are you doing here?” she demanded.
He seemed surprised by the anger in her voice.
“I’m waiting for you,” he explained, as if that was completely logical.
“There’s no need to do that.”
James shook his head. “Miss Teri asked me to see you home.”
“Go away,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Now he was really beginning to annoy her. “I don’t want you here.”
“Shall I move the car and wait for you around the corner?”
Christie wanted to groan in frustration. “No. Just leave.”
He declined again with a shake of his head.
“A friend will drive me home,” she insisted.
James remained stubbornly quiet.
“I want you to leave.”
“Yes, miss.”
Every word out of this man’s mouth made her furious. “And stop calling me Miss! My name is Christie.”
“Very well, Christie.”
There was a silence, and they stared at each other, neither looking away.
“You’re going to sit here even if I stay all night, aren’t you?” she finally asked.
“Yes.”
From the firm set of his mouth, she could tell he wasn’t kidding, either. He’d sit in that damn car for hours without a word of complaint, patiently waiting for her to reappear.
“Oh, all right,” she groaned. “You win.” She went back into the tavern, paid for her beer and left.
James remained standing by the passenger door, holding it for her. She climbed in and reached for the door handle, jerking it from his hand as she slammed it shut. She glanced out at the tavern, hoping no one had seen her get into the limo. She’d never hear the end of it.
Slipping into the driver’s seat, James started the engine and turned into the road.
“Now look what I did,” Christie complained. “I ruined the rose my sister gave me.” In her temper, she’d sat on it and crushed the petals.
“That rose isn’t from your sister.”
“Bobby gave me the rose?” That didn’t sound like something her brother-in-law would do.
“No, miss, I did.”
“You?” She was so shocked she forgot to be upset that he’d called her miss again.
“Yes.”
“Both times?” she asked speculatively.
“Yes.”
Christie frowned. “Why?” He didn’t answer, so she rephrased her question. “Is there a reason you bought me roses?” She raised her voice so he’d know she expected an answer.
“I wanted you to have them.”
She regarded the crushed bud in her hand. “Don’t do it again, understand?”
“Very well.”
“I mean it, James.”
There was no response. All at once Christie felt the most compelling urge to weep. That happened once in a while, usually when she’d been drinking. This evening she hadn’t even finished her beer, so that couldn’t be it. Tears gathered in her eyes and she swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“I’m going to tell Teri I don’t want you driving me anymore.”
“Very well.”
She didn’t know what made her say that. James hadn’t done anything to her and yet she seemed to be looking for ways to offend him.
When he drove up to her apartment building, she practically leaped out of the car. She certainly didn’t give him time to get out and open her door. She ran to her apartment and hurriedly let herself inside. Her pulse roared in her ears as she leaned against the closed door, breathing hard. When she looked down she realized she still held the battered rose. A tear fell from her cheek and landed on the red petals.
Twenty-Two
“We got a postcard from Linnette,” Corrie McAfee told Roy when he came into the office after his morning walk. Her voice was a little too cheerful, and he didn’t believe it reflected how she really felt.
“Where is she?” he asked. He’d ultimately sided with his daughter about making her own decision, but that didn’t mean he approved of the way she’d taken off without a destination, without a plan. Nor did it mean he didn’t sympathize with her reasons. Like any father, he hated seeing his child hurt.
“North Dakota,” Corrie told him, studying the postcard. “A town called Buffalo Valley. Roy,” she said, glaring at him. “She’s taken a job as a waitress at a restaurant called 3 of a Kind. She says the owner won the business in a card game about ten years ago. What sort of place is this?”
“Apparently one that needs a waitress,” he said in as casual a tone as he could manage.
“After all those years of schooling and medical training, Linnette is working as a waitress?”
“I know.” He didn’t like the sound of that, either. However, he was willing to give Linnette the benefit of the doubt and wait a few months until she found her footing.
“A waitress,” his wife repeated indignantly.
“What I find interesting,” he said, “is that she chose to mail us a postcard rather than call.”
He and Corrie exchanged a quick, private smile.
Their daughter Gloria had once mailed them postcards, too, but hers had been anonymous with cryptic messages neither of them had understood at the time.
Corrie handed him Linnette’s postcard and he read through the tightly scribbled lines. “She seems fairly happy,” he said, somewhat surprised. “Apparently the proprietor’s included a room with the job.”
“Buffalo Bob? I don’t like it, Roy. What a ridiculous name!”
“Listen, Corrie, we raised our daughter to the best of our ability. Linnette’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s told us about this job and where she’s living, so the least we can do is trust her judgment.”
“How can you say that?” Corrie cried. “Her judgment ever since Cal broke up with her has been terrible.”
“In
