“You weren’t supposed to be thinking about Red,” he said. “This is supposed to be a romantic interlude. We’re supposed to think about love and sex.”
“Oh.” She nibbled on her muffin. If she thought about sex, she might jump across the table after him. He was incredibly handsome in a navy blazer and blue shirt with red striped tie. His dark lashes shadowed his eyes in the subdued lighting of the room, and there was the hint of a rakish smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew a wicked secret. It was a smile that sent a rush of heat tingling through her. She returned the muffin to her bread dish and rearranged her napkin, waiting for the desire to subside. “Well, what about love?”
“Is that what you were just thinking about? Love?”
Amy busily buttered a second pumpkin muffin. “Yup. I was thinking about love. I was thinking that it’s…um, lovely.”
“I was thinking about sex,” Jake said, his voice low but casual.
No kidding. Amy grimaced when she realized she’d buttered her thumb.
The waiter placed a shallow bowl of cold zucchini soup before each of them and smiled pleasantly. “Everything all right?”
“Perfect,” Jake said, his eyes never leaving Amy’s.
When the waiter had retreated Amy shook her bread knife at Jake. “You’re seducing me in a public restaurant. Shame on you.”
“Is it fun?”
“It’s outrageous and excruciating.”
He took her hand, rubbing his thumb across the tender flesh of her palm. “Do we need a big wedding? Can we get married tomorrow?”
Amy averted her eyes and tasted her soup. Marry him now, instinct told her. Before it’s too late. That’s insane, she retorted. Nothing’s going to happen.
“Amy?”
She gave herself a mental shake. “A big wedding isn’t necessary, but I’m sure my parents would want to attend.” Her face brightened. “We could have the wedding in my house. Just a few family members and close friends.” It would be wonderful, Amy thought. She would fill the house with spring flowers and wear a tea-length dress. Something lacy and Victorian and incredibly romantic. And afterward they could go outdoors for champagne and petit-fours. Thousands of elaborately decorated petit-fours.
Amy was distracted by voices being raised in the next room. The voices grew louder, the twenty-minute men appeared in the doorway, and Amy felt as if her heart had just been freeze-dried. She stared at the men in grim fascination as they approached her table with the minicam running.
“This is Amy Klasse,” Ponytail’s assistant narrated, “better known as Lulu the Clown…”
“Ignore them,” Jake said. “Eat your soup.”
The newsman continued: “…and Dr. Jacob Elliott, owner of the veterinary clinic where Rhode Island Red was mysteriously taken from his small cage.”
Jake kept his eyes on his soup, but Amy could see a flush rising from his shirt collar, darkening under his tan. “Ignore them,” she mumbled. “Eat your soup.”
“Dr. Elliott, this is a very expensive, very romantic restaurant. Am I right in assuming Miss Klasse is more than an ordinary employee?”
Jake coolly stared into the camera lens. “Absolutely. There’s nothing ordinary about Miss Klasse.”
The man persisted. “We’ve been told from reliable sources that Miss Klasse is under suspicion for the abduction of the rooster. That, in fact, the police searched her garbage for evidence. Is that correct?”
Jake sighed, took his napkin from his lap, and laid it beside his plate. “You aren’t going to give up, are you?”
Ponytail grinned malevolently. “No.”
“Excuse me,” Jake said, suddenly standing, taking the smaller cameraman by surprise. In one quick movement Jake lifted the minicam from Ponytail’s shoulder, removed the microphone, and deposited it in a nearby glass of Burgundy; then he took a swipe at the butter tub, spreading a thick layer of grease on the camera lens. He carefully handed the minicam back to its owner and returned to his seat.
“What do you think of the soup?” he asked Amy.
Ponytail muttered an oath and snatched his microphone from the glass of wine. His eyes were small and glittery. His breath whistled from between bared teeth.
Rodent, Amy thought with a shiver, the man’s mousy, dirty-blond hair fueling the comparison. “He looks rabid,” she whispered to Jake.
Ponytail reached across the table, grabbed Jake’s tie, and plunged it into his zucchini soup. Jake looked at the tie in controlled resignation.
“I’m going to stop wearing ties,” he said, blotting at it with his napkin. “This is getting boring.”
“I’m going to ruin you and your little friend here,” the enraged cameraman ground out. “I’m gonna nail your hide to the wall.”
“Don’t mess with me,” Jake said levelly. “I specialize in neutering.”
Two uniformed policemen strode into the dining room accompanied by a glowering headwaiter.
“I’m pressing charges,” Ponytail said. “This…veterinarian willfully destroyed an expensive microphone.”
The officer looked at Jake apologetically. “Maybe you’d better come back to the station house with us.”
Amy held out her hands. “I’m going too. Do you want to handcuff me?”
“No ma’am,” the policeman said. “I don’t think you look dangerous.”
Jake stood and helped Amy to her feet. “A lot you know,” he said to the smiling policeman.
Outside the restaurant a crowd had gathered around the squad car. Amy faltered a moment when she saw the number of people who had been drawn by the flashing lights on the black-and-white. The crowd parted as the curious parade marched from the restaurant. Two policemen, Lulu the Clown, Jake the veterinarian, and the twenty-minute men complete with battery pack and video. One of the officers helped Amy into the back of the squad car.
Amy clasped her hands in her lap and swallowed back tears. She was disgraced. Publicly humiliated. Plucked from the ritzy restaurant like an undesirable fugitive.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, the restaurant was just three doors down from the Times office. Without a shadow of a doubt, at least one of those people in the crowd had been a reporter. Tomorrow there would be more newspaper pictures. She could imagine the headlines. “Lulu Arrested with Lover Accomplice.”
Two hours later Amy and Jake were back in the little red sports car. “That wasn’t so bad,” Jake said. “They didn’t even arrest us.”
Amy took little solace in that fact. There’d been a horde of photographers everywhere she’d gone. She couldn’t blame them. She was news. Human interest in a bizarre sort of way.
Jake wistfully looked at the restaurant. “You think they held our table?”
“I think they’ve probably burned our table.”
“Didn’t feel like eating fish, anyway. How about a burger?”
“As long as I don’t have to get out of the car. If one more person clucks or cock-a-doodles at me I’m going to commit mayhem.”
“I know the perfect place. We’ll go to the McDrive-in. We’ll get McFries, McShakes, McBurgers, and McCookies.” He pulled into the drive-through and shouted his order into the order machine. He grinned at Amy. “Is this romantic enough for you?”
Amy had to smile with him. He was invincible. He’d joked with the policemen and jollied her through the entire ordeal. He’d proudly announced their engagement to every passerby, newsmen included. In fact, he seemed to be not at all bothered by the fact that his life was going down the toilet.
Nothing had gone right since he’d known her, she silently wailed. He’d ruined two ties, pitched himself into a Dumpster, been made a public spectacle, almost been arrested, and had his reputation slandered. This wasn’t going well. They weren’t just talking tremors here. They were looking at earthquake-quality vibes. She shrank back into the seat when Jake reached for the bag of food.
The girl behind the counter leaned out the drive-through window. “Hey, aren’t you the lady wh
o cooks chickens? Like wow. Like omigod.”
Amy smiled weakly and nodded acknowledgment as Jake stepped on the gas and turned the car toward Main Street. “You’re getting quite a following. I never thought I’d have a wife who was famous,” he said, reaching for his chocolate shake.
“I think the word is infamous. I feel like Lizzie Borden.”
Jake took a long pull on the straw. She was mustering up a reasonable amount of bravado, but under it all she was really hurting, and he wasn’t sure exactly why. Part of it was a sense of responsibility to maintain a certain image for the children who had watched her, but it had to be more than that. She’d looked like an angel in the police station with her blond curls and serious wide blue eyes, responding politely to everyone. A credit to her acting ability, he’d thought, remembering the few unguarded moments when the facade had slipped, and she’d seemed so lost. Almost victimized. Like a piece of driftwood, floating downstream, unable to control its journey.
He snitched a french fry while he waited for a light. It was always dangerous to second-guess someone. Maybe he was reading too much into this. She’d led a very law-abiding, sheltered life. Maybe she’d just been overwhelmed by the police station. He didn’t want to be insensitive, but he also didn’t want to make more of this than it was. Hell, maybe they should just move to Arizona and start over.
They finished their meal on the back porch, topping it off with fresh strawberries and ice cream, watching the night sky spread a calming blackness over the earth. Jake played with the ruffle on Amy’s sleeve. “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”
She didn’t want to talk. She didn’t want to think. She was afraid if she thought too clearly, she’d have to make painful decisions, so she kept her eyes on the oak tree at the far perimeter of her yard. Its trunk was thick and gnarled; its branches spanned the house. A survivor, Amy decided. It had eluded the bulldozers that had leveled the land in preparation for her housing development. It had been in the appropriate place: a small swale between two lots. Perhaps that was her problem…she was never in the appropriate place.
A warm breeze moved through the leaves, producing a hypnotic clacking sound. She felt Jake’s fingers at the nape of her neck, stroking, caressing. She closed her eyes and gave herself up to the pleasure of his touch, a lovely lethargy taking possession of her. Jake always knew how to make her feel better.
Chapter 9
Rain. As if she wasn’t depressed enough, it had to rain. Not even a healthy rain that could be considered cozy, pattering on leaves and windowpanes. This rain drizzled. Gray, dreary drizzle. Amy pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. She didn’t think she could face another day.
She listened to Jake singing in the shower and narrowed her eyes. He had a lot of nerve waking up happy. Little Miss Mary Sunshine. He wasn’t Miss Mary Sunshine last night when he told her the pot roast was dry. And he wasn’t Miss Mary Sunshine at the office when she couldn’t find a file. Nobody was Mary Sunshine at the office. Everybody was walking around like their shorts were too tight.
It was almost a week since the damn rooster had gotten snatched and the customers were still uncomfortable. The boarding cages were empty, and Jake was eating so many doughnuts he couldn’t button his shirt. She flopped over onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow. “Ugh.”
Jake strolled into the bedroom, dropped his towel, and pulled on a pair of freshly laundered briefs and jeans. He grabbed the lump under the quilt that was Amy’s toe. “Get up, lazy bones. You’ll be late for work.”
She stuck her lower lip out and scowled. “I’m not going to work today.”
Jake shrugged into his shirt. “We’ve been all through this. You weren’t going to work yesterday, either.”
“And you talked me into it, and it was a mistake.”
Jake looked wounded. “How can you say it was a mistake? What about lunch hour when we made love in the lavatory?”
“We made love in the lavatory because we were hiding from that group of animal rights activists camped out in the parking lot! The ones who hanged Lulu in effigy.”
Jake tugged on a pair of argyle socks and slid his feet into new loafers. “They won’t be back today. They’re picketing the White House.”
Amy got out of bed and stomped off to the kitchen. “I suppose you got that information from the cute little redhead who was young enough to be your daughter!”
Jake grinned at her. “You’re jealous.”
Amy put the teakettle on to boil. “I’m not jealous. I’m insecure, immature, ungrateful, and unemployed. I quit.”
“You can’t quit.”
“Watch me.” She poked a finger into his chest. “I can do whatever I want, buster, and I want to quit.”
“Know what I think?” Jake taunted. “I think you’re…chicken.”
“That’s not funny. You have a perverted sense of humor.”
“At least I’m not crabby.”
Amy’s eyes widened. “Are you telling me I’m crabby?”
“Damn right you’re crabby. And you’re stubborn.”
“That does it,” Amy said. “I’m leaving.”
“Good. Where are you going? I hope it’s to work, because we’re already late and Mr. Billings is coming in this morning.”
“Read my lips, Elliott. I quit. I’m good-bye. Adios. Au revoir.”
Jake looked at the kitchen clock and sighed. “I have to go. We’ll discuss this later.”
“My mind is made up.”
“Stubborn,” Jake mumbled en route to the front door. “Damn stubborn woman. Enough to drive a man nuts.” He returned to the kitchen and grabbed Amy, kissing her long and hard. His eyes briefly fogged over with pleasure before he sighed for the second time that morning and left. Elliott, he said to himself, she’s got you by the short hairs.
Amy listened to the door slam and the car sputter to life. She glowered at the cat, sitting patiently by the refrigerator door. “I suppose you want to get fed?” She took the cat food from the refrigerator and dumped it into a bowl. Motley sniffed at it disdainfully. Amy couldn’t really blame her. The stuff smelled gross.
“You’re gonna love this,” Amy said with a voice sweet enough to draw ants. “This cat food is great stuff. It says here under guaranteed analysis that there’s eleven percent of crude protein, six percent of crude fat, and one percent fiber. And this is the really important part. Two percent ash. How about that?”
Motley didn’t look impressed. Amy added a dollop of vanilla ice cream to the top of the cat food and watched Motley’s eyes light up.
“Know what, Motley? We’ve got to go. Jake’s right. I’m crabby. I’m not marriage material. I’m having a stress attack.”
She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table calmly thinking about her life. She needed to get away. Being Jake’s receptionist wasn’t working out. She wasn’t even sure if being Jake’s fiancée was working out. She loved him, but love might not be enough.
Sometimes there were insurmountable problems. Rhode Island Red seemed to be one of them. What she needed now was a hideout. Someplace quiet and uncomplicated where she could lick her wounds and make some intelligent decisions. She had an aunt in Baltimore. Maybe a visit with Aunt Gert would be just what she needed. And Baltimore might even be a good place to look for a job. Her fame might not have spread to Baltimore.
“Depressing,” she said to Motley. “This whole thing is damn depressing.”
Amy finished her tea and dragged herself into the shower, turning the water on full force, letting it beat down on her shoulders. An overwhelming sadness constricted her throat, and she felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks, despite all efforts at controlling them. Love is the pits, she thought, slumping against the tile and sobbing, for the first time in her life understanding the term heartbroken. Why couldn’t it have worked just this once? Jake was the man of her dreams and Rhode Island Red had turned those dreams into a nightmare.
An hour later she taped a note
to the refrigerator door. Dear Jake, Had to leave. Please water my plants. Love, Amy. She stared dully at the note. It was inadequate, but then life itself seemed inadequate right now. Maybe the note was appropriate. She’d crammed almost all of her clothes into the small car. Motley was waiting in the cat carrier on the front seat. Jake had his own house key. Nothing more left to do.
Jake threw the day’s paper on the unmade bed and zapped the TV with the remote. Five days since Amy left and not a word. It was crazy. She’d vanished. Poof. Just like Red. He was beginning to have weird thoughts, like, maybe the same people who took Red also took Amy. Maybe Amy had actually been the one who took Red and they were holed up in a motel room somewhere, together.
You’re a man on the edge, Jake, he told himself. You’re getting silly. Better silly than frantic, he decided. That’s how he actually felt deep down inside. Total panic. She was gone, and he couldn’t find her. What if she never came back?
Of course she’d come back. She was Ms. Responsibility. She’d come back to get her mail and pay her bills. She’d come back to retrieve her furniture. Would she come back to him? He kicked off his shoes and fell onto the bed. He didn’t even know why she left, and he was mad as hell that she hadn’t explained. She’d owed him an explanation, dammit. If he ever found her he was going to strangle her.
Undoubtedly this had something to do with the rooster mess. He had to admit, it’d been a crummy week. Business was bad. People were snapping at each other. And Amy felt it was all her fault.
He should have seen it coming, but he’d been too busy reassuring skeptical clients to take time to reassure Amy. Then there was that dumb shouting match the morning she’d left. He’d been insensitive, he decided. He hadn’t listened to her. She’d said she was leaving, and it had never occurred to him to take her seriously. Elliott, you’re a moron.
He flicked through several channels and sat bolt upright when the twenty-minute news show popped onto the screen. “…and that’s the story, folks. Amy Klasse has disappeared, leaving her fiancé without a word. One can only speculate as to her whereabouts and wonder at her motives.”