Fever(74)

I wilted a little. “How long is the recuperation?”

“Not long. A few days until the last of the bandages come off. I’ll be housebound for a week or so, but I’ll take some vacation days and then work from home. I’ll be all healed in about six weeks.”

“What about scars?” I said, thinking of the little tattoos on her chest to mark where the cancer radiation machine hookup had been applied.

“Tiny ones, hidden inside my hairline. You’ll never even notice them once the incisions have healed.”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Stop looking so gloomy,” she said. “When you see the new me, you’ll wonder why you put up such a fuss.” She leaned over to slide gentle fingers over the bandage that covered my scratched cheek, then started chewing on my ear. “Think of the benefits. It’ll be like going to bed with a younger, more attractive babe.”

“I don’t want an attractive babe, I want you.”

That ended the ear-chewing. “Thanks a lot,” she said.

“I didn’t mean—”

“Good night,” and she rolled over and turned off the bedside light.

I lay there in the dark, for maybe the thousandth time pondering the differences between men and women. The only conclusion I reached was that in this particular case, Kerry was right. The risk in a face-lift was minimal, and she’d been through so much. If she had her heart set on it, she was not only entitled to have it but entitled to my full support. Okay, then. She’d have it.

Besides, as she’d pointed out, there were benefits for me, too. Now that I considered it, a younger-looking, even sexier Kerry was a pretty juicy prospect…





27





JAKE RUNYON




The call came in a few minutes before nine Monday night.

He was on the couch in the living room with the TV on for noise, watching a Spencer Tracy movie he’d never seen before. Long, busy day and he was tired, but not tired enough yet to sleep. His cell phone was the unit that rang, and it was in his jacket draped over the back of a chair. He muted the TV and got up to get it.

“Jake Runyon?” Tentative, a little anxious. “This is Bryn Darby.”

It was a few seconds before he said, “Yes. Hello.”

“I’m not calling too late?”

“No, it’s still early for me.”

“I almost didn’t call at all. I wasn’t sure …”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Yes. Well.”

“How did you get my cell number?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” she said. “I have a smart lawyer and you and the agency you work for have a very good reputation.” Pause. “Tit for tat.”

“How’s that again?”

“You tracked me down, now I’ve tracked you down.”

“What made you change your mind? About talking to me again.”

“I’m … not sure. Your visit on Thursday … I kept thinking about it off and on all weekend.” Pause, followed by an odd little chuckling sound—odd, he thought, because it had come out of only one side of her mouth. “Like song lyrics that get stuck in your mind.”

“I understand.”

“Do you? I suppose you do.” Pause. “I was thinking … Maybe it would be all right if we … what you suggested on Thursday.”

“Sat down over a meal or coffee and talked?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like that,” he said.

“There’s a coffee shop on Taraval just off Twenty-third Avenue. The Royalty Cafe. Silly name, but the food’s good—I go there for dinner sometimes. I’ll probably do that tomorrow night.”

“What time?”

“Six-thirty, seven.”

“Either fits my schedule.”

“Seven, then.” Pause. “There’s something you should know. I could wait to tell you, but this is as good a time as any.”

“Yes?”

“My face … the entire left side is paralyzed. I had a stroke a year and a half ago and that was the end result. Facial nerve paralysis, it’s called. The doctors say I may regain control of some or all of the muscles in time, but chances are I won’t. Most likely they’ll atrophy and the condition will worsen over time.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But if that happened, it wouldn’t matter to me.”

“It matters to my husband. That’s why he divorced me.”

“Then you’re better off without him.”

“It also matters to me.”

He said it again: “But not to me.”

“We’ll see,” she said. Then she said, “Good night, Mr. Runyon.”