it. Bettye McCoy had barely acknowledged my existence ever since I’d chased one of her precious Bichons out of my yard with a broomstick.
I slipped my shoes off at the front door, silently cursingthe slight creaking noise the door made as I closed it, determining to oil it when I got home at the end of my shift. The house was eerily quiet except for the gentle hum of the air conditioner. A quick look around told me everything was in its correct place. Nothing had been disturbed.
I tiptoed up the stairs to my bedroom, coughed quietly so as not to scare Alison if she was awake, then opened the door.
The curtains were still pulled, so it took me a few seconds to determine that the room was empty and the bed neatly made. Goldilocks was no longer sleeping in my bed. “Alison?” I called out, checking the bathroom and the second bedroom before heading back downstairs. “Alison?” She was gone.
“Alison?” I called out again at the door to her cottage, knocking gently. No one answered. I tried peering in the windows, but I saw nothing. Nor could I hear anyone moving around inside. Was it possible Alison had felt well enough to go out? Or was she lying on her bathroom floor, her head pressed against the cold tiles for relief, too sick and weak to respond to my knock? Despite common sense telling me I was overreacting, I returned to the front door and knocked more forcefully. “Alison,” I called loudly. “Alison, it’s Terry. Are you all right?”
I waited only thirty more seconds before letting myself in. “Alison?” I called again once inside.
I knew the cottage was empty the minute I crossed the threshold, but still I persisted, repeatedly calling out Alison’s name as I inched toward the bedroom. The clothes she’d worn last night lay in a careless diagonalacross the bedroom floor, discarded and abandoned where they fell. The bed was unmade and redolent with her scent, a potent mix of strawberries and baby powder still clinging to the rumpled sheets and crumpled pillows, but Alison herself was nowhere to be seen. I’m embarrassed to say I actually checked underneath the bed. Did I think the dreaded bogeyman had surfaced, snatched Alison while she lay sleeping? I don’t know what I thought. Nor do I know what possessed me to check the small, walk-in closet. Did I think she was hiding inside? Truth to tell, I don’t know what I was thinking. Probably I wasn’t thinking at all.
Alison had little in the way of clothes. A few dresses, including the blue sundress she’d worn at our first meeting. Several pairs of jeans. A white blouse. A black leather jacket. Perhaps half a dozen T-shirts were stacked in one corner of the long, built-in shelf, some lacy underwear crammed into the other. Well-worn, black-and-white sneakers sat beside a pair of obviously new, silver sling-back heels. I lifted one shoe into my hand, wondering how anyone managed to walk in those damn things. I hadn’t worn a heel that high in—well, I’d
never
worn a heel that high, I realized, glancing toward my stockinged feet, reaching down before I was even aware of what I was doing and slipping on first one shoe, then the other.
It was at that moment—standing there in Alison’s sexy shoes—that I heard movement in the next room and felt the vibration of footsteps as they drew near. I froze, not sure what to do. It was one thing to tell Alison that I’d been so concerned about her health I’d felt entitled toinvade her privacy, but how was I going to explain being discovered in her closet, teetering precariously in her new, silver, sling-back, high-heeled shoes?
For one insane second, I actually thought of clicking those heels together and reciting, “There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home,” in hopes that, like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
, I would be transported miraculously back to my own living room. Or Kansas, for that matter. Anywhere but here, I thought, feeling Alison’s presence in the doorway.
I slipped my shoes off at the front door, silently cursingthe slight creaking noise the door made as I closed it, determining to oil it when I got home at the end of my shift. The house was eerily quiet except for the gentle hum of the air conditioner. A quick look around told me everything was in its correct place. Nothing had been disturbed.
I tiptoed up the stairs to my bedroom, coughed quietly so as not to scare Alison if she was awake, then opened the door.
The curtains were still pulled, so it took me a few seconds to determine that the room was empty and the bed neatly made. Goldilocks was no longer sleeping in my bed. “Alison?” I called out, checking the bathroom and the second bedroom before heading back downstairs. “Alison?” She was gone.
“Alison?” I called out again at the door to her cottage, knocking gently. No one answered. I tried peering in the windows, but I saw nothing. Nor could I hear anyone moving around inside. Was it possible Alison had felt well enough to go out? Or was she lying on her bathroom floor, her head pressed against the cold tiles for relief, too sick and weak to respond to my knock? Despite common sense telling me I was overreacting, I returned to the front door and knocked more forcefully. “Alison,” I called loudly. “Alison, it’s Terry. Are you all right?”
I waited only thirty more seconds before letting myself in. “Alison?” I called again once inside.
I knew the cottage was empty the minute I crossed the threshold, but still I persisted, repeatedly calling out Alison’s name as I inched toward the bedroom. The clothes she’d worn last night lay in a careless diagonalacross the bedroom floor, discarded and abandoned where they fell. The bed was unmade and redolent with her scent, a potent mix of strawberries and baby powder still clinging to the rumpled sheets and crumpled pillows, but Alison herself was nowhere to be seen. I’m embarrassed to say I actually checked underneath the bed. Did I think the dreaded bogeyman had surfaced, snatched Alison while she lay sleeping? I don’t know what I thought. Nor do I know what possessed me to check the small, walk-in closet. Did I think she was hiding inside? Truth to tell, I don’t know what I was thinking. Probably I wasn’t thinking at all.
Alison had little in the way of clothes. A few dresses, including the blue sundress she’d worn at our first meeting. Several pairs of jeans. A white blouse. A black leather jacket. Perhaps half a dozen T-shirts were stacked in one corner of the long, built-in shelf, some lacy underwear crammed into the other. Well-worn, black-and-white sneakers sat beside a pair of obviously new, silver sling-back heels. I lifted one shoe into my hand, wondering how anyone managed to walk in those damn things. I hadn’t worn a heel that high in—well, I’d
never
worn a heel that high, I realized, glancing toward my stockinged feet, reaching down before I was even aware of what I was doing and slipping on first one shoe, then the other.
It was at that moment—standing there in Alison’s sexy shoes—that I heard movement in the next room and felt the vibration of footsteps as they drew near. I froze, not sure what to do. It was one thing to tell Alison that I’d been so concerned about her health I’d felt entitled toinvade her privacy, but how was I going to explain being discovered in her closet, teetering precariously in her new, silver, sling-back, high-heeled shoes?
For one insane second, I actually thought of clicking those heels together and reciting, “There’s no place like home; there’s no place like home,” in hopes that, like Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
, I would be transported miraculously back to my own living room. Or Kansas, for that matter. Anywhere but here, I thought, feeling Alison’s presence in the doorway.
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