Mr.
Muscle as a thank you, to pay off a debt. Drive with him to some bland restaurant,
eat white-bread food, listen to him talk about himself--in her experience, men's
conversations ranged from their jobs to their latest toys and back, seldom
deviating--lock her jaw so she wouldn't yawn, be driven back home, fend off the
gropes, say good night, be back in the house with a sigh of relief before ten.
Nothing she hadn't done hundreds of times before. Her standard date.
Spending an evening with a man who made her father laugh, and who had a
charming, rakish smile in him--no, that wasn't in the program at all.
Not to mention a man who could punch all the breath out of her body with a
mere look.
Nicole had no time for a man in her life. None. She had a very sick father.
He was deteriorating almost daily. Each day brought some new heartbreaking loss.
Keeping a serene facade for him while she watched him die, slowly, inch
by inch, was eating her alive.
Her entire life revolved around her father's illness, as she tried to keep them
afloat.
There was no time for a man, for a love life. The only things she could
allow into her life were caring for her father and work.
Sam needed to know that, as soon as possible. That look he'd given her
meant business. He had to know that there was no possibility of anything between
them.
He stood, bent over her father and briefly held his hand, pretending not to
34
notice that her father's hand shook in his.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador Pearce. I look forward to
talking to you again."
Her father's cheeks were pink again with pleasure.
"The p-p-pleasure was a-all m-m-mine, I assure y-y-you." Pops was tired.
When his scarce physical resources ran down, he started stuttering. Nicole went
quietly into the kitchen and signalled to Manuela that it was time for dinner and
then bed.
Manuela came into the room with a broad smile, wiping her hands on her
apron.
Sam waited until Manuela was bent over her father and, with a nod of his
head and a murmured "ma'am" to Manuela, he took Nicole's elbow and walked her
out the door.
They descended the stairs and walked down the driveway in unison. Nicole
realized he was shortening his strides for her. He seemed to be somehow attuned
to her movements, though he wasn't looking at her at all. He was scanning the
street ahead. Still, she got the distinct impression that though his attention was
focused on the road ahead, he'd catch her if she were to trip on her very pretty and
very impractical sandals.
Across the street, the curtains of the window of the living room opened and
Creepy peeped out, then Creepier. She suppressed a shudder.
When her grandparents had bought this house in the early sixties, it had
been an upper-middle-class area, the perfect place for a couple to bring up a family
during the Kennedy years. Safe and ordered and prosperous. Nicole had heard her
mother talk often and affectionately about life on Mulberry Street, among families
that knew one another and socialized often.
But something had happened to the street after Meredith Loren grew up to
marry Nicholas Pearce and spend the next thirty-five years abroad. Nicole didn't
know whether it was because of demographics or economics or whether someone
had put a hex on the area. Whatever had happened, it had turned the whole area
into a receptacle for the lost and the hopeless, people on the last rung before
falling into the void.
The big house across the street where her mother's best friend had once
lived had changed hands twenty times and was now a run-down rooming house
owned by an absentee landlord and inhabited by the saddest people imaginable.
Poor single mothers barely scraping by, shabby middle-aged divorced men who
had just lost their tenth job in a year, the odd illegal immigrant keeping his head
down.
And, worse, it seemed to be Club Drifter--a place where angry, unbalanced
young men congregated and spat their rage at
Muscle as a thank you, to pay off a debt. Drive with him to some bland restaurant,
eat white-bread food, listen to him talk about himself--in her experience, men's
conversations ranged from their jobs to their latest toys and back, seldom
deviating--lock her jaw so she wouldn't yawn, be driven back home, fend off the
gropes, say good night, be back in the house with a sigh of relief before ten.
Nothing she hadn't done hundreds of times before. Her standard date.
Spending an evening with a man who made her father laugh, and who had a
charming, rakish smile in him--no, that wasn't in the program at all.
Not to mention a man who could punch all the breath out of her body with a
mere look.
Nicole had no time for a man in her life. None. She had a very sick father.
He was deteriorating almost daily. Each day brought some new heartbreaking loss.
Keeping a serene facade for him while she watched him die, slowly, inch
by inch, was eating her alive.
Her entire life revolved around her father's illness, as she tried to keep them
afloat.
There was no time for a man, for a love life. The only things she could
allow into her life were caring for her father and work.
Sam needed to know that, as soon as possible. That look he'd given her
meant business. He had to know that there was no possibility of anything between
them.
He stood, bent over her father and briefly held his hand, pretending not to
34
notice that her father's hand shook in his.
"It was a pleasure to meet you, Ambassador Pearce. I look forward to
talking to you again."
Her father's cheeks were pink again with pleasure.
"The p-p-pleasure was a-all m-m-mine, I assure y-y-you." Pops was tired.
When his scarce physical resources ran down, he started stuttering. Nicole went
quietly into the kitchen and signalled to Manuela that it was time for dinner and
then bed.
Manuela came into the room with a broad smile, wiping her hands on her
apron.
Sam waited until Manuela was bent over her father and, with a nod of his
head and a murmured "ma'am" to Manuela, he took Nicole's elbow and walked her
out the door.
They descended the stairs and walked down the driveway in unison. Nicole
realized he was shortening his strides for her. He seemed to be somehow attuned
to her movements, though he wasn't looking at her at all. He was scanning the
street ahead. Still, she got the distinct impression that though his attention was
focused on the road ahead, he'd catch her if she were to trip on her very pretty and
very impractical sandals.
Across the street, the curtains of the window of the living room opened and
Creepy peeped out, then Creepier. She suppressed a shudder.
When her grandparents had bought this house in the early sixties, it had
been an upper-middle-class area, the perfect place for a couple to bring up a family
during the Kennedy years. Safe and ordered and prosperous. Nicole had heard her
mother talk often and affectionately about life on Mulberry Street, among families
that knew one another and socialized often.
But something had happened to the street after Meredith Loren grew up to
marry Nicholas Pearce and spend the next thirty-five years abroad. Nicole didn't
know whether it was because of demographics or economics or whether someone
had put a hex on the area. Whatever had happened, it had turned the whole area
into a receptacle for the lost and the hopeless, people on the last rung before
falling into the void.
The big house across the street where her mother's best friend had once
lived had changed hands twenty times and was now a run-down rooming house
owned by an absentee landlord and inhabited by the saddest people imaginable.
Poor single mothers barely scraping by, shabby middle-aged divorced men who
had just lost their tenth job in a year, the odd illegal immigrant keeping his head
down.
And, worse, it seemed to be Club Drifter--a place where angry, unbalanced
young men congregated and spat their rage at
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