TC who nodded forcefully, so Di squeaked out her lines,  hoping the mike she was wearing would pick it up, “It is I, the widdlest Biwwy Goat Gwuff.”
 
It was hard to see clearly through the black curtain designed to hide the puppeteers from the audience, but no mother/father/care giver was in evidence as the child continued to emit a horrible piercing shriek while the other children in the audience either covered their ears or continued watching the puppets, enthralled by TC’s hilarious voices. “Thank goodness I only have to speak the little billy goat’s lines,” Di thought as she manipulated the goat puppet to “trip trap” across the bridge.

Someone must have calmed the vocally blessed child down by the time the Big Billy Goat Gruff was thud-thudding across the bridge. Di’s arms were getting tired as the BBGG was quite heavy, and she giggled nervously as she “butted” TC’s troll puppet and TC launched into a series of hilarious sputtering coughing, choking noises as the troll drifted away down the river.

Now it was time for the children at the Sunset Cove Library to hear Tiffany Crystal Smith-Lovelace’s best story, Borreguita and the Coyote. Di and TC stepped out from behind the colorfully painted puppet theater and bowed. TC, wearing her Renaissance peasant costume today, nodded at Di who picked up an oversized glove (custom made and darn heavy)  and spun it, while she, TC and all the children chanted the magic words. "From over land, from over sea, let the stories of all nations come to me!"

"Corny, but kids do love corn!" TC had told Di when persuading her to take a more active role in her performances. “And you get to wear a costume, you’ll look beautiful!”

Di picked up her camera and framed a shot of TC, the coyote puppet on one hand and the lamb on the other in the foreground with a sea of fascinated, laughing faces in the background. TC didn't use the puppet theater for every story. She didn’t need to; the children were enthralled with the story and even though TC was standing in plain sight, she was almost invisible to them. They were seeing a coyote panting with hunger and frustration, a pasture filled with red clover, and a little lamb who should have been scared and yet was in command of the entire situation.

“Borreguita,” the lamb, was convincing the coyote to open his mouth wide and the children were unconsciously holding their mouths wide open as well. Seconds later, the lamb gave the coyote a serious head butt and TC let out her patented  (and earsplitting) pained wolf-howl. The children screamed with laughter, some of them jumping up and down with excitement.

TC, with perfect timing, waited till laughter had died a little, added howls, whimpers, and yips until the children were roaring and cheering. Finally TC finished the story, "Senor Coyote went away, and he did not come back. He never bothered Borreguita again, and so she lived..." TC gave the children a chance to join in, "Happily ever after!" they shouted, still laughing and as she bowed, they burst into applause. Di laughed out loud when she heard a child about 8 years old exclaim, "Now that's comedy!"

It took a long time for the room to clear out. Children and their parents asked about her dress, (yes, it was what people wore during the Renaissance in England and no, it didn't have a zipper or Velcro) and if she really had been to all those countries she showed them on the globe (she had) and let them see her puppets, letting go behind the puppet theater, and pull the quaintly painted cart she used in her first story, The Knight and the Dragon.

Finally the crowd thinned out, the librarian, Jane, (or was her name Janet?) a plump little woman with a salt and pepper hair shook hands with both of them, gushed about how wonderful they were, and handed TC the payment for the performance. There were more compliments, then they were free to change out of their Renaissance costumes, fold up the puppet theater, replace the puppets in the treasure chest and load the simple sets in the cart that doubled as a carrier for TC's "tools." Everything fit, but it was rather like jigsaw puzzle to get it all in neatly. Di had been traveling with TC through Northern California for a month now and she had it down to a science. It was still easier than doing her small roles in the puppet shows, she thought, chagrined that she had blown it today.

When Janet (or was it Jane?) finally said goodbye, TC turned to Di and said, “Nice job, tough audience, but we grabbed em! And now! You get to see my home! We'll stay there tonight and be on the road for Oregon tomorrow."

As TC headed north on Highway 1, Di tried to apologize for messing up the Three Billy Goats Gruff. “I didn’t know what to do with that horrid screaming going on, I didn’t know if I should say my line or not, TC, I am so sorry, are you sure you want me doing this?” Di gabbled, still oddly psyched from the performance.

"You did fine, that kid threw me off, too, I hate it when I can't tune it out. A particularly awful pitch, eh? Thank goodness my son never made that noise!" TC said fervently.

Surprised to hear TC had a son, Di forgot her embarrassment, but TC rushed on hurriedly, "Don’t worry though, no one noticed. I mean, people probably heard her in the next county, but they didn’t notice any big pause before you spoke your line; they stuck with us and had a good time. It amazes me how kids will stay attentive to a really good story.”
 
TC pulled into a McDonalds and said, "I'm dying of thirst, would you like anything?"

It was pretty clear TC didn't want to talk about her son, but Di respected that. It was strange how comfortable Di felt with TC right from the beginning. They really had almost nothing in common. TC had to be close to fifty and was outgoing, confident, self sufficient and complete in herself. She told Di a little about her life, that she traveled mostly in the United States, spending a few months in one area, telling stories at schools, libraries, book fairs, shopping malls and then moving on. "The malls are the worst though, too noisy and too many people coming and going. I like a captive audience better! But it was always my dream to travel and, I don't know, maybe it was my destiny, eh?"

TC had been thrilled with Di's photos, which, to Di's critical eye had not been all that great. Upon hearing that TC was doing some performances at Pier 39 that week, Di offered to get some better ones. TC had accepted her offer, bought her more crab, and a friendship between the free spirited TC and the quiet, reserved Di had sprung up.

Di had not been surprised when TC had asked to accompany her on some of her trips in Northern California. She'd planned to refuse, knowing she needed go back home, and yet somehow she heard herself saying she would love to do it. Little by little, TC had urged her to take part in the puppet shows. Di had been in a high school production of Romeo and Juliet, but this was quite different, TC’s shows were really professional and Di was not just an amateur, but a beginner. Still there was something strangely satisfying about the children’s response. Di watched and listened to TC and tried to learn. They drove from one town to another, to perform at libraries, daycare centers and schools. It was exhausting and exhilarating,  and the fact that she'd had little time to think was a distinct advantage.

The nights were still bad though. No matter how tired she was, Di always saw Trent's intense gray eyes smiling at her before she fell asleep. She knew that Trent had not been faithful to her, that the whole relationship had been a lie, and yet, stupidly, she missed him. She missed the sweet gestures he used to make, like framing her best photo layouts for her and bringing Chinese food to a photo shoot for an romantic picnic. What was more, he had seemed to really know her, appreciate her, love her. He called her an artist, said her photographs were poetry. Men were kind of stupid, maybe Jaylene (such a phony name) had come on to him... "Yeah right, Di, get a grip." she muttered, and then felt herself blush as she realized she'd spoken out loud.

TC pretended not to notice, nice lady, and Di realized they were off the highway and twisting and turning up and down a single lane road past picturesque cottages and bungalow-style houses all with beautiful gardens.

"Home again, home again, jiggedy jig," TC announced as she pulled the Rambler up to an old lighthouse and cottage behind a battered picket fence.

Di felt her spirits rise immediately. "What a charming old place!" It really was, it had a tangled garden in the front, and the white walls contrasted with the deep, blue shutters on the windows.

TC smiled in satisfaction. "It is wonderful isn't it? It was falling apart when I bought it about 20 years ago, before lighthouses became fashionable and expensive, but little by little I've been able to cobble it back together. Still a little work to do, obviously. Power and phone should be back on, I'm going to check my messages and then we'll get some of this stuff in. If you want, go up to the tower, it's a view that can't be beat! Bring a sweater though!"

Following TC's directions, Di opened a door and climbed the rough wooden stairs, little more than a sloping ladder really. She pushed up a trap door and stepped up into an octagonal room, with, naturally enough, large windows all around. No decorator had got hold of this little room, it was empty and windy and filled with dancing light from the setting sun. Di felt an odd rush of a powerful emotion. It wasn’t happiness, of course, you couldn't be happy with a broken heart. Still an intense conviction that something important was about to happen was settling in the base of her spine. It was not an unpleasant sensation.

She stepped into the wind to look at the ocean. Leaning on the rail, she felt her thoughts gradually untangle as the sun dipped lower and lower.  All in a blink, it disappeared, leaving the waves stained pink and orange. Di suddenly noticed the wind again. How long had she been standing there anyway? She realized she was cold and stiff, and now she could barely see the dark waters, though the sound of the waves and the wonderful salt air were still filling her heart.

It was silly to keep longing for Trent; that part of her life was over. She could be like TC, self sufficient. Di had never been without a boyfriend, not since she was sixteen and Mart Belden had asked her to the Valentine’s Day dance. Di had been sure she and Mart would get married, instead they'd drifted apart when he’d gone off to college. They had broken up, but stayed friends. Di continued an active social life, but no one else had touched her heart till Trent, with his fabulous eyes and sophisticated humor and brilliant mind.

Appalled and angry that her thoughts had taken her back to Trent, Di slipped through the trap door and banged it shut. Where was TC?  A little gravel path led to the cottage door. TC had left her battered suitcase in the bare and chilly hallway but was nowhere to be seen.
 
Calling her name softly, Di hesitantly pushed open a door. It was a kitchen, plainly furnished, also cold. TC was was sitting in a rather uncomfortable looking rocking chair, frowning. Di started forward, and TC spoke rather defiantly, "I'll coming tomorrow, maybe there's something I can do.” Oh Gosh, she was on the phone! Di started to back out, but TC, waved her in, still listening.

“No, really I have a new assistant, but she’s learning fast; she can do a few shows if necessary, I only have three booked this week anyway”

What?  Di’s silent scream of horror did not seem to register with TC who was complimenting Di elaborately  and inaccurately to the person at the other end of the phone line. It was one thing to be (hiding) in the puppet theater saying a few lines and waving a puppet around, but no way could she do all those sound effects and voices like TC and in front of a hundred people!

TC, completing disregarding Di’s popping eyes and frantic head shaking, was insisting into the receiver. Di added frantic hand wringing, but TC was speaking now with a mixture of relief and worry. “OK, I trust your judgment and I will see him in a week anyway. If you’re really sure. Let me know if I should be there though, I am still worried.” She listened again and she looked a little older. “OK, ok. Anyway, I hope I get to see you this time,too,  I bet you’re bald now.”

Di could hear quiet male laughter from TC’s caller and TC brightened accordingly. “Well, it’s my one talent, I guess, See you in a week.” TC hung up and closed her eyes and move her lips silently, as if in prayer.

Di was offering up a small prayer of thanks that she wasn’t going to have to solo this week as TC said briskly, "Let’s get unpacked. We’re leaving for the Pacific Northwest tomorrow!”

Di felt a slow smile cross her face and the expectant shiver in her spine was back and stronger than ever.

 

Chapter 6

Trixie frowned at her notes. It was becoming clear that she didn't have enough information to work with, but "Gucci-man," as she had dubbed the patronizing Mr. Clive, had not yet returned her calls.

"Anne Smith, or maybe Annie Smith. How do you trace a someone called Smith anyway?" she grumbled. "Honey warned me that getting information from some clients was like pulling teeth," she told herself, pulling the fuzzy photograph from its file. "Guess I should have gone to dental school."

She studied the photo for the hundredth time. The alleged thief had looked directly into the security camera. Trixie guessed she was over thirty-five, but it was impossible to tell anything about her build as she was bundled up in an unfashionable down jacket and had a knitted cap pulled over her light hair. Mr. Clive's antique shop was in Colorado Springs, and the theft had occurred in January.

 The lady's eyes looked dark, but that could have been the shadows. Something seemed almost familiar about her... Trixie studied the lady further, but the sense of familiarity vanished. "Argh!" she groaned out loud.

Trixie sighed. She was having trouble concentrating and it made her angry. Since when did Trixie Belden let her personal life get in the way of a case? She touched the ring on her right hand. Jim had turned white when she'd put it back on her right hand. She felt sick thinking of the fiasco of a proposal, Jim had been so abrupt, totally failing to say the one word that would have helped his cause. The word she longed to hear, the word she thought was true, but geez, what kind of relationship would they have as husband and wife if he couldn't bring himself to tell her he loved her?

Husband and wife. Her husband? "This is my husband, Jim." She tested the thought out loud and immediately felt herself blush furiously. Thank goodness no one was inside! Bob was still in Canada, but Moms was working in the garden this Saturday afternoon and Dad was at work.

Deep down, she never expected anyone to want to marry her. She'd crushed on Jim for years, but she had to admit she couldn't completely believe that the tall, handsome, and smart companion of her youthful adventures could really, well, love such a plain, unglamorous girl.

Not that he said "love" she reminded herself. If he had, she would have said yes in front of Jeff, in front of her parents or in front of the United Nations and the Mormon Tabernacle Choir or a joint session of Congress. But he didn't. And she couldn't quite convince herself that he did. Love her, that is. He liked her, was comfortable with her, he admired her, she knew that, but love? Romantic, physical and spiritual love? She sighed. Those words just didn't seem to go with Trixie Belden.

She got up from her desk and opened her window, leaning out to look at the crabapple trees in full blossom. She should go help Moms in the vegetable garden. She wasn't making any progress on her cases even though she'd dragged several files home for the weekend. She stumped down the stairs taking gloomy pleasure in hearing the thuds she made, and clumped into the kitchen. Making as much noise as possible, she jerked open the refrigerator and pour iced tea into a tall glass. Then she pulled the stone cookie crock toward her and sank her teeth into a soft, spicy oatmeal cookie. Heaven.

Naturally, the phone rang while her mouth was full. She swallowed hastily and answered rather thickly.

"Trixie! Hi! How was your birthday? Did you get my present?" Her youngest brother Bob's voice sounded even more exuberant than usual.

"Hi Bob!" Trixie felt herself smiling as she said more or less accurately, "It was a great birthday! Thank you for the skates, they are awesome! What a huge surprise! You and Amelia must have planned this for a long time"

"Well, just a few months. Did you read all the signatures? We even got Wayne Gretzky, did you see that? I met him here in Vancouver, it was at a fundraiser and it was too cool! I just asked him and he said yes, he was so nice, I mean the best hockey player ever signing figure skates? I couldn't believe it, but he was really nice."

"I saw them all Bob, I was totally blown away. I talked to Amelia yesterday and told her thanks, she is so sweet, I told her about Wayne Gretzky's autograph and she was all excited too."

 They chatted for a few minutes about Amelia and Moms and Dad and Wayne Gretzky and then Bob said in an elaborately casual tone, "By the way, I'm calling to tell Moms and Dad I'm staying a little longer."

"Really? How come? I'm getting pretty tired of doing your chores, you know." Trixie was living at home to try and save some money and would be helping around the house and farm no matter what, but it didn't hurt to foster a little guilt in Bobby for having an extended vacation.

Bob lowered his voice, "Well, Trixie, I think I've got um, well, a possible case for Honey. After what's happened to Tempest in the last couple of days, I really think he needs a bodyguard!"

Moms came in the backdoor at that interesting point of the conversation and mouthed, "Who is it?" Aggravated at the interruption and worried about what could have happened to Tempest, Trixie covered the receiver with her hand and answered, "Bobby".

In spite of her precautions, Bob heard her soft voice and exploded into her ear, "MY NAME IS BOB! B-O-B! Stop calling me Bobby!"Moms, laughing a little, took the phone from Trixie and told her youngest son, "Now, now, go easy on your sister, she's been working hard, both at work and helping with your chores, Bobby Belden!"

Trixie sat at the kitchen table and gnawed at a fingernail while Moms listened to Bob apparently trying to persuade her to let him stay in Canada. What had happened to Tempest? Her heart was beating a little faster.

If any man could have distracted her from Jim, it was Tempest Smith. When they'd dated briefly last year, he'd shown himself to be sweet and sensitive, very modest especially considering his superstar status in his own country. Trixie did not rate herself highly, but instinct told her rather belatedly that Tempest had been more than a little attracted to her, he had really cared for her.

The last time they'd talked, though, he'd been different; subdued and disapproving that she chosen to go back to her original career choice in detective work. She'd convinced him that she was happy with her choice and she knew he'd believed her. Yet, somehow a door had closed between them. He went back to Canada a few weeks later and she had only seen him on TV in the last year. She had considered calling him a couple of times, but her relationship with Jim had gotten wonderfully serious and she had pretty much put Tempest out of her thoughts.

Till Bob went to Canada. He'd been on an Alaskan cruise with his girlfriend and her family. Trixie hadn't realized that Bob had stayed in touch with Tempest, but when he realized the cruise ended in Vancouver, Tempest's home town, he'd easily wrangled an invitation to visit.

But what had happened? Was Tempest all right? Why did he need a bodyguard of all things?   Trixie was not able to glean much from Moms' side of the conversation. Bob must not be telling her everything.

"Well, it sounds like they really want you to stay, Bob. You keep in touch and let us know your plans, though." Moms was giving her consent. Before Trixie could grab the phone back, Moms was saying good-bye.

"Moms," Trixie wailed, "I had something I wanted to ask Bob!"

Moms poured herself some iced tea and apologized, "I'm sorry Trixie, he was in a hurry, he's going to call in a day or two, it can wait till then."

"What did he say, is Tempest all right?"

Moms looked surprised. "As far as I know, Tempest is fine. Bob said they were having a good time, he got to meet Wayne Gretzky." She finished her tea, smiled at her daughter and went back out to wrestle with weeds.

Trixie ground her teeth in frustration. This must be how her parents felt ten years ago when Trixie had kept secrets from them, because she wanted to solve a case herself. What goes around comes around she told herself, then rallied.

Ten years ago they didn't have a little thing called the Internet! she thought triumphantly. Tempest, as an Olympic champion, was news. If there was something wrong, the Canadian papers would have covered it. She fired up her laptop, which she kept in the kitchen, as her room was not "connected."

She had just clicked "search" when the kitchen door opened again. She looked up and felt a soft smile curve her lips. He had more roses in his hand, and a fiercely determined expression in those gorgeous green eyes. In that moment, all doubts flew from her mind, all thoughts of handsome figure skaters, crafty little brothers and even stupid cases involving people named Smith vanished.

Something of this must have showed in her expression, because Jim relaxed. He walked slowly across the hardwood floor, enjoying the anticipation, until he was standing just inches from her.

Still smiling, he put his hand under her chin, then caressed her cheek gently. This was the moment, Trixie knew it. In the back of her mind she was sure the phone would ring or an earthquake would strike, or a bear would escape, SOMETHING stupid or comical would happen to keep Jim from saying it.

Nothing happened, everything was so quiet in the kitchen Trixie could hear a clock ticking in the hall. But he didn't say it. Instead, he took her hand and said, "Come with me."

Feeling like she could follow him through hot coals, she followed him out the door and up the little footpath into the woods.

"Where - " she started to say, but he covered her lips with his hand, and wordlessly continued. The woods were beautiful today, and she decided to relax and follow Jim's lead, no thinking or analyzing, just enjoying late afternoon sun and the view of his woodsman's stride. She always loved the way Jim walked.

Finally they stopped at the long driveway to the school he had founded several years ago. He put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the stone wall that marked the border of the school grounds. Embedded in the wall was a small plaque that read, "Catskills Academy, dedicated to the memory of James Winthrop Frayne" (Jim's great uncle). Trixie ran her fingers over the raised letters, remembering a long ago summer, a boy with a shotgun and a bible, and a silver christening mug. She looked at the man he had grown to be, a teacher, a leader, a person who did such good in the world. As she looked at him solemnly, feeling like she was seeing him again for the first time, he slowly dropped to his knees, took her hand in his.

"I love you, Trixie Belden. I can't live without you. Please, will you please marry me?"

He did it. He said it. He said 'love'. He loved her. Jim Frayne loved Trixie Belden. A feeling of glory welled up in her heart, bigger and brighter than the sunset over the trees.

Jim was looking up at her, hope and love burning bright in his eyes. She'd better answer him. She would as soon as she remembered how to use her vocal chords.

Trixie looked deep into his eager eyes as she answered, "Gleeps." Her heart was pounding but she thought she should elaborate, "Gleeps!"

"Does that mean yes?" From his smile she suspected he knew the answer, but he still looked a tiny bit uncertain. Regaining her coherency she answered one more time.

"It means yes, it means, I love you so much, James Winthrop Frayne the 2nd! It means..."

She would have gone on explaining what "gleeps" meant, but his lips found hers.

*    *   *     *

Several hours later, Moms came into her kitchen and found a laptop computer sitting on her table, turned on but timed out of AOL. She sighed, "When will Trixie ever grown up?" turned it off, and closed it with a tiny but firm click.

 

Chapter 7

 For some reason the hotel had given them a suite; two rooms separated by a living room. It wasn't what he'd asked for, but it was fine with Tempest who valued space and privacy. Still a bit groggy from his long sleep, he dragged himself on his crutches to the door and laughed softly. Bob certainly knew how to make himself at home; sprawled on the couch, he was watching the local news, reading about the Space Needle, and chomping his way through a huge yellow bag of peanut M&Ms. His new Vancouver Canucks cap was upside down on the coffee table

 They had driven down yesterday from Vancouver so that Tempest could participate in the Steadfast Insurance Company's "Future Champions" clinic this morning, a commitment he'd made months ago. It had gone pretty well, though Tempest had been so tired afterward that he'd fallen asleep as soon as they'd gotten back to the hotel. Now he needed to get ready for dinner with his mother.

"You know, Bob, you don't have to drive me tonight, I can take a cab. Why don't you go to the Space Needle right now? They have an amusement park and laser tag and stuff there, too, it's pretty fun."

"It's OK, I'll drive you to the restaurant and then go." Bob drawled, barely looking up from the pamphlet, but Tempest insisted,

"Look, you don't have to hang around the hotel all day and night, you're not my slave or my bodyguard. Go and have some - " Tempest stopped as Bob's blue eyes suddenly looked very innocent. What was the deal here? he wondered.

After his accident last week, Dad had wanted him to cancel all his obligations and stay home, lying on the couch like... like... like Emily Dickinson or something. It was bad enough Tempest couldn't skate for the next month or so, but there was no way he was going to cancel an easy trip to Seattle and disappoint a bunch of little kids. When Bob had offered to chauffeur Tempest from Vancouver to Seattle, it seemed like a godsend. Only now did it occur to Tempest that Dad, who had been behaving like a mother hen with one chick, had agreed too easily.

"Go and have some fun, Bob," he urged, dismissing the suspicion that Bob Belden, fully six years younger than him, was supposed to be looking after him. Not even Dad would be that worried over a stupid bump on the head, even if it did mess up his memory a tad.

"I'll drop you off," Bob suggested brightly, "and then go to the Space Needle. It says here that the amusement park is open till 11:00. And you said your mom would probably bring you back, right?"

Mom always seemed to take cabs, but there was no way he was going to say so. Anyway, there was a first for everything, he rationalized, and assured Bob, "Yeah, she'll bring me back."

"Great, maybe I can meet her! What's she like?"

"My Mom? Well, she's nice," Tempest said vaguely. "Um, she's a consultant, and she travels a lot, you know, and since I do too, we kind of got in a habit of meeting whenever our plans put us in close proximity. She's..." he shrugged, "She's quiet, shy really, kind of professional looking."

Bob crumpled the empty M&M bag and tossed across it across the room into the trash can under the desk. "What kind of consultant is she, is it like computers and stuff like that?" he asked, pumping his fist at his great shot.

"Well, um, I don't know exactly, retail consulting, I guess, she doesn't talk much about her job. She says she works at the malls a lot."

"You don't know what your mom does?" Bob was looking a bit shocked, Tempest felt both embarrassed and defensive.

"Well, she and my dad split up when I was really little. She was in the Peace Corps after that and then she was abroad for a long time, and I really didn't see her again till I was like, seventeen. She always sent birthday presents and stuff, but," he sighed. "I guess we're not really well acquainted."

His knee was feeling a tiny bit better. He tried a little weight on his right knee and winced at the stabbing pain. OK, not that much better. As he leaned back on his crutches, he thought about his mother. He always felt a little tongue tied around her, always groping for words. They just didn't have much in common, he thought.

She'd been to a couple of competitions, and had seemed overwhelmed by them. Or maybe she just didn't like skating, lots of people thought it was dumb. Of course she had said the right things, that she was proud and all, but not much more. Once she'd told him he had a great rapport with the audience, though, he still cherished that compliment. And she always wore the hideously bright, red, glittery maple leaf earrings he'd sent her for Christmas when he was eleven.

"She's really nice," he repeated smiling nostalgically. "We just don't see each other enough, that's all."

Bob suddenly grabbed the remote and turned the volume up. "Hey look, you're on TV!"

Must be a slow news day, they'd been showing coverage of a grand opening of a mall and now the local news was broadcasting a piece on the clinic he'd conducted that morning, gibing more coverage than it merited. The sponsor, Steadfast Insurance, was a Seattle company, that probably explained it. The kids were cute and it had been fun. They were showing the kids jumping, spinning, listening earnestly to Tempest, laughing and pushing Tempest across the ice on a folding chair, having a great time.

When they showed the interview he'd taped this morning, Tempest, having seen more than enough of himself on TV over the years, could hardly watch. He was sure it must be clear to everyone that he was ad libbing his way through the questions about the Olympics. Dr. Eliot said he might eventually remember, or he might not.

 The past year was not a complete blank, more like a jumble. He remembered the National Championships last year, for example, but he remembered nothing at all about the Olympics. It was like they never happened. He pushed down a sense of panic and said to himself, "Don't do this, it doesn't matter if you remember." But it was so unfair that he couldn't remember the good things and couldn't forget the bad.

His stomach lurched....

A few minutes later, leaning heavily on the bathroom counter, Tempest rinsed his mouth out and wiped his face with the pure white hotel washcloth. "I hate throwing up," he muttered, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. Dashing to the bathroom on crutches was no picnic either. "It's not fair," he thought in preparation for a long session of self pity.

 Before he could really wallow, however, there was a knock on the bathroom door. "Here it comes," he told himself, and mouthed the words Bob called through the door, "Are you OK?"

"I'm fine, Bob" he answered, trying to sound fine. "The doctor said this might happen, no big deal." Well, it was a little deal considering he was about go out to dinner, but no need to bring that up. Bring that up? He gagged, bad word choice.

"OK, I'll go back to the living room then. Let me know if you need anything." Bob, at least was calm about the whole thing, Dad would have been dragging him back to the hospital. When his stomach had settled down, he brushed his teeth, and crunched a couple of Tums before he changed into his shirt and tie.

He was feeling better by the time Bob dropped him off at the Wooden Lady, a popular new Seattle bistro; well enough to be a little amused by the decor. The "Avast me hearties" feel from the fishing nets and carefully weathered figureheads on the walls clashed with dainty pink tablecloths that looked like they'd escaped from a tea room. Fortunately, theview of Puget Sound made up for any deficiencies in the decor. As Tempest turned sideways trying to avoid knocking a diner in the head with his elbow, a waiter carried a plate of steak tartar past his nose. Ugh. He sternly told his stomach to behave and thank goodness it did.

And there was Mom. She stood up and he kissed her cheek. When she stood back to look at him, he was glad to see the maple leaf earrings. His pleasure didn't last long, however, as she greeted him in an amazingly piercing voice. "Tempest Smith, you look awful! Your dad said you were fine!"

Heads turned. Two women seated nearby, whispered to each other while staring at him, braced on his crutches, his mother looking accusingly at him. In a split second, she blushed, her dark eyes widened, she put a hand to her mouth and she whispered, "Oh, my dear, I am so sorry, I was just surprised, that's all. She leaned forward and spoke confidentially, "You look a little pale."

"It's OK," he lied. "But, really, I'm fine." He wished she would sit back down, so he could, and in a minute she sat, or maybe collapsed was a better word. He sat too (clumsily) and stared at the pink napkin folded into a swan for a full minute before putting it on his lap.

"Tempest," she murmured again, "Are you sure you are all right? Your father said you fell down the stairs, but he acted like it was no big deal."

Apparently she didn't read the Canadian papers, which had made an embarrassingly big deal out of it. At least the health bulletin gave them something to talk about. He told her about the sprained knee and the concussion, not mentioning his current jumpy stomach (because it would sound like whining) but reinforcing that he had a clean bill of health, and that in fact the doctor had ordered him to travel a bit and rest.

She was looking more at ease now, and by the time the waiter had rattled off the specials, made his recommendations, and discretely requested Tempest's autograph, she looked her usual calm, unrattled self. He was rather touched at her concern. Just like any mom.

Ordering was tricky, mineral water instead of wine was easy and fortunately, there was a clear broth on the menu, but he wasn't sure any of the other items on the menu would stay down. Chicken Marsala seemed the safest. At least he wasn't going to gain weight even if his knee kept him off the ice.

Mom had no worries, she ordered the seafood chowder and a crab louie. She was dressed with her usual elegance, almost prim in a dark skirt, white blouse, high heels, and those silly earrings. Not slim, not fat, and younger looking than her 48 years. Her dark eyes contrasted with her smooth blonde hair pinned up at the back of her head. Not for the first time, he wondered why she and dad had split up.

After the waiter poured her Chardonnay, she raised her glass and said, "I haven't congratulated you on your win at the Olympics. I was so proud of you!"

He sipped his water cautiously. He was still so shaky on the details of the Olympics, he wasn't sure what to say, so he smiled nervously and said "Thanks."

Mom seemed to take that as a conversation stopper. During the silence, the two ladies at the next table asked for his autograph. After he'd got rid of them, he rattled off some cliches that were true about any winning any big competition. Mom did not look especially satisfied with the expanded answer.

Thankfully, the waiter arrived with their soup at that point. Taking small sips of soup, he thought about what Bob had said. It was terrible that he didn't know more about his own mother. Looking at her across the table, he was ashamed. As a kid, he had never made much effort to ask about her life, but he was an adult and been for a long time now. What was wrong with him anyway?

"So what brings you to Seattle?" he tried.

"Um... business. Business at a mall." She answered vaguely and rather evasively, he thought, "And I wanted to see you. I could have come all the way to Vancouver, you know."

"Oh, that's OK, I had a thing this morning. A clinic, I mean. I was teaching some kids." Why was he so inarticulate with her?

"Oh yes! I saw you on TV, actually. What on earth were the kids doing when they were pushing you around on that chair?" She looked and sounded genuinely interested and he relaxed enough to a make a little story of how he had to solve the kids' arguments about jump technique by checking the tracings.

"Being on crutches, that was the only way I could get on the ice and they had quite a bit of fun with that!" Tempest laughed. "I was glad the boy was right, the little girl, Ellyn, was quite a know-it-all. She took it well though."

"Tracings? I thought skaters didn't do tracings any more." Mom remarked as she broke a piece of sourdough bread and buttered it neatly.

"We don't do figures anymore, that was tracing and retracing patterns on the ice as part of the competition. You're right, we haven't done that in years. Tracings are different, it's just the marks left on the ice by our blades. No matter what you're doing, you leave tracings. You can actually learn a lot from looking at them." He was enjoying his conversation, and Mom seemed to be interested in skating after all.

He was about to tell her about skating mom who insisted in bringing her miniature poodle to the rink when he was distracted by a slight slurping noise. He glanced at the guy at the next table and shuddered to see him thoroughly enjoying a first course of raw oysters. His stomach jumped nervously and he quickly shifted his eyes to look through the window at the lights twinkling on the ships. "Seattle is a great city, isn't it?" he remarked.

"It really is," She had a lovely voice, really, it had a real exuberance to it and she had beautiful enunciation. "Land of Latte! I love it! You like tea better, I seem to recall."

He looked at the chicken marsala the waiter slid in front of him and wished he had a cup of tea right now. "Yes, I never really got into coffee. Well, you know Grandma, she was a tea-a-holic."

Her smile was suddenly sad. Tempest's grandmother, her mother, had raised him, but died several years ago.

"She was always like that, I could always count on afternoon tea when I got home from school." She proceeded to make a good meal of her crab while she reminisced. Tempest poked at the chicken, ate a bit of the rice, and listened and laughed when she told the story of the day she wore blue jeans to school against the rules. In spite of a rising headache and the unease in his stomach, he was having a better time than he'd ever had before with her.

The waiter passed with a plate of sizzling calamari.  At a table nearby another was making a show of adding raw egg and sardines to the Caesar salad. Why was everyone eating such disgusting things around him? He gulped at his water and surreptitiously slipped a Tums into his mouth and tried to focus on Mom's description of the outfit that had gotten her suspended. " ... halter top, no bra! And bell bottom jeans with flowers embroidered on the rear end. We thought it was so groovy. We really used that word! It cracks me up when I see kids wearing stuff like that again!"

"I bet Grandma wasn't too thrilled," he contributed.

"Oh, she was in despair, I wasn't anything like the daughter she had imagined." The waiter mercifully cleared their places and he was grateful Mom made no comment on how little he ate. Mom ordered a latte and he finally had his cup of tea, and felt better than he had all evening.

He was going to ask if she was going to be in town a few days and suggest getting together tomorrow, when she reached under the table and said, "Oh! I almost forgot! "Tempest Smith! I have something to show you! "

 His head suddenly started pounding and he felt dizzy. For a horrifying second, he was back in a cold half lit skating rink. Julie Summers was mocking him, telling him he was stupid, he could feel a gun running up and down his leg and he knew Trixie was watching.

 He blinked and the restaurant came back into focus. Mom was looking anxiously at him. "Mom," his voice sounded far away, "I've got to go." He grabbed his crutches and almost blindly limped between the tables, past the bar. In his hurry to reach fresh air, Tempest stumbled against a tall figure loitering dawdling in the aisle, and he muttered an apology and kept his eye on the front door. When he reached the wide porch in front of the restaurant, the cold, damp air made him feel better almost instantly and just as instantly humiliation rushed through him.

Mom, carrying both their coats, joined him in a minute. Silently, she handed him his coat, and he struggled to out it on and not drop his crutches.

He was beyond embarrassed. At least he hadn't tossed his cookies again, (he'd come close) but he'd walked out on her. How could she forgive him? What had she been saying? Oh my god, he must have stuck her with the bill, too.  "Mom, I'm sorry, I...." He stopped. It was dark, but he thought she was frowning.

Damn, he'd blown it. He wasn't eager to tell her (or anyone) about what Julie had tried to do to him, but he had to explain his rudeness and there was no way he could tell her anything less than the truth after the great evening they'd had. He swallowed, trying to find the right words. "Mom, I'm so sorry."

She turned her back to him. She must be mad and she had good reason. Just tell her you had a flashback to when some crazy lady tried to put a bullet through your knee, she'll understand, he told himself sarcastically, and if you sound like a pathetic coward, well, that's not so far from the truth is it?

"Mom, there's something I need..." he started and was astounded when she walked rapidly away from him.

It dawned on him that she was not angry with him, but distracted by something down the street. He followed her awkwardly, "Are you OK?" He couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, just that guy from the bar wearing a the Vancouver Canucks cap tying his shoe.

She was a few feet away already and while he stared, feeling his mouth fall open, she tapped him briskly in the shoulder and put her hands on her hips.

"You!" Mom's voice suddenly sounded like a drill sergeant's. "Young man, why are you listening in on our private conversation? You have been staring my son all night and I demand an explanation!"

"What the..." Tempest was not destined to finish his sentence. There was something familiar about the way he moved, something familiar about the curly blond hair glinting from under the cap.

"No way!" Tempest exclaimed. Shocked fury spurred him to demonstrate considerable speed on his crutches as he caught up to Mom and... damn!

"Tempest, this young man has been listening to our conversation. He was at the bar all evening watching us. When you left, he followed you. I think we should call the police!" Her words rang out like a brass gong and she pulled a call phone from her pocket and brandished it at the eavesdropper.

Tempest felt a surge of pure rage. "No need to call the police, Mom. I can handle this myself, and after that, I am going to kill Dad," he said through his teeth. "Mom, may I introduce you to Bob Belden, whom Dad seems to have appointed as my baby-sitter for the evening. Bob, this is my mother, Kris Smith."

Bob gulped, Mom gaped, Tempest glared.... and then they all started speaking at once.

King John
Put up a notice,
"LOST or STOLEN or STRAYED!
JAMES JAMES
MORRISON'S MOTHER
SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN MISLAID.
LAST SEEN
WANDERING VAGUELY
QUITE OF HER OWN ACCORD,
SHE TRIED TO GET DOWN TO THE END OF
THE TOWN - FORTY SHILLINGS REWARD!"

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