swimming pool, and each other.
Each building was configured with two units upstairs and two downstairs, and all faced out onto expanses of grass, trees, and flowers—or at least that’s what he’d been told. Any landscaping that existed had been long buried when he’d arrived in January.
He slowed his pace a bit as his building came into view. As expected, Chet Michaels was sitting at the bottom of the stairs that led up to Beamon’s condo. He had undoubtedly been there for exactly fifty minutes—Beamon was supposed to have met him there forty-five minutes ago and Michaels was always precisely five minutes early for every appointment. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the little girl who was unsuccessfully trying to catch the snowballs he was gently tossing to her. And the disaster was the auburn-haired woman in electric blue mittens handing him a steaming cup of something or other.
“Chet! You’re early,” Beamon called. “I said seven o’clock.”
Michaels stood and brushed the snow off the back of his jeans as he approached. “You said six, Mark.” He pointed to Beamon’s right hand. “You wrote it on the back of your hand.”
“Oh, yeah. So I did. Sorry.” He turned to the woman standing next to Michaels. “Thanks for keeping him from freezing.”
Carrie Johnstone smiled slyly and crouched down next to her daughter. “What do we do when Mr. Beamon gets home, Emory?”
The little girl ran at him and latched onto his leg. “Hi, Mr. Beamon,” she slurred through a less than full complement of teeth.
“I’m trying to get Mark to relate to children,” Carrie explained as Beamon tried to extract his leg from Emory’s grip. “It’s shaping up to be one of the greatest challenges of my career, but I think I’m wearing him down.”
“What do you do, Carrie?” Michaels said.
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Really? A psychiatrist? Wow.” Michaels handed her back the barely touched cup of coffee and started up the steps toward Beamon’s condo. About halfway up he paused and turned around. “You know. Doc, those of us who work for Mark would appreciate anything you could do for him. I’m sure I could take up a collection at the office to cover any fee.”
Beamon glared at the young agent, who said, “Thanks for the coffee,” and disappeared up the steps.
“Before you go up, Mark, could I talk to you?” Carrie said, suddenly looking a little nervous.
“Uh, sure. CHET!”
The young agent peeked over the railing at him and narrowly avoided being hit in the face by Beamon’s keys. “Go on in. I’ll be up in a second.”
Carrie looked at him with a hint of disapproval registering in her expression. “You know, you really shouldn’t leave your employees out on the steps tofreeze, Mark. I tried to get him to come inside, but he wouldn’t. Thought you’d be mad.”
Beamon frowned. Michaels had obviously been busy using that Howdy Doody face to drum up sympathy from Carrie and make him look like an ogre. He’d have to remember to make his life a living hell for the next week or so.
“Couldn’t be helped.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation as Carrie reached one of her mitten-covered hands into her coat and pulled out an envelope. “I, uh, got this invitation to go to a wedding on Saturday and it says Carrie Johnstone and guest.” She held it out as though he’d require proof. “Anyway, it’s probably going to be pretty nice. I was wondering if you might want to go?”
He felt his eyebrows start to rise, but managed to stop them before they got too far from their normal resting position. He had met Carrie the day he’d moved in and had been instantly taken with her. She was intelligent, funny, and had a sarcastic edge that, while admittedly underdeveloped, showed real potential. He’d spent the last month trying to figure out a clever excuse to spend some time with her, but so far his normally devious mind had been a blank.
“Are you asking me on a
Each building was configured with two units upstairs and two downstairs, and all faced out onto expanses of grass, trees, and flowers—or at least that’s what he’d been told. Any landscaping that existed had been long buried when he’d arrived in January.
He slowed his pace a bit as his building came into view. As expected, Chet Michaels was sitting at the bottom of the stairs that led up to Beamon’s condo. He had undoubtedly been there for exactly fifty minutes—Beamon was supposed to have met him there forty-five minutes ago and Michaels was always precisely five minutes early for every appointment. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the little girl who was unsuccessfully trying to catch the snowballs he was gently tossing to her. And the disaster was the auburn-haired woman in electric blue mittens handing him a steaming cup of something or other.
“Chet! You’re early,” Beamon called. “I said seven o’clock.”
Michaels stood and brushed the snow off the back of his jeans as he approached. “You said six, Mark.” He pointed to Beamon’s right hand. “You wrote it on the back of your hand.”
“Oh, yeah. So I did. Sorry.” He turned to the woman standing next to Michaels. “Thanks for keeping him from freezing.”
Carrie Johnstone smiled slyly and crouched down next to her daughter. “What do we do when Mr. Beamon gets home, Emory?”
The little girl ran at him and latched onto his leg. “Hi, Mr. Beamon,” she slurred through a less than full complement of teeth.
“I’m trying to get Mark to relate to children,” Carrie explained as Beamon tried to extract his leg from Emory’s grip. “It’s shaping up to be one of the greatest challenges of my career, but I think I’m wearing him down.”
“What do you do, Carrie?” Michaels said.
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
“Really? A psychiatrist? Wow.” Michaels handed her back the barely touched cup of coffee and started up the steps toward Beamon’s condo. About halfway up he paused and turned around. “You know. Doc, those of us who work for Mark would appreciate anything you could do for him. I’m sure I could take up a collection at the office to cover any fee.”
Beamon glared at the young agent, who said, “Thanks for the coffee,” and disappeared up the steps.
“Before you go up, Mark, could I talk to you?” Carrie said, suddenly looking a little nervous.
“Uh, sure. CHET!”
The young agent peeked over the railing at him and narrowly avoided being hit in the face by Beamon’s keys. “Go on in. I’ll be up in a second.”
Carrie looked at him with a hint of disapproval registering in her expression. “You know, you really shouldn’t leave your employees out on the steps tofreeze, Mark. I tried to get him to come inside, but he wouldn’t. Thought you’d be mad.”
Beamon frowned. Michaels had obviously been busy using that Howdy Doody face to drum up sympathy from Carrie and make him look like an ogre. He’d have to remember to make his life a living hell for the next week or so.
“Couldn’t be helped.”
There was a brief lull in the conversation as Carrie reached one of her mitten-covered hands into her coat and pulled out an envelope. “I, uh, got this invitation to go to a wedding on Saturday and it says Carrie Johnstone and guest.” She held it out as though he’d require proof. “Anyway, it’s probably going to be pretty nice. I was wondering if you might want to go?”
He felt his eyebrows start to rise, but managed to stop them before they got too far from their normal resting position. He had met Carrie the day he’d moved in and had been instantly taken with her. She was intelligent, funny, and had a sarcastic edge that, while admittedly underdeveloped, showed real potential. He’d spent the last month trying to figure out a clever excuse to spend some time with her, but so far his normally devious mind had been a blank.
“Are you asking me on a
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