“Maybe,” Mrs. Bee said. “Maybe not. Couldn’t you go and shoo her back inside or something? It might be, if she saw you coming, she’d just get up and go in by herself, anyway—and you wouldn’t have to do anything. It’s worth a try, don’t you think?”
No, he didn’t think, but he didn’t say so. His legs hurt. He was tired. And pineapple-coconut-cream-cake hungry. He looked out the window. It was raining as hard as ever, and Meehan was still sitting there. He drew a quiet breath and glanced at Mrs. Bee. Her whole frail little body was saying one thing and one thing only—Please!
Ah, damn it.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go shoo her. She’s not going to like it—I’m going to catch hell for it. But I’ll go.”
“I’ll get the umbrella,” Mrs. Bee said, scurrying away.
He peered through the window again, hoping that Meehan would be gone. She wasn’t.
Mrs. Bee came back with a big multicolored golf umbrella. He took it and hobbled toward the back door.
“You’re a good boy, Calvin,” she said as he stepped out into the rain.
Doyle opened the umbrella. He could feel Mrs. Bee’s eyes on him all the way across the backyard. Which was just as well, because he probably wouldn’t have gone otherwise.
It was hard walking on the rough, wet ground, but he didn’t have a choice if he wanted to get this over with. Which he did. It would take him too long to hobble down Mrs. Bee’s driveway to the sidewalk and then around the hedge and back up Meehan’s drive to where she was still sitting on the bench—the key word here being “still.”
Oh, he had the “hunt the hill, get the hill” mind-set, all right.
And what the hell was wrong with Meehan that she would be sitting out in the rain like this?
He’d find out soon enough, he guessed, if he kept going. He could see her plainly through the hedge. She seemed to be completely lost in thought. He could have yelled at her at any point, but he didn’t. He just kept slogging along, pulling the cane out of the mud with every step. She didn’t even notice him until he was right on her and held the umbrella over her head. Nice touch, the umbrella, he thought. Gave the trip—ill-advised though it may be—a purpose.
Meehan looked up at him. She didn’t say anything; neither did he. And she wasn’t bawling. That was a plus.
With some effort, he continued to stand and hold the umbrella over them both—a futile gesture at this point in her case. She was wet to the skin.
She frowned. Just enough of one to let him know he was on dangerous ground here. Not exactly news.
Hunt the hill, get the hill.
“So,” he said pleasantly. “What’s new?”
She gave a sharp sigh. “Bugs, what are you doing here?”
“Holding the umbrella,” he said reasonably.
“What do you want?”
“What do I want? Well, let’s see. I want a cold beer, for one thing. And I want somebody to drive me to some loud, smoky, possibly sleazy place where I can get one. Maybe a big thick steak with a pile of fried onions, too, while I’m at it. Since that’s not going to happen, I guess I want to stand right here—until I can shoo you back into the house.”
“I don’t want to be ‘shooed,’” she assured him. “And you can mind your own damn business.”
“Oh, I know that. I tried to mind it, believe me. It didn’t work, though. See, you’re not exactly what I would call behaving here—or does the ‘behave and don’t upset Mrs. Bee’ thing just go for me?”
“What are you talking about!”
“Mrs. Bee! She’s all worried about you sitting out here in the rain like this.”
“She doesn’t have to worry.”
“Yeah, well, maybe so. But you know how she is. And I hate to say it, but I was getting a little uneasy about you myself. This is not like you.”
“What did you and Mrs. Bee do, watch everything out the window?”
“Pretty much,” he said. Personally, he’d always found it a lot easier to just tell the truth in most situations—unless it involved some gung-ho officer. It was too much trouble keeping stories straight. He suspected that Meehan was the same way, especially when she was working. He had always believed whatever she said, anyway. The whole time he was in the hospital, whenever he needed to know what was what with the pain in his legs or the burns on his hands or why he was running yet another fever, she was the one he always wanted to ask, because he knew she’d tell him straight.
He kept looking at her. She was upset, all right, and once again he was glad she wasn’t bawling. He didn’t know what to do when women cried—strong women, that is. Women like Rita. Or Specialist 4 Santos. Santos was a damned good soldier, but she always bawled when she had to make a jump. He didn’t know why, and he wasn’t sure she did, either. She would cry like she wasn’t crying, and nobody knew what was up with that. The jumpmasters certainly weren’t crazy about it. But, she always lined up like everybody else and hopped right out the door when she was supposed to. It was just…damned unsettling.
Tears weren’t a big deal with most women. But Rita and Santos—and Meehan, if she happened to break down—were an altogether different situation.
He kept checking Meehan out, just in case. She caught him at it, and she started to say something but didn’t. She looked away, down the driveway in the direction lover boy had gone.
He waited.
And waited.
The rain beat down on the umbrella. A car went down the street, its heavy bass speakers pounding. Somebody somewhere threw something heavy into a metal trash can.
“So did you get dumped or what?” he asked finally—and that got her attention.
She stared at him a long time before she answered. “Yes,” she said finally.
“Yeah, well, it’s been that kind of a day,” he said with the assurance of a man who’d been there.
He maneuvered the cane so that he could press one hand into his thigh. Both legs were beginning to hurt like hell. He tried to shift his weight a little. It didn’t help a bit. When he looked up again, Meehan wasn’t frowning anymore. It occurred to him that she was a lot nicer looking when she didn’t frown.
“Did you go to the wedding?” she asked.
“I went,” he admitted.
“Everybody was all dressed up, I guess.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me. I looked so good it’s a wonder the ceremony even took place.”
She gave a slight smile. It faded almost immediately.
“So how was it?” she asked a little too gently for him to maintain his bravado.
“It was—” he stopped and took a breath “—it was hell. Mostly.”
“Poor old Bugs,” she said.
He grinned. “At least I ain’t sitting out in the rain over it.”
To his surprise she laughed. She had a nice laugh. Definitely she should laugh a lot more than she did.
“I allow myself to do one really stupid thing at least once a year,” she said after a moment.
“And this is it, huh?”
“This is it. I wish I could think of some really cool way to get out of it.” She was still smiling a little, and she made an attempt to stand