The Stars Shine Bright (27 page)

“Harmon, you already missed one. The hospital stay was a legitimate excuse. But he says you wouldn't give a reason why you were canceling tonight. I told him you'd be there.”

I sighed. He was right. Skipping another appointment would heap more misery on me. “Fine. I'll go. But not tonight. Tell him three o'clock.”

“Okay. Good. But don't let him see you this stressed out.”

He hung up.

Much as I hated to admit it, McLeod's malaprops had cheered me up. It reminded me that the suits in charge of my life were human. But after watching airplanes come and go for another fifteen minutes, the good vibe did its own takeoff. Finally, I called Delta and learned that DeMott's flight from Atlanta was delayed, dropping my mood even further because he had suggested that I check for delays before driving to the airport. And I didn't. And I knew if he were here right now, we would start arguing about it.

I closed my eyes and sent up prayers that wove between the jets' sonic roar. Desperate for help. Vulnerable. I confessed everything, honestly. And when my cell phone rang again, my fingertips felt tingly, numb, falling asleep from the tight clasp of my hands.

“Hello?”

“I'm here,” DeMott said.

Chapter Thirty

D
eMott stood at the curb, looking like he'd landed on Mars. His white oxford shirt was buttoned high and his seersucker jacket was flung over his right shoulder, a finger hooked into the rippled collar. He watched the Seattle types sweeping past in ripped jeans, grungy shirts, and hair that looked liked it hadn't been combed in years.

I stopped at the curb, slid the gearshift into neutral, and pulled the emergency brake. When I ran around the long white bonnet, he opened his arms, caught me when I jumped, and spun me around. The memories soared through my mind, running at the speed of smell. This scent of DeMott. Clean laundry, warm skin. Southern sun. And his laughter, it always rumbled inside his chest before coming out to play.

“Oh, Raleigh, I've missed you so much.” He set me down and stepped back. “But you sure look . . . different.”

I lifted a finger to my lips. “We can talk later.”

A familiar expression washed over his face, but I was already kneeling on the ground. Inside the plastic dog crate, Madame's wagging tail pounded at the sides, beating with the rhythm of my heart.

“Hello, you perfect dog!” I pinched the metal handle and opened the door. The small black dog fired like a cannonball into my arms. I buried my face in her soft fur, but when my hand felt the washboard ribs, my eyes stung. Burning with love and sadness and another memory flashing through my mind. A recent memory. That girl groom, Ashley Trenner, as she nuzzled Cuppa Joe. She loved that horse the way I loved this dog. Lifting my face to DeMott, I saw him smiling. The blue eyes sparkled, that birefringent blue that split light and made fire. Gemstone eyes. Some kind of knife scored across my chest.

“Hey!” An airport security guard barreled toward us. “This is a no-parking zone! Move that car!”

“Yes, sir,” DeMott said.

“And that dog's supposed to be on a leash!”

“Yes, sir,” DeMott repeated.

“‘Sir'?” The officer narrowed his eyes. “You making fun of me?”

I picked up Madame. “DeMott, get in the car.”

“No, sir. I'm sorry, did I say something wrong?”

I was climbing behind the Ghost's wheel, holding the dog in my lap. But DeMott stayed, thanking the security guard. But the man only looked more baffled. I rolled down the window. “DeMott, throw everything in back.”

Standing on my lap, Madame leaned out, sniffing the air. While DeMott loaded her small crate and his duffel bag in back, her tail beat against my side, renewing the pain in my ribs. The most wonderful ache. DeMott climbed in and I pulled away from the curb.

“This is your car?” He ran a hand over the walnut dash, marveling.

“Cool, huh? It's a Maserati Ghibli.”

“It looks like something James Bond would drive.”

I laughed and glanced in the side mirror to merge with the traffic. And suddenly all my joy flew out the window. The black Cadillac was four cars back, coming down the middle lane.
Maybe it's a limo
, I thought.
Hotel pickup
.

“It sort of reminds me of your mom's car,” DeMott was saying. “Vintage, elegant. By the way, I ran it yesterday.”

I merged to the left, watching the mirror. “Ran what?”

“Your mom's car. You asked me to run it, for the engine?”

“Oh, right, thanks.” My mother drove a 1966 Mercedes sedan. It had the original push-button dashboard and red leather seats. It stayed in the garage under my carriage house apartment, and I had worried it would suffer in our absence. “Thanks for remembering.”

“Of course. I wouldn't forget.”

The Cadillac kept coming. Now three cars behind us, it wasn't making a pickup at the curb. I moved toward International Boulevard South and stayed on that path until the last possible moment. When I suddenly changed lanes, the Caddy was six cars back, the windshield glinting in the sunlight. It changed lanes with us.

DeMott said, “I'm sure you don't miss the K-car.”

My Richmond supervisor made sure my Bureau vehicle was the ugliest bucket of bolts ever to roll out of Detroit. A white K-car with vinyl seats and no air-conditioning. The same supervisor, I was thinking, who sent all my casework and field notes to OPR, hoping to get me fired.

“Raleigh?”

“Yes?”

“You miss me?”

We were heading north on International Boulevard. I stopped at the red light and glanced over. His wavy brown hair was combed back. His forehead was freckled with summer. He had a classic face with almost no visible flaws. A face that could only be produced by a gene pool in which a swimmer could trace its ancestry back seven generations. I let my eyes wander over the familiar features. His easy smile. The right incisor, with the tiniest of chips, a small imperfection my tongue always found when we kissed.

“I really missed you, DeMott. And you're right about Madame, she's too thin.”

He smiled. “You're welcome.”

Behind me a car honked. The light had turned green and when I stepped on the gas, Madame did a little tap dance on my thighs. DeMott reached over, touching my hair. I was taking stabbing glances—the road ahead, the Caddy behind, DeMott at my side—trying to keep all three in focus. DeMott's fire-filled eyes roamed over my clothing, pausing on the Calvin Klein shirt that Madame was quickly turning into black angora.

“You look great,” he said. “Different, but great.”

I heard the edge in his voice.

“And you look like DeMott.” I smiled. “In other words, perfect.”

“Did you pick out those clothes?”

We stopped at another light. I glanced in the mirror. The Caddy was sticking close enough to make it through the intersections with us. Leaning over, I pulled a small key from my purse and pointed it at the glove box. DeMott unlocked the small walnut door. And the light turned green.

I knew Tony Not Tony would tell Sal Gag that my fiancé was flying into town. And I figured they would send the tail, perhaps to see if my story actually lined up. But since I hadn't said what time DeMott was arriving, I suddenly wondered. Was it that stiff guy in the Beemer—did he call the Caddy? Or was I right to think they'd stuck a tracking device on the Ghost? It was simple enough to do, taking just a few seconds these days to slap onto the undercarriage. But just in case the tracking device had listening capabilities, I had jotted down some notes before heading to the airport. And placed them in the locked glove box. DeMott was reading my instructions, reaching into my Coach bag. He took out my wallet and opened it, staring at the clear plastic pocket that held Raleigh David's driver's license.

I switched lanes again, playing cat-and-mouse all the way to Southcenter Mall. I slowed down, letting the light up ahead turn yellow, then stopped. The Ghost was first in line for the light change. The Caddy was three cars back and the tinted glass so dark all I could see was that gold ring on his hands. I looked over at DeMott.

He was still staring at the driver's license. A lock of his hair fell forward, hanging like a comma over his eyes. Madame did another quick tap dance on my thighs. I looked at the mirror again. Then the light turned green.

I hit the gas pedal like somebody killing a bug. The Ghost obliged by shooting across the intersection, demanding second gear, then third as we raced for the freeway on-ramp to I-5. In my rearview mirror, I could see the Caddy trying to pass a yellow taxicab. He swerved around, zooming down the left shoulder, while the cabdriver leaned on his horn. But I was already in fourth, merging into the fast lane before breezing diagonally, covering three lanes in seconds. DeMott turned around in his seat, rummaging through his carry-on bag, as I passed four cars in the next seven seconds so that we could make the exit for Pacific Highway South. The Caddy was trying to merge into the right lane.

DeMott said, “That hasn't changed.”

“Pardon?”

“Your appetite. Isn't that why you're driving like a maniac, because you're hungry?”

“Starving
.” I downshifted and took the exit. At the bottom of the ramp, the stoplight was green, but I braked, downshifting again. The Ghost wailed its protest.

“Please, no McDonald's,” DeMott said. “I've already had airplane food today. Pick something else.”

The Caddy came down the ramp. He was going too fast, and I was holding up traffic. When he braked, his front end dropped from the sudden friction. I glanced up at the light again. It turned yellow. I hit the gas.

“Raleigh—!”

The burst of speed threw DeMott back. As we zipped under the light, Madame barked. I took the Pacific Coast Highway at forty miles an hour.

“You can stop with the theatrics,” DeMott said. “I'm impressed with the car. Okay? Now slow down!”

Behind us at the intersection, the Caddy drove down the shoulder, moving around the line of cars stopped at the red light. But he couldn't cross the intersection with all the traffic going back and forth. I downshifted, heading toward a blind curve, and finally he disappeared from my mirror.

And up ahead—hallelujah!—the king.

“Burger King?” DeMott said. “You've got to be kidding.”

I took the turn into the parking lot so quickly Madame slid off my lap. DeMott caught her, threw me a harsh look, and I barely noticed. The Ghost blasted right past the plastic menu display, past the microphone used for ordering, and—

“What the—?” DeMott said.

—stopped at the ordering window. A wall of yew bushes blocked the drive-through from the road so nobody driving past would see us. When the pickup window slid open, a teenager leaned out. His hair was so greasy he could've been a lifeguard in the deep fryer.

“You're, like, way over?” He pointed back, toward the ordering station. “You gotta, like, drive around again.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No,” I said. “I'll take one Whopper, no condiments. One cup of ice water. No straw.”

Madame crawled back into my lap, sniffing the air. She wagged.

“One BK special,” I continued. “Extra-large fries. And your biggest chocolate shake.”

The teenager frowned but started tapping some flat keys on a register. When I glanced over at DeMott, he was scooting forward to get his wallet from his pocket. No Virginia gentleman allowed a woman to pay. Ever. I took a deep breath of the greasy air. How I missed his chivalry. Especially in a land where militant feminists had trained men not to open doors.

“DeMott, what would you like?”

“Real food.” He handed me some money. “I'll wait.”

I held the bills out to the teenager. “And one fish sandwich.”

“Seafood,” DeMott muttered. “Borderline healthy.”

But the fish sandwich wasn't for me. It was for delay. I wanted the Caddy to get down the road before I pulled out again, so I also ordered another chocolate shake and a chicken sandwich with special instructions on the condiments. After the teen counted out my change, frowning as though performing high-level calculus despite a computer that told him exactly how much to give back, I turned to give it to DeMott. He had opened my wallet again, staring at my license.

The teenager said, “It's gonna be awhile? You can park, like, until it's ready?”

“No.”

This time he nodded, as if expecting me to say that. He closed the plastic window.

DeMott picked up the notebook, rereading my instructions that reminded him Eleanor was my aunt; if anyone asked, my name was Raleigh David; and any conversations in the car beyond idle chitchat should be written down, just to be safe. He rummaged in his overnight bag again, pulling out a pen. Fountain tip. Made of burled wood. Like something Jefferson used to write the Declaration of Independence. So very DeMott.