Cody McFadyen - Abandoned

Tommy is already gone from our bed. This is the case most mornings. He is one of those infernal morning people, who wakes at 6:00 A.M.—or earlier—and lands on both feet, ready to go. He likes to run in the morning, which is a nightmare scenario for me. Sometimes I’ll wake up as he’s putting on his sweats and watch with a single, bleary-but-appreciative eye.

I listen with an ear and sniff the air. I hear a faint murmur of voices from downstairs and smell the delicious aroma of frying bacon. It’s enough of a motivation to get me out of bed. Tommy cooks a mean breakfast.

I stumble my way into the shower and turn it up to high and hot. This is my bliss place. Six years ago or so, Matt gave me a serious shower upgrade as a birthday gift. A contractor gutted the old vinyl one and installed a double-headed, temperature-controlled, marble-tile-and-glass wonder. There’s even a seat, where I can sit and watch the steam build as I wake up or shave my legs. I love it every morning, and today is no exception.

Each showerhead has its own spray control. I put both on pulse, which delivers a wonderful light pounding spray. I stand and rock a little as the water pummels me, a somewhat goofy smile on my face.

If we do move to Virginia, installation of the same shower will have to be part of the deal.

My head is beginning to clear. Generally speaking, it takes me about thirty minutes to really arrive in the present. The shower gets the ball rolling and coffee seals the deal.

I wash my hair, turning one of the heads to spray, which delivers hard, almost sharp jets of water onto my scalp. The temperature is as hot as I can take it. Cold showers are for the insane.

I finish with some reluctance and proceed to get myself dressed. Black slacks, white shirt. I pad back to the bathroom and perform my bare nod to makeup. I’ve never been much of a makeup gal, less so now than before I was scarred. I pull my hair into a ponytail and secure it. Back to the room. Black jacket, flat pumps. Shoulder holster. Open the gun safe (need to remember to change the combo tonight, I think), grab my Glock, work the slide, then jam the magazine home. I triple-check the safety. I’ve been paranoid about this ever since I heard about an agent blowing two of his toes off. I pull the charger out of my cell phone and the phone gets clipped to my belt. My ID goes inside the inner pocket of the jacket. One final check in the bathroom mirror, and I decide I’m fit to face the world.

I grab my purse and head down the stairs. The breakfast smells are getting stronger, and my stomach rumbles in reply. The scent of coffee makes my nose twitch in anticipation.

Bonnie’s heard me coming. She meets me at the bottom of the stairs with a fresh cup, something she hasn’t done in a while. Guilt, I decide, has its upside.

“Thanks, honey.”

“You’re welcome.” She looks a bit worn but stable. I have the idea she’s feeling a similar exhaustion to mine—wrung out in the right way.

I sip the coffee and crinkle my eyes in an approving smile. “Yum.” It earns another smile, and she goes to the kitchen and grabs three plates and glasses and utensils to set the kitchen table.

Tommy is working at the stove. He’s wearing a red-checkered apron, a look and design that remind me of Betty Crocker cookbooks. I first saw him wear it in his own apartment. It was all he was wearing, and we barely made it through breakfast before I attacked him.

I walk over, stand next to him, and place a hand in the small of his back, that comfortable spot. He moves some bacon over onto a paper towel to drain the grease. It sizzles deliciously. “How do you want your eggs?” he asks. “Fried or scrambled?”

“Fried today, I think.”

“We aim to please.” He nods toward the refrigerator. “Bonnie fresh-squeezed some orange juice this morning.”

“My favorite. Wow.”

He gives the slightest shrug. “She’s pretty helpful right now.”

“Did you guys talk about last night at all?” I murmur, low enough that Bonnie can’t hear me.

“Nope. I doubt we will either. But I think everything is okay, for now.”

I lean against the counter and sip my coffee and watch as she sets the table. She catches me watching and gives me yet another tentative smile.

“Yes,” I say to Tommy. “I think you’re right.”

“For now,” of course, remains operative, but that’s life.

“All ready,” he announces, using the spatula to scoop everyone’s eggs onto a serving plate. “Can you get the bacon?”

I transfer the now less-greasy bacon from paper towel to actual plate and carry it over to the dining table. Bonnie grabs the pitcher of OJ from the freezer. Tommy adds a plate of toast, checks everything over, and nods once, satisfied. “Let’s eat,” he says.

The room is filled with the sounds of people too busy eating to talk: clinking of utensils against china, the crunch of bacon being bitten into, the quiet slurp-and-swallow of orange juice and coffee disappearing into stomachs.

I’m on my second cup of coffee, and between the shower, the great breakfast, and the relative harmony of my home, I’m feeling awake and alert and refreshed. I eat the last of my eggs and push my plate forward.

I rub my stomach in an exaggerated way and roll my eyes heavenward. “Awesome.” I sigh.

“I agree,” Bonnie says. “You cook a good breakfast, Tommy.”

“Mom told me a man who can cook would always make a favorable impression with the ladies. I guess she was right.”

I check the clock. Bonnie will have to leave to catch the school bus in about thirty minutes. Time enough to tell them both about my offer from Director Rathbun. It’s a bit of a skydive, but scheduling, for this family, is difficult.

“I have something you guys need to know about,” I say. “Something I was offered.” I give them the full rundown, leaving nothing out. When I finish, both of them are quiet. I scan their faces nervously, looking for any signs of upset.

“Well?” I ask. “What do you think?”

Tommy wipes the corner of his mouth with the paper towel in his hand. “Bonnie’s the one with the time crunch,” he says. “You and I can talk after she catches the bus.”

I turn my attention to Bonnie. “So?”

“What would change?” she asks.

It’s the perfect question, really. The key one.

“Well … I guess not much in the beginning. We’d still be living here.” I frown. “No, that’s not right, is it? We’d be covering the whole USA, so I imagine even though we’d be living here, I’d be traveling more. Kind of like last year, when I had to go to Virginia. Later, if this becomes permanent, we might have to move to Virginia.”

She nibbles on her toast. “What’s Virginia like?”

I don’t have a detailed answer to this question. I spent twenty-one weeks in Quantico, Virginia, for my training, but I don’t think Quantico is a good demographic. It’s on 385 acres of woodland. Breathtakingly beautiful in the fall, surprisingly mild in the summer, at least when I was there. Humidity was higher than California, for sure, and rainfall was scattered but always welcome. I was gone before the winter.

“It has four seasons,” I say. “Snow in the winter. Trees with the red and yellow leaves in the fall. Nice summer. Beautiful spring, I guess, though I wasn’t there for that.” I struggle to put words to the faint memories. “Everything feels older, but not in a rundown kind of way. California has a newer feeling to it. The East Coast has more weight.”

“I’d like to see it,” she says.

“Of course, honey. I promise, if this all comes to pass, we’ll take a trip out there.”

She brushes her hands off over her plate. “Okay, Mama-Smoky.”

“Okay what, honey?”