Tonight You're Mine (6 page)

The dog moved slightly, leaning forward. She had the distinct impression that it wanted to come to her. Slowly she sauntered down the front walk, smiling and holding out her hand in a gesture of friendship. She'd always had a way with dogs, a trait that drove Phyllis wild when she constantly brought home strays. Shelley had the same gift.

“Come here, please,” she repeated to the beautiful dog. “I won't hurt you.”

The dog stood. It was even bigger than she'd realized and its stance demonstrated excellent breeding. It took a step toward her. Suddenly high heels clicked on the porch behind her and Phyllis demanded, “What in the world are you doing? Trying to drag another dog home? Honestly, don't you think you're getting a little old for this, Nicole?”

Instantly the dog's head snapped to the right. As if responding to a command, it bolted, disappearing behind the house across the street. Furious, Nicole turned on her mother. “Did you have to come barging out right at that moment?”

Phyllis glared at her in outrage as Carmen appeared by her side. “What was it?” she asked anxiously.

Nicole looked at her solemnly. “Carmen, the dog we saw at the cemetery was here.”

“The dog from the cemetery?” Carmen repeated doubtfully.

“Yes. And I think its master was here, too.”

1

Nicole brushed off her mother's questions about the dog as deftly as possible and whisked Shelley back to the peace of their own home in a neighborhood close to the branch of the University of Texas where she taught. The small white brick house with its neat front yard had never looked so good to her.

“I'm tired,” Shelley said as Nicole pulled her Buick Regal into the driveway and shut off the car.

“In your nine years of life I don't believe I've ever heard you say that. You're getting old, kid.”

Shelley sighed. “I know. Ten is just around the corner.”

Nicole burst into laughter and was rewarded by Shelley's giggle. “Let's go in and see Jesse. I'll bet he's missed you like crazy today.”

But their entrance was delayed. Nicole kept her car keys and house keys on separate rings, and she now searched frantically for the house keys. “Oh, this is just great,” she moaned, feeling as if she were going to burst into tears.

Shelley looked at her patiently. “You lost the keys.”

“Yes.”

“No windows open?”

“No. We'll have to go over to Mr. Wingate's house and call a locksmith.”

The elderly man who lived across the street was happy to see them, and insisted on serving fresh lemonade and cookies while they waited for the locksmith.

“What a thing to happen on a day like this,” he said, his face wrinkled in concern.

Nicole grimaced. “It's typical for me. I don't seem to be doing anything right lately.”

Mr. Wingate gave her his endearing smile. “We all have peaks and valleys, dear. You're just in a valley. You'll come out of it.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. I predict sunny days not far in the future.” He turned toward Shelley, who seemed to be a particularly favorite friend of his. “And how is young Mr. Jesse today?”

“Probably hungry. It's past his dinnertime, and he gets cranky when his meals are late.”

Mr. Wingate closed wrinkled eyebrows, pretending to concentrate. “No. I sense that Jesse isn't cranky at all. He's just anxious to see his lovely young mistress.”

Mr. Wingate was correct. Half an hour later, they were inside their house thanks to the help of the locksmith. At the sight of Shelley, the little black dog jumped around ecstatically and emitted the series of high-pitched barks that used to drive Roger crazy.

Nicole remembered the day Shelley had found Jesse on their front porch in Ohio. She'd seen him around the neighborhood a few times and had always taken time to pet him, worrying over the fact that she didn't think his “parents” were taking good care of him. Finally he'd vanished for over a month. Nicole feared he'd been killed, but one winter morning Shelley screamed when she discovered him curled up in a corner of the front porch, trembling, malnourished, his back bare from mange, a front leg badly broken and bleeding, apparently the result of being struck by a car.

Roger had been disgusted by the sight of the mange and loudly commanded Shelley and Nicole not to touch him. “I don't take orders from you,” Nicole had snapped as she covered the dog with a warm blanket and brought him food and water while Shelley stood crying quietly, her father holding her firmly by the shoulder so she couldn't go near the dog. Looking back, Nicole remembered the shocked look on Roger's face when she flared up at him, refusing to do as he said. She'd always been diplomatic about her few rebellions before. Now it seemed to her that things had never been quite the same between them again.

After Roger left that day, taking Shelley with him to school, Nicole took Jesse to the veterinarian. Enduring weeks of Roger's protests, she and Shelley nursed the dog back to health although the veterinarian said his leg was too badly damaged to ever be normal again. Once Jesse was well, Roger admitted defeat, giving Shelley permission to keep the little dog although he hated him. The feeling was mutual. Nicole always thought Jesse would like nothing more than to take a sizable chunk out of Roger's ankle, but he wisely contained his dislike to an occasional baring of teeth when Roger's back was turned, or one of his well-timed messy sneezes on Roger's shoes just as he was leaving the house.

Shelley was another matter. The dog, whom the veterinarian had pronounced “probably part terrier, part cocker spaniel, and who knows what else,” was wild about his young mistress. Small and crippled though he was, Nicole hadn't a doubt he would give his life to protect Shelley from harm if the occasion arose.

“Were you lonesome without me?” Shelley asked. Jesse yipped, giving her a lick on the cheek. “You wouldn't have had any fun if you'd come. It was Grandpa's funeral. You don't know what a funeral is, but it's sad, especially when it's for someone you loved. You loved Grandpa, didn't you? He loved you, too, and I know he's looking down at you from Heaven. Someday you'll go there, too, and Grandpa will play ball with you again.”

Nicole's insides wrenched. She wished she knew the proper thing to say to a child at a time like this, but she didn't. Maybe there wasn't anything, although she was sure Roger would disagree. But Roger wasn't here anymore. Neither was her father.

Shelley always insisted on feeding Jesse herself. “I'm gonna give him some biscuits,” she told Nicole. “He didn't even pull the pillows off the couch like he usually does when we're late. I think his manners are getting a lot better.”

“They are.” Now if the same could only be said for your father, Nicole thought as she remembered the scene at her mother's house earlier today. But she had to be fair. There wouldn't have been an unseemly argument if she hadn't let Roger bait her into it. She had to learn to ignore him. That was just a difficult task when she was still so angry with him. Wanting a divorce was one thing. Flinging his girlfriend in Shelley's face was another. The child could spend tomorrow afternoon with him as planned, but his intention to use Clifton's suicide as leverage to make her agree to Shelley spending the next few weeks with him and his young lover was another matter.

She kicked off her high heels, wiggling her pinched toes, and looked around the living room. She loved the thick pale blue carpeting and eggshell-colored walls, the large thirty-gallon aquarium with its rainbow of tropical fish floating in perpetual tranquility, the painting of a beautiful Indian girl wading in a shallow, light-reflecting stream. The only off notes in the room were the overstuffed dark brown couch and chair that Roger had selected. She'd always disliked the pieces, but they hadn't looked so bad in their older, rather dark house in Ohio. In the pale sleekness of the San Antonio home, they reminded her of big brown bears lolling around the living room. As soon as she could afford it, she would buy new pieces. At least the kitchen was perfect if small, all white and bright yellow with a skylight and well-placed shelves for plants which grew in abundance. She walked in to see Jesse devouring canned food as if he hadn't eaten for a week.

“Now that Jesse's taken care of, how about a bath and early bedtime for you?”

“It's
too
early for a Saturday night, but okay,” Shelley said reluctantly. “Can I use some of your bubble bath, the fancy stuff that smells like that drink piña colada?”

Nicole swooped over her, clasping her in a tight hug. “Ah, you want to be the little señorita tonight?” she asked with a heavy Spanish accent. “Do you want the dangling earrings? A rose for your teeth? How about I play the guitar and serenade you during your bath?”

Shelley giggled hysterically. “Mommy, you can't even play the guitar. You're so silly!”

“I know. It's part of my inexhaustible charm. Use all the bubble bath you want, sweetheart. Just don't overflow the tub.”

Shelley scampered off to her bedroom, Jesse in hot pursuit. Nicole went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of iced tea, sweet and heavy with mint, the way she loved it. She took a deep drink, then wandered over to the sink, looking out the window above. The street was quiet and the driveway looked empty without Roger's Ford Explorer.

“He's been gone almost two months,” she said to herself, “and I'm still not used to it.” The days when he took Shelley were always the worst. Then she was really alone. But tomorrow would be different because she would be going to see Kay Holland, perhaps to learn why her father had killed himself.

2

Two hours later, after Shelley had fallen into an unusually deep and early sleep, Jesse curled on the bed beside her, Nicole sat on the ugly couch, glass of chardonnay in her hand, wearing jeans and an oversized sweater, listening to a Pretenders CD on the state-of-the-art stereo system she'd selected a couple of years ago. Although her taste for only the best equipment had been honed by her time with Paul Dominic, she rarely listened to classical music and never Gershwin.

She tried to think about her father. To her despair, his healthy, smiling face stubbornly eluded her memory. When she closed her eyes, all she could see was his horribly blood-splattered office. Was that all that was left of him in her mind—the imagined memory of a man with a revolver stuck in his mouth, the awful blast that sent bone and blood and brain tissue all over the wall?

She jumped when someone tapped on the front door knocker. Who would be coming by unannounced at this hour? Roger, no doubt. He probably wanted another go-around about taking Shelley. Already stiffening for a confrontation, Nicole set down her wine and went to the door. Peering through the peephole, she saw a tall man with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her heart skipped a beat before she realized she was not looking at the man with the dog from the cemetery, but her student, Miguel Perez.

Surprised but unafraid, she opened the door. “Miguel! This is unexpected.”

He smiled. “Sorry to bother you, Dr. Chandler, but you dropped your keys at the cemetery.” He held up her gold chain with the three house keys.

“Oh, thank goodness you found them!” Nicole exclaimed. “It took a locksmith to get Shelley and me in this afternoon.”

A moth fluttered around Miguel's face, drawn by the porch light, and Nicole stepped back. “I'm forgetting my manners. Come in.”

“I don't want to bother you.”

“You're not bothering me. I'm glad for the company.” She smiled regretfully. “It's been a rough day.”

“I won't stay long.”

He stepped in and slipped out of his light tan jacket. He was a good-looking young man, somewhere in his late twenties, tall, slender, with long black hair pulled back with a small silver ornament. The first semester Nicole taught at the university he was in her Creative Writing Fiction class. This semester he was taking Major American Writers. He was a bright student with an above-average imagination and a polished prose style. Roger had always claimed the guy had a crush on her, but she'd never noticed any signs of romantic interest.

“Miguel, I didn't see you at the funeral.”

“I stayed in the background.”

Nicole looked at him sharply. “You weren't standing beside a tree with a dog, were you?”

He looked at her blankly. “A dog? No. What made you think that?”

“Never mind.” She frowned, taking the keys from Miguel. “I usually carry big, utilitarian bags. Today I carried a small purse. I stuck the house keys in the side pocket. They must have fallen out. Why didn't you give them to me at the cemetery?”

“I found them when you were leaving, just getting into the limo. I couldn't catch up to you without yelling, and that didn't seem appropriate. I'm sorry I didn't catch you, though. I could have saved you a locksmith's fee.”

“Don't worry about it. I deserved the punishment for being so careless. I appreciate your coming to the funeral and for retrieving my keys. They're my only set.”

“If I'd known, I would have come by your mother's house and dropped them off. You should have a spare set.”

“Oh, well, no harm done. I have them now. How about some iced tea or a Coke?” He hesitated, and she looked at his mature face. Because he was her student, she often forgot that Miguel wasn't a teenager but a man who'd simply gotten a late start in college. “Better yet, how about a glass of wine? I have chardonnay or some very good Beaujolais Roger left behind.”

Miguel smiled. “I'll take a little of the Beaujolais if you don't mind.”

Miguel sat down in an overstuffed brown chair, sinking back so far his booted feet lifted off the floor and he almost spilled his wine. “
Damn
!”

Nicole smiled. “Isn't that an awful chair? One of these days it's going to swallow someone and they're never going to be seen again.”

Recovering awkwardly, Miguel grinned. “You should see some of the monstrosities in my mother's house. She calls them antiques, but I've got my doubts.”

“Do you live at home, Miguel?” she asked as she poured the wine.

“Yeah. It seems silly to pay apartment rent when I live so close to the university, but I miss my freedom.”

“I know what you mean. I lived at home when I went to Trinity.”

“I thought you went to the University of Virginia for your undergraduate work.” Nicole handed him a glass, looking at him inquiringly. “You mentioned it in class last semester.”

“Oh. Yes, I did go to Virginia later, but I was here in San Antonio for my freshman year and part of my sophomore.” She felt color creeping into her face, wondering if Miguel knew what had driven her from San Antonio. The story had been in all the newspapers. But that was fifteen years ago. Besides, her last name was different now.

Jesse, hearing voices, had crept from Shelley's bedroom and ran into the living room. Miguel had been to the house a couple of times, once when Nicole invited a few of her most interested creative writing students over for an informal evening session, and later when some of her students had come for a pre-Christmas barbecue.