wait a moment more, “I was thinking about driving in. I need to pick up a file at the office.”
“Can’t it wait? They issued an evacuation order for all of the downtown area. They’ll be closing the interstates soon.”
“But you’re downtown.”
“Well…I have connections. But you should stay put. It could get dangerous out there.”
“Not for a while. They say we have at least twelve hours before Felix arrives.”
“Things can get wicked in a hurry if tornadoes form in front of the storm. You ought to stay put.”
“Lauren says there’s nothing to worry about. Something about the Native Americans killing a chicken and making predictions—”
“What?”
“Never mind. Please, Parker, will you wait for me? I can get my file and we can leave together. We could even evacuate, maybe drive someplace north of here.”
He lets out a long, audible breath, then speaks in a voice heavy with apology. “I’ll wait if you promise to come right away. I don’t want to hang around much longer because I need to get home. The kids, you know.”
She draws a breath, about to ask why they don’t pick up his kids and drive to Ocala or Gainesville, but Parker is no fool. If he wanted to knit her into his family life, this would be the perfect opportunity.
Obviously, he’s not ready. Yet.
She swipes at a tear with the sleeve of her robe. “I suppose—” she steadies her voice “—you need to stay in the area for your clients. If Felix comes ashore here—”
“I’ll be as busy as a dentist in Hershey, Pennsylvania. That’s why I can’t leave, sweetheart. I need to stick around. For my business and my kids.”
She lowers her gaze, grateful he can’t see the hurt welling in her eyes. Any man might have said the same thing, but she has a feeling his refusal has more to do with his children than his client list. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Be careful. And, by the way, your timing’s perfect. I ordered something special for you and it arrived late yesterday. I was going to save it for your birthday—”
“Good grief, Parker, that’s two months from now.”
“—then I thought maybe you could wear the surprise when I take you out for dinner next week. I mean, why wait?”
Michelle smiles as a blush heats her cheeks. Is he really ready to commit?
“Parker,” she breathes, “what have you done?”
“You’ll have to see, love. Come on up, I’ll be waiting.”
As Donna Summer continues to warble from the CD player, Isabel raps on the inner-office door, then uses her master key to enter. A quick glance assures her the space is empty, but she hesitates at the sight of a burning lamp. Though the computer behind the desk whirrs continually, the lamp is usually dark when she cleans this suite.
She shakes her head. More waste. Americans are always complaining about the high cost of gasoline, but still they burn lamps in empty rooms and run their computers all night and keep their air-conditioning so low she has to wear a sweater while she works. Maybe Americans just like to complain.
She blows a stray hank of hair from her forehead, then walks over to the executive’s waste can. Wadded papers and soda cans spill from the edge of the container, so she tamps down the trash before carrying it to the cart outside the door. No candy wrappers lie at the bottom of this bin; no cigarette butts, either. This boss, whoever he is, has few obvious bad habits.
She frowns as she returns the trash can to the side of the desk. An unusual amount of clutter covers the work area, so perhaps she shouldn’t try to dust. A pile of papers litters the blotter, an uncapped fountain pen atop the stack as if the man—Mr. Rossman, according to an envelope on the desk—has just stepped out of the office.
But no one comes here on Saturday, and no one would come with a hurricane spinning in the Gulf of Mexico…would they?
Maybe she shouldn’t have come downtown. Carlos did not want her to come to work. When she insisted they needed the money, he told her to hurry home because Rafael will want his mamá if the weather gets ugly. So she promised to work quickly, even though her paycheck will be short if she doesn’t put in her full eight hours. There will be little money for groceries in the week ahead, but Carlos will put in extra hours at the gas station if he has to. If the storm doesn’t come and the gas station stays open.
Somehow, they will—how does Carlos say it? Make the nickels stretch.
She smiles as she runs her feather duster over the edge of the credenza and skims the letters on the computer keyboard. When the monitor flashes to life after she touches the egg-shaped thing they call a mouse, she backs away.
She has been warned about American tecnología. The government here has hidden wires in the walls to listen to phone calls and read e-mail messages. Cameras sit atop traffic lights and snap fotografías of passing cars; computers at the grocery know what she buys and when she buys it.
Computers make Isabel nervous. So many Americans depend on them, especially the people in this building. Sometimes she feels as if the sleeping computers watch her as she dusts, ready to spill her secrets if she touches them in the wrong way.
Florida’s attorney general has offices in this building—six floors of desks with computers—and his office terrifies her more than the others. She doesn’t know who the attorney general is or exactly what he does, but with such a title and so many employees, he must know everything about everyone in the state. Which means he might know about her…but doesn’t yet know he knows.
She must never give him a reason to search for any of her names on his computers.
She runs her duster over the back of Rossman’s chair, then peers out the wide window behind his desk. More color has filled the sky since her last look, but the sun is glowering behind a cloud. After giving the glass a quick spritz of cleaner, she swipes at nonexistent fingerprints. Apparently Mr. Rossman never stands at this window, never touches the glass out of appreciation for the view. Perhaps he takes the scene for granted.
She pauses as she looks toward the west. A series of darker clouds hovers in the distance, swallowing up the horizon’s light. The street lamps far below remain lit, but few vehicles move over the roads. Here and there, police cars hold a vigil at intersections, their lights flashing blue and red. Tampa appears quiet, almost deserted.
Donna Summer is singing “Any Way at All” when Isabel crosses the office. She is about to haul in the vacuum cleaner when she spies a large gold box resting on the arms of one of the visitor’s chairs. An extravagant bow adorns the lid, but the top of the box is askew and merely resting on the bottom. Someone has examined whatever lies inside and left the box open…almost.
What could be inside a box so beautiful?
She stands by the chair, wavering, then tosses her feather duster onto the cleaning cart outside the door. What would it matter if she takes a peek? She will not hurt a thing. She only wants to see what kind of present
