Jeff Abbott: Only Good Yankee

“Not exactly like your old office, is it, Tex?” I squirmed at the nickname; up north, it had seemed clever and given me the vaguest sense of home; now it seemed silly. “No, it’s a real different office.

It’s better, if you ask me.” I hesitated. “Well, Lorna, why don’t you come to the house? We can talk there. Say at six?” I jotted down the address and directions for her. “Fine, Jordan. It’s wonderful to see you again, by the way. You never did say what happened to your arm.”

“I had a little accident.” I didn’t feel like discussing Mirabeau’s mad bomber. “It’s okay.” “How’s your mother?” she asked unexpectedly.

Lorna had been none too pleased that I’d left Boston-and her-to come home to take care of Mama. “About the same.” “I’m sorry. Well, I’ll see you at six. Nice meeting you, Candy.” With that, she turned, nodded at Florence and Itasca, and sauntered out the door, like a hurricane moving in from the coast. The only difference was that hurricanes are indifferent to the destruction and chaos they cause. I turned to Candace. “Now listen to me-” “Candy! How dare she call me that, after I told her what my name was. I’m no confection.” Her voice was low and cool and anything but sweet. “I’m sorry you saw her kiss me. She took me by surprise-” “How stupid do you think I am, Jordy? Of course she took you by surprise. That was all over your face and I could read it like a book. Or in this case, a comic strip.” Itasca walked up to me and, very thoughtfully, wiped lipstick off my mouth with a crumpled tissue. She is always one for attention to detail, even at the worst possible times. “I liked your friend,” she announced bluntly, shooting a glance at Candace. I’m fond of Itasca because she’s smart and funny, but I don’t like her resentment of Candace’s money. Itasca hadn’t been particularly supportive of my relationship with Candace. “She’s gorgeous and she’s got style.” “Is that what you call style, Itasca? Her throwing herself at a man who left her months ago?” Candace parried. I handed over the bag of books and she peered inside. “How transparent,” she finally said. “Your favorite writer, a guidebook to her stomping ground, and a sex manual. Honestly, Jordan, is this the kind of woman you dated up north?” Note she called me Jordan. Big trouble ahead. “I’m sure she was just glad to see Jordy,” the generous-hearted Florence piped up. Itasca rolled her mascara-encased eyes. “Some people might be critical of a lady like her that takes what she wants.” Itasca stuffed her tissue back in her purse and took the opportunity to reexamine her own makeup. “I’m not.” ‘Takes what she wants?” Candace sputtered. “What on earth makes you think she’s going to get Jordy back?” Itasca closed her compact with an authoritative air. “Jordy didn’t seem too broken up to see her, did you, honey?” Three pairs of eyes trained on me and I felt as embarrassed as a preacher with a broken zipper. “Look, Itasca, you’re as wrong as wrong can be. Candace, I’m as surprised as you are to see her here. Those books are just Lorna’s idea of a joke. I can’t imagine that she wants me back, and I don’t know anything about her business proposal.” Florence attempted peace. “Well, now that she knows Jordy’s involved with someone else, I’m sure she’ll leave him alone.” “Excuse us, please,” Candace said, taking my good arm and leading me back to my office. She shut the door. She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, and crossed them again. “Just one thing. You had no idea she was coming?” “None. And I don’t know what this secret business proposition is about either. When I left Boston, Lorna worked for a consulting firm that specialized in real-estate development. I don’t have any idea why she wants to see me.” “She’s a good kisser, isn’t she?”

Candace demanded. “Of course not!” I bleated. What did Candace want from me? An undying pledge of commitment? We hadn’t discussed future plans-too much had happened in those tense couple of months when we’d come together and realized our feelings for each other. After the double punch of a murder investigation and learning about my parentage, long talks about the days ahead held little appeal. I was concentrating too much on past lies and present woes. “Look, I’ll see her, find out what this is all about. If it’s just a ploy to get me back in her life, I’ll swat her on the ass and send her on her merry way.” Her frown didn’t waver. “C’mon, you trust me to handle her, don’t you?” I asked. “Whatever this is, it isn’t trouble. We’ve already had our share of that today.” She nodded, nearly imperceptibly, then hugged me, being careful of my arm and shoulder.

After a moment she let me go and went off into the stacks. I sank down into the front desk chair. My body and mind felt stunned-except for my lips, which tingled from Lorna’s kiss. No trouble, I told myself, is going to come of this. Of course, I was dead wrong. It was trouble, and in the worst way.

“It’s nothing but damned carpetbaggers!” Miss Twyla fumed in my office. For Miss Twyla to utter the word damned portended serious trouble. She’d rushed into the library late in the afternoon.

I’d felt tired and lethargic and my arm was awful sore. I should have listened to the doctor, gone straight home, and pulled a pillow over my head. Right now all I wanted was some quiet, an icy-cold Celis bock, and another Tylenol. If I didn’t watch it, I’d get chemically dependent and end up on Donahue, discussing my woes with nine million people. “Librarians Who Are Injured by Prank Bombs, Then Have Close Encounters With Ex-Girlfriends.” I’d do wonders for the show’s Nielsens, no doubt. Only problem was I’d be the sole panelist. I had been ready to call it a day when Miss Twyla arrived, looking bad, mad, and demanding some of my time. “What was that about carpetbaggers, Miss Twyla?” I leaned back in my office chair that dated from when vinyl was first invented and tried to find a comfortable position.

“Car-pet-baggers!” Miss Twyla repeated. I’m sure the term has more emotional weight with her than it does with me, since I don’t recall using the word except in a history paper. “Would you care to explain?”

“Have you had the pleasure of meeting Miss Lorna Wiercinski and Mr.

Greg Callahan?” Miss Twyla asked. I’d had all sorts of pleasures with Lorna but didn’t care to discuss them with Miss Twyla. “Yes, ma’am, I know Ms. Wiercinski. We knew each other in Boston. I haven’t met Greg Callahan-who’s he?” I paused. “I’m supposed to meet with Lorna this evening about a business proposal.” “Well, hide the silver,” Miss Twyla advised. “Those two are nothing but thieves. They want our land, Jordy.” I had this sudden image of Lorna bartering with Chief Manhasset, tossing a few extra beads on the pile. “What land?” “The land you and I and some others own, that fronts down on the river.

They want to buy it up and build condos.” “Condos? In Mirabeau?”

Mirabeauans are house dwellers, except for the hardy few who call the trailer park home and those who live in the town’s one, rather shabby apartment complex. So this was the reason Lorna was in town. Good-it had nothing to do with our former relationship. Then I remembered the kiss and Lorna’s dictum that there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with mixing business with pleasure. “I know. It’s stupid. Who’d want to buy a condo in Mirabeau? But that’s what they want. And we’ve got to stop them. Condos would ruin that lovely view of the river, not to mention cause all sorts of nasty runoff into the Colorado. And possibly bring an undesirable element-weekenders.” Miss Twyla shuddered. “Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, Miss Twyla. It could pull some money into town.”