Randy White - Deceived

“I’m interrupting,” I said. “I should have knocked.”

“No. You never have to do that. Not with me, you don’t.”

I wasn’t convinced. We all have secrets, as I am aware. We all deserve the privacy of our own minds, but Ford’s attempt to hide what I’d already seen was disturbing. “This is your work space,” I responded. “You’re busy-no need to apologize.”

I hadn’t intended to sound chilly but did. That changed when Ford stood, moved into the harsh light, and I got my first real look at him, shirtless and unprotected by bedroom shadows. The man was too muscled to appear frail, but he had lost weight after a week in the hospital, then three weeks convalescing. Fishing shorts hung on the bones of his hips, he looked gaunt and vulnerable because of the fresh scar beneath his heart-a scar new enough to be startling.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. Only two days ago, after pretending reticence, I had been celebrating Ford’s good news in bed. Now I was being cold to the man I’d nearly lost-a man I might be falling in love with and didn’t want to lose again.

“I should have put on a shirt,” Ford said when he saw my expression. “Hang on, I’ll grab a lab coat.”

I caught the man’s arm as he passed, then framed his face between my hands and kissed him. “I’ve got vanity enough for both of us,” I said, “so don’t bother. I thought you left the lights off to make me look prettier.”

When he grinned, I kissed him again, then leaned for a closer look at his chest. “Stand still, for heaven sakes! Get your hand out of the way.”

The scar was a pink weld of flesh that angled four inches across his ribs. I had touched the scar with my fingers, my lips, too, but always in bedroom darkness. So I kissed it again as if saying, Hello, then stood, taking care not to look at the desk. “I’m going back to bed. Get your work done, then come along. A man who shirks his work isn’t going to get far with me.”

“Hey,” he said when I turned to go, then pulled my body close, his eyes staring into mine. “When you came in, I did something else stupid. I tried to hide something from you. It has to do with the phone call. Want to talk about it now? Or wait ’till morning?”

Ford’s willingness was enough for me. “Or not at all,” I replied, then steered his hand to a place that promised That’s okay, too.

SITTING ON THE DECK,sipping coffee, wearing jeans and a purple tank top that had to belong to Tomlinson, I told myself, Instead of prying, set an example. Ford will get around to discussing the phone call when he’s ready.

Or maybe not. Hadn’t I told him there was no need? It was a matter of respect and like-minded behavior. Last night, Ford had treated me with care by not pressing for details about what had happened at the Helms place. So it seemed right to satisfy his curiosity before dropping a hint or two in hopes of satisfying my own.

“That’s exactly how I remember it,” I said, concluding my story. “It all happened so fast, but, at the time, it just kept getting worse and worse. Like it would never end-you know how that is?”

Ford wanted to hear more about Levi Thurloe and Loretta’s new neighbors-tangent issues, it seemed to me-before asking, “You’re sure you’re not hurt? If the guy did something, you can tell me, I’ll understand.” Then explained he’d read about victims blaming themselves, not their attackers, which is why some women kept the facts secret to hide guilt they didn’t deserve.

“I’ve got a little bruise,” I said, touching my wrist, “but it’s because I almost slammed the door on my own hand. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but I have my clumsy moments.”

Ford is mild-tempered, but I could see that he was too concerned to smile. Part of me was glad. It meant he cared. But I also didn’t want a man who studied fish for a living to get involved in a matter that was dangerous and best left to experts.

“I was at the wrong place at the wrong time,” I explained. “That’s what it comes down to. The lunatic with the axe-whoever it was-he never touched me, I would tell you. So he has no reason to come after me-or Loretta. But the special prosecutor has deputies checking on her just to be safe.”

Ford had yet to ask about Joel Ransler, although the coincidence of Ransler being my new fishing client had caused his attention to zoom. He alluded to the coincidence now, but obliquely, saying, “You two had a wild couple of days. A tarpon jumps in your boat, then you’re assaulted in his jurisdiction.”

“That’s why he’s giving Loretta extra attention,” I reminded him.

“It’s a powerful bond,” he agreed, “and the timing couldn’t be better. I remember when the governor appointed a special prosecutor in Sematee, but I’m surprised the position still exists. The small county with a big drug problem. Whatever the reason, I’m glad he’s there.”

“Their commissioners made it a full-time job,” I replied. “Sort of like a state attorney, but a smaller area. That’s what Joel told me anyway.”

“ Joel,” Ford said, but not in an accusing way-more like he wanted to remember the name.

“He’s about my age, that’s what he said to call him, so, yeah.”

“An attorney who likes to fish in his spare time, that’s not unusual. He and his friend were taking a lot of photos, too, you said.”

“I didn’t know why until Joel mentioned it last night. The man who actually booked the charter is about thirty years older, Delmont Chatham.”

“As in citrus groves and car dealerships?” Ford asked.

“Minus the money, I’m guessing. Mr. Chatham works for Sematee County, too. He’s been cataloging examples of old Florida architecture because it’s disappearing so fast. Something to do with restoring historic buildings. He loved Loretta’s house-it’s the oldest house in Lee County, did you know that? When I was showing him the attic, that’s when I found the trunk open-an old Army trunk-and noticed things missing. Quite a bit of old fishing gear was gone, and some family books I’d put in a Ziplocs to protect them.”

It was another tangent Ford found interesting, so I explained about the Vom Hofe reel and Teddy Roosevelt’s little book, Harpooning Devilfish , which I had enjoyed as a teen.

“Vom Hofe,” Ford said, familiar with the name, “and Chatham is a-did you say he’s an expert or a collector ?”

I had said neither, only that Delmont Chatham’s antique fishing rod had shattered when the tarpon jumped in my boat. “Probably a little of both,” I replied. “That’s why he wanted to see the reel. He was disappointed, and asked me to call if the reel showed up.”

“Your clients chose the right fishing guide, didn’t they?” Ford said, then referred to last night when he’d spent twenty minutes alone waiting for me to return and listening to Loretta. “Your mother said those two were very sweet to her.”

“She didn’t even meet Mr. Chatham,” I laughed, “and she only said a quick hello to Joel.” As I said it, I was remembering that Loretta, by phone, had raved to me about how good-looking Joel Ransler was, and probably rich, too. Had she told Ford the same thing? More than likely, knowing her, which is why I added, “Loretta enjoys meeting people, but she tends to confuse them with actors she sees on TV. She was on her way to play bingo, so I’d be surprised if she remembers Joel at all.”

Ford chuckled. “I like your mother, no need to worry about that.”

I rolled my eyes. “I just hope Mrs. Helms is safe somewhere, off on a trip with a friend. She and Loretta are close. The Helms family has had enough trouble as is.”